directors cut

I reviewed the publicity still in front of me. It showed a young athletic man in a tiny swimsuit. He had clearly spent considerable gym time sculpting his body. It was finely muscled, but not bulky. His hair was dirty blond. The swimsuit bulged provocatively in front. The figure was turned slightly to the left, showing the protuberance of a bubble butt jutting out from behind. The suit was cut to ride high and show off the dimpled muscles of the ass. The chest was devoid of hair. The face was young but decidedly masculine.

Casting was one of my favorite parts of making a film. I pressed a switch on the intercom.

"Show Mr. Stockton in, Nancy."

My assistant opened the eight-foot high mahogany door to my office, and the flesh and blood rendition of the photograph walked in. He was dressed quite a bit differently: worn jeans, dark grey shirt, cream-colored blazer, and oxford shoes. It worked for him in a distinctly Hollywood way. Elsewhere? I'm not so sure. I stood up and shook hands, indicating that he should take a seat.

"So Rafe," I opened, "What do you think of the part?"

"It's challenging and much bigger than anything I've ever done. I appreciate the chance to audition, Mr. Rosenberg. I'm sure I can handle it."

"Ben," I said, "Call me Ben. I'm not offering you the part yet. I know you understand that. But I'm very hopeful. Give me your impression of the character. Tell me what you think makes him tick. The stuff that's not in the script."