The Star Killer

By Craig Strete

"Ted, this is Sam Watson in Legal. We are a little bit troubled by an ad you are running in this week's BACKSTAGE."
"Complaints from the Screen Actor's Guild?"
"Complaints from a number of actors themselves. As individuals. At least six, no seven so far," offered Watson.
"What sort of complaints? The ad's only been out three days."
"Apparently, the ad directs them to read samples of the script on a web page for a movie called FINAL CUT. The actors who've read the samples are the ones who are calling."
"Why?"
"At first, we thought it was a joke. So we logged onto the web site to see what all the fuss was about. There was a brief description of the film's premise. The log line is it's a homicidal film director who kills all the actors who audition for him. The actors who called us were complaining that the script sounded too real!"
"You've got to be kidding!"
"Hey, we're legal. We don't know how to tell jokes over here."
~~~

Based in part on assorted facts. Anyone interested in the back story can find back issues of BACKSTAGE EAST with the original ad for the auditions for the movie THE FINAL CUT. No doubt there
are many actors in the New York and New Jersey area who survived their auditions for the actual film THE FINAL CUT who can recount their experiences in actual auditions for that film.
No claims are made as to the whereabouts of Sovereign Falconer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Jun 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370971121

Craig Strete

Craig Kee Strete is a Native American science fiction writer, noted for his use of American Indian themes.Beginning in the early 1970s, while working in the Film and Television industry, Strete began writing emotional Native American themed, and science fiction short stories and novellas. He is a three-time Nebula Award finalist, for Time Deer, A Sunday Visit with Great-grandfather, and The Bleeding Man.In 1974 Strete published a magazine dedicated to Native American science fiction, Red Planet Earth. His play Paint Your Face On A Drowning In The River was the 1984 Dramatists Guild/CBS New Plays Program first place winner.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 - A Voice By Any Other Name

The ad itself did not seem all that sinister.

It was a simple casting notice in Backstage. It directed actors and agency clients to audition for parts in a horror film called THE FINAL CUT. The time was listed as daily for two weeks and the place for the open auditions were set in a small Pennsylvania town 90 miles West of New York City. There was a map with bus routes and driving directions and a mailing address. There were several phone numbers and at least twenty email addresses. The office address was for a huge commercial building at the end of Main Street.

The ad pointed them to a web page where a list of characters and sample scenes could be found. If one navigated through the entire website, there was even a place online where actors could download the complete screenplay. It was a professionally designed web site. Somebody had spent a lot of money on it.

The Backstage editor responsible for casting notices was spell checking some new ads when the phone rang.

Ted, this is Sam Watson in Legal. We are a little bit troubled by an ad you are running in this week’s BACKSTAGE.

Complaints from the Screen Actor’s Guild?

No. Actually its complaints from a number of actors themselves. As individuals. At least six, no seven, so far, offered Watson.

The casting notice editor paused with his coffee cup mid-air.

What sort of complaints? The ad’s only been out three days.

Apparently, the ad directs them to read samples of the script on a web page for a movie called FINAL CUT. The actors who’ve read the samples are the ones who are calling.

Why?

At first, we thought it was a joke. So we logged onto the web site to see what all the fuss was about. There was a brief description of the film’s premise. The log line is it’s a homicidal film director who kills all the actors who audition for him. The actors who called us were complaining that the script sounded too real!

What do you mean, it sounded too real?

The man from legal cleared his throat as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant. He went on, Ah, wait for it! They actually thought it might be a plot to lure them out there and kill them.

You’ve got to be kidding!

Hey, we’re legal. We don’t know how to tell jokes over here.

Jesus Christ! That’s insane!

I know, it sounds delusional, but we checked the web site. Those scenes are pretty damn intense. You could maybe make a case for how they might have interpreted it. But just to be on the safe side, who are the people who paid for the ad? How did they pay for it? Do they have credits?

I don’t know. I’d have to check. They paid by credit card and the ad was faxed in, I seem to remember. Are you really that concerned?

If some homicidal maniac is using our ads to attract victims, then yes, we really are very concerned.

What do you want me to do?

Call them. Find out who they are. We’d like to see some biographical information. Give us the credit card and we’ll run it to see if its legit.

Should I notify SAG that we have a potential problem?

No. We don’t know if there is any problem at all other than just a few nervous actors. But a little inquiry here seems justified because frankly we’re just a little bit nervous too.

And what should I tell them as to why I am asking for all this stuff? asked the ad page editor.

That’s a tough one. You might try the truth. As a lawyer I seldom recommend that tactic, but in this kind of brain dead situation, why not?

The line went dead when legal hung up.

The casting notice editor rolled his eyes. He sighed and turned to a filing cabinet at his back. He pulled out the file on new ads and dropped it open on his desk. The ad for the movie Final Cut was the second one from the top.

He dialed the number listed in the ad. The phone was picked up almost immediately. A youthful voice with a faintly British accent announced, Casting offices, this is Brian.

The casting notice editor identified himself and asked to speak to someone in charge.

Producer or director?

Either will do. It’s about the ad.

Please hold.

It was only a few seconds before another voice came on the line. This voice too had a trace of an accent, perhaps Australian. It was a deep voice, resonant and self assured.

Sovereign Falconer here, I understand you are calling in reference to our ad.

Yes. As the editor for casting notices, it is unfortunately my job to...

The voice of Falconer cut him off.

Do I sense there’s some trouble about the ad?

How did you know? I hadn’t even...

Oh I can always tell when somebody is troubled. Part of a director’s task, don’t you see. How can I help you?

Well, this is sort of awkward. I just got off the phone with legal and they were concerned. Very concerned.

Perhaps you should tell me exactly what it is they are concerned about?

The casting editor, red-faced, preceded to do exactly that.

There was a stony silence on the other end.

Are you still there? asked the editor.

Of course. I am simply thinking how best to meet your request.

Could you simply just fax me your credits or the credits of your producer?

And by a simple recitation of either one of our backgrounds, you will be able to discern whether or not we are indeed who we say we are or are instead, as your legal department suspects, homicidal maniacs hoping to lure actors to their doom? The voice of Falconer the director was resolutely cheerful.

Uh, right. That is.... well, it’s what legal wants. I am sorry I have to ask you for this. I know the whole thing sounds idiotic! The longer he talked about it, the more embarrassing the whole idea seemed. The ads were prohibitively expensive and he doubted that anyone with homicidal intent would ever have deep enough pockets for such madness.

You shouldn’t be the least bit troubled. Bit of a testament to my skills as a writer. If the online version of the screenplay scared the hell out of a few actors, you can just imagine how much of an effect it should have on an audience. No, I am quite flattered. Shall I include a blanket denial as well? I, Sovereign Falconer, do hereby swear that I am not now nor have I ever been a raging homicidal maniac.

I feel like even more of a complete idiot for asking for it. Sure, throw the blanket denial in too. Yes, you are not a raging whatever! and here the editor laughed a short fake laugh. as long as its not written in blood.

There was an equally short laugh from Falconer the director that seemed quite genuine.

So hard to get the laser printer to print blood, don’t you know. But I will send it then. Is there some immediacy about all this?

Yes, sorry to be so hard nosed about it but it’s what legal wants, so I very much appreciate it if you could fax it right over.

You are quite serious about this I take it.

Without something to show legal, so we’re covered, I am afraid I would have to pull the ad.

I can’t fax it but I can overnight express it.

Why can’t you fax it?

What I’m sending you is in color. It won’t be good in a fax.

I don’t need to see it in color.

But I need you to see it in color, insisted Falconer with a harsh note to his voice.

That was an odd note and for a second there the editor thought it might be a dodge along the order of your check is in the mail. He insisted, I must have it as soon as possible.

It will be in the mail before you’ve properly hung up.

Someday we can all laugh about this and I’ll buy you a drink at the premiere, said the editor reassuringly.

There was a rather strange silence from the other end and the line meant to be placating simply hung there.

Let’s hope I don’t have to wait that long before I get a drink.

And the phone line went dead quite abruptly.

The casting ad editor sighed. He hoped that was the end of it and that legal would now officially get off his back. Sometimes it seemed like he dealt with every flaky wanna be movie company in the world. Half of them never got their productions off the ground and the half who did would have been better if they had been aborted instead of releasing their cinematic dead babies on the world. Still, giving the weirdness this business always engendered, this was really rather odd and he had not found the person on the other end of the phone particularly reassuring. Most of the people making horror films were a touch demented anyway. They were the kind of people whose idea of fun would be to wangle an invitation to a surprise autopsy. He made a note to himself to call legal back when he had the information the director had promised him.

The man Falconer sat in his office staring malevolently at the phone on his desk. It rang and he scooped it up. His voice changed, lightening in tone, sounding years younger and becoming British. Casting office. This is Brian.

He smiled insincerely and continued speaking into the phone.

Quite alright, I assure you. Open auditions. Monday thru Friday from 8 to 8. Look forward to seeing you. Headshot and SAG card. Yes.

He hung up and stared up at the wall at the line of classic movie posters in a row over his desk. The image of Michael Caine leered back at him from a full color poster from the movie THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING.

He spoke without any trace of accent. The very idea that I am a raging homicidal maniac is absurd. Quite frankly Michael, I am incapable of raging.

I suppose I’m like you, Mr. Michael Caine. He gave the poster a mock salute. Lethal... but only in a politely expressive way. Anything else would be overacting.

CHAPTER 2 - A Resumé in Color

Legal called again. Twice. No resumé, no credit list, pull the FINAL CUT movie casting ad, seemed to be the gist of it. Legal was adamant, in their take no prisoners mode. Pulling an ad already set was a nightmare. Which was why the casting notice editor for Back Stage was totally thrilled to find an overnight express package from the film offices of the movie FINAL CUT. The package listed the director, Sovereign Falconer, as the sender. Hopeful that this would get legal off his back, the editor sliced the package open with a scissors and dumped the contents on his desk. Stacks of bundled twenty dollar bills cascaded over his desk.

A neatly folded cream colored note was tucked into one sheaf of bills.

What the hell is this? The casting editor peered inside the envelope. It was empty. There was no resumé, no listing of credits. Puzzled, he put his hands on the money and examined one of the packets. Each packet was exactly a thousand dollars and there were twenty of them. My God! Twenty Thousand bucks! And for what?

He opened the note.

Dear Casting Notice Editor,

Well, I have rather a long track record but this is my attempt at a quiet comeback. One big budget disaster and they say you’ll never work in this town again. I am sure you know the drill. Hitchcock made his PSYCHO when everybody had written him off. He did it with no studio funding. Done on the cheap, as I am doing this movie and it revived his career. Absolutely no one must know my identity til the film is jolly well in the can. Spend my colorful resumé howsoever you may wish. You struck me on the phone as a rather bright lad. I’ve enclosed twenty thousand reasons to help you think up something clever to tell the legal boys. Don’t disappoint me. When the movie’s done, there may be another token of my esteem forthcoming.

All best in the certainty that you will see this all my way,

Yours, Sovereign Falconer, director.

There was a frantic quality to the way the casting editor slammed open the lower drawer of his filing cabinet and scooped the money packets off his cluttered desk. His eyes were darting in all directions, trying to determine if anybody had seen him open the envelope. Nobody in the crowded office was looking in his direction. But in his haste he slammed the file cabinet drawer so hard the metal case slammed against the back wall of his cubicle and sent his coffee maker atop it flying. It smashed to the floor with a horrendous sound of breaking glass and shattering plastic. Now everybody was staring at him.

He smiled weakly at them. Sorry about that! Damn drawer was stuck!

A guy across the room gave him a thumbs up. The guy said, Hey, we just hit the furniture because we’re not allowed to hit the actors!

That got a smile from everyone in the room and then they all lost interest in the casting editor and went back to doing whatever it was they were doing.

The casting editor sighed with relief and then leaned back in his chair. He had to do some serious thinking. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of serious thinking.

It didn’t take him long. He rummaged through a stack of resumés from a drawer on his desk until he found the one particular resumé he was looking for. He read through it quickly, unstapled it and then popped it in the fax machine in his desk. He fiddled with the setting on the fax so it wouldn’t send the number of the originating fax machine. He punched in the number of his own fax machine and then faxed the resumé to himself.

The resumé was that of an off way producer who had produced several successful regional plays and even produced a movie of the week. But then he had had the misfortune to mount two incredibly expensive theatrical bombs back to back. Not fatal in itself but he had been woefully careless about the sources of some of his backer money. Some of his investors had lots of gold chains and pinkie rings and were staunch family guys. His investors, convinced that all the money was gone, were seeking some reparations which involved the removal of some of this body parts. That being the case, this particular producer had wisely decided on a spiritual quest in Sri Lanka of indeterminate length. Giving his personal situation, this producer was not likely to reappear until the film FINAL CUT was in the can but his credits would be more than enough to satisfy legal. If pressed, since he had faxed it to himself with the sender’s address blanked out, the casting editor could always claim it was what they faxed him! What the hell! It looked legit enough. So what if the people casting the movie were really lunatics who planned on killing the actors and eating them. It wasn’t like they were real people, after all, they were just actors. And they had paid a damn good price for the meal if that is what it was.

Screw legal, screw everybody!

Nobody had to know where he got the down payment for the Porsche.

CHAPTER 3 - Is Everybody In, The Audition Is About To Begin

It was a cavernous room with high ceilings and bad carpet. The carpet was stained with people, or to be more precise, it was littered with actors and actresses. There were hundreds of them. It looked like a German prisoner of war camp with track lighting.

There had been 51 acting parts listed on the FINAL CUT film website that the ad in Backstage had mentioned. The website itself was a work of art. Someone with a real genius had designed it. Just looking at it, the intense professionally rendered graphics, seeing the full script, the cast breakdowns, the twenty or so email addresses for all the separate departments, the actors who had come to audition had come convinced that it just had to be a film being put together by real pros. In response to the ad and the website, the actors and actress’s had come to this small Pennsylvania town in waves. From New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Pennsylvania. There were actors from Boston, Rhode Island and Virginia and Maryland. There were even two crazy bikers who had come from Texas on their choppers. Although they were so bone tired and so drunk by the time that they actually got there, they passed out in the parking lot and didn’t wake up until casting was already closed.

It was a motley crew. It ran to all ages and types, some beautiful to look at, some prettier when not seen at all. There was a legion of the badly dressed and over dressed. There was no theme to how they dressed or how they looked except that there were far too many bosoms thrust visibly forward and too many bad toupees on some of the older actors. Because of the large number of female roles, which few films featured, there was a greater preponderance of women to men. Almost four to one.

There were beautiful people of both sexes. Some of them gifted by nature, others enhanced by surgery.

Copies of the script had been handed out and most actors were clutching battered copies and silently mouthing lines to themselves. They were eager and anxious but hopeful. Hundreds and hundreds of actors had already been turned away. These were the favored few. It was the final culling, the last thinning of the turkey herd. When the last of them were sorted, some would leave but the lucky ones would be sent back to the green rooms, where they had first been handed the script. Those few would have all passed the first hurdle and now awaited a final audition not with the casting crew but the director himself.

What was strange about the room was that it had lots of doors but all of them were securely locked except for one. That door opened suddenly with a loud clang. A hush fell over the crowd.

A man with an odd look, face rigid like a mask, entered the room. He was tall, eyes dark in his face. His hair was black and long, touching his shoulders. It was hard to tell how old he was, mid-forties perhaps but his face was neither lined or weathered and he might have been younger.

They knew who he was. They had all met him during their auditions. He had been introduced as Joshua, the director’s assistant and they had been assured that he was a very important person, which being actors they had accepted without a shred of doubt.

The crowd leaned forward, began to move toward him. He waved them back, as if warding off a blow. He started to move through the crowd warily, as if afraid they might touch him. The director’s assistant carried an oversize clipboard with headshots and theatrical resumés clipped to it.

Thank you all for coming. As many of you well know, I am Joshua, the director’s assistant. I have with me the list of those of you, who have indeed made the last and decisive auditions.

His voice had an oddness to it, an almost mechanical quality. He went on, My congratulations to you... to those of you...... who have made the... final cut.

The crowd moved closer, hemming him in on all sides. It was plain that their nearness made him extremely uncomfortable. He held up a hand.

Please! I beg of you not to crowd me. His voice held a surprising level of menace.

He brandished the clipboard.

These are our callbacks. I will come through the crowd and pick out the people we want to see for the last audition. Our director, Sovereign Falconer, will be personally seeing each of your for the final call back. This might be deemed an honor and you should treat it as such. For those not favored, your prompt exit is greatly appreciated.

There was a collective murmur from the crowd, part excitement part disappointment.

Some woman in the back of the crowd with a hard Brooklyn accent called out, Do we get our headshots and resumés back if we aren’t chosen?

Joshua the director’s assistant’s eyes surveyed the crowd coldly. They have been.... destroyed. The director does not like people who waste his time. Sovereign Falconer is not a patient man.

With a malevolent smile, he went on, But there are many of you who have been,... His voice rose an octave, CHOSEN! And for you....... for those of you who are chosen, please remember that this is a horror film. And in the spirit of that kind of endeavor, we are using many of the dressed sets to audition. Therefore I must warn you that these are realistically gory sets. They are intended depictions of very graphic violence. The soundtrack, with screams and so on, will be playing in the background. While waiting to do your audition, you may hear screams, gun shots, other horrific audio special effects. On stage you will witness bloody sights!

He shrugged fatalistically and finished with, All part of the magic of film!

CHAPTER 4 - The Director Sharpens His Audition Skills

In a room not far from the place where the actors were being sorted like the cattle he assumed them to be, the director was working on his interviewing technique. The time of final judgment was upon him and his actors. His name was Sovereign Falconer, a kingly name for one who seemed as regal as his name made him out to be.

His hands moved deftly, filling a long table with weapons. A small boa constrictor lay curled on the end of the table. It was awake, tongue darting, restlessly moving its head back and forth as if disturbed by the sudden motions of the man beside the table. The director stared at the snake for some seconds. He moved one hand toward it and the snake responded by lifting his head, eyes tracking the movement of the hand.

With sudden violence, the director slammed a long bladed knife into the body of the coiled snake. It passed completely through the snake, its sharp point burying itself deeply into the wood of the table.

Excellent prop knife! he said, gratified by the depth it had penetrated the table top. The snake writhed in agony, head slamming against the top of the table.

The director seemed amused by the snake’s struggles.

Oh, I’m sorry. That must hurt quite a bit. How thoughtless of me. I shouldn’t neglect you in that way!

The snake continued to thrash. The director bent down, his hand seized a long handled axe. He swung the axe over his head, sliced down, severing the snake’s head from its body. The axe was buried even deeper into the table top. The snake’s head fell off the table and its body trembled and shuddered and then stopped moving altogether.

Ditto prop axe!

He left the axe and knife stuck in the table and bent below the table to rummage in a large canvass sack. He came up with a double handful of hand guns that he dumped on the table. He took one of the larger ones, a .45 caliber automatic and held it up to the light. He examined it quite carefully.

I should say it looks quite real. Sure to fool the audience! he said with evident satisfaction.

But looks can be deceiving! What is wanted is some real bang for my bucks!

He lifted the pistol, tilting the gun upward towards a large light hanging in the rafters above him. Hmm. Prop gun! Loaded or unloaded?

He pulled the trigger. The spotlight above his head was blown to bits, glass and sparks cascading down on him from above. He reached up and brushed some of the glass out of his hair. He seemed quite pleased.

Well done me!

He wasn’t quite finished. But so far so good. He moved away from the table. He took up a long section of rope and tied a hangmen’s noose in one end.