are kissing with the intimacy and intensity of long-lost lovers. They are lying on a bed, he on top of her, his crotch grinding against hers. Both are naked except for the flesh-coloured patch of nylon material attached to their crotches with double-sided tape. Her raised legs are wrapped tightly around him.
“Cut!” yells the director, his booming voice resonating throughout the small set.
Christopher Hastings, a stocky man of fifty with a shiny, shaved head and a greying goatee, strides away from the small monitor from which he has been observing the scene. He comes over to the bed where Sarah and her fellow actor lie and leans over them, resting his palms on his knees.
Everyone else on the set is motionless, waiting to see what wisdom the director will impart to these actors about the secret art of pretend-fucking for film. Since this is a closed set, there aren’t many people around, only the minimum, consisting of the director, the cinematographer, the boom mike operator, the focus puller and script supervisor, and one or two other necessary individuals. Very few, indeed, considering the number of crew and the team of producers who would otherwise swarm the set had they not been shooting the most explicit sex scene of a film filled with frank depictions of sex.
Staring into his eyes, Sarah senses that her loud but otherwise amiable director, who came to filmmaking via art direction, is a bit uncertain, which isn’t surprising since he has never directed a movie let alone two nude actors. It seems pretty clear to her that he doesn’t really know what he is doing, but she appreciates his attempt to appear confident.
“Brilliant guys, just brilliant,” he tells them as if he has read every book on directing he could get his hands on. No doubt, she thinks, the one thing every book advised was to compliment actors after each take, even after a rubbish one. Actors are a sensitive, fragile bunch, these books must have instructed, and they are prone to unprovoked hysterical outbursts, so be wary of them.
“That was brilliant,” he tells them again in case they didn’t hear him before. “But I’m not seeing the passion. I’m not feeling it. Remember, Constance and Mellors have been dying to make love ever since they laid eyes on each other.”
Sarah, playing the part of Constance Chatterley, nods as if she is hearing this for the first time, as if he is giving her a piece of information without which she could never gain insight into the complex interior life of her character.
“Let’s give it another go, shall we?” Christopher requests in his fake Cockney accent, no doubt to hide his ridiculously posh background. “This time, gimme more. Give me more. Give me everything.” He wobbles over to a little monitor and stands behind it, excited, eager to see the result of his great direction. “More sweat,” he demands, and suddenly an obliging production assistant in his early twenties with long, oily black hair that appears not to have seen shampoo in months materializes out of nowhere, runs over to Sarah and Ian, and sprays them with water from a Windex-like container. He squirts liquid rather liberally on Ian’s back, making it seem as if the actor is dripping with perspiration, the kind that comes from a hot, passionate romp.
Shit! Sarah curses silently as she and Ian exchange a glance, as if to ask: “What the fuck does ‘give me more, give me everything mean’?” This sort of vacuous direction infuriates her. She wants to scream: “Give me an action. For fuck’s sake, give me an action to play.” But her fear of being labelled “difficult” doesn’t permit her to make such a demand, even if it would help her do the job better.
Sarah can understand action because she has spent the better part of her life trying to interpret human behaviour, why people do the crazy things they do. But today, it seems, she will have to settle for “give me more.”
“Set!” the camera operator yells.
A bell goes off, more like an annoying beep than a ring, which means a red light is flashing on the stage door, instructing people not to enter or exit until the shot is completed.
“Rolling!” the first assistant director cries.
Christopher places the headset on his tiny red ears and takes a quick look around to see if everything is to his liking. All is quiet. Nervous expectation hovers. “Action!” he shouts.
Sarah and her scene partner go at it again. Since the dialogue track has been stripped out, Christopher feels free to comment without worrying about his voice being recorded. “Go slower,” he whispers to Ian. “You’re rushing it. Slow is good here.”
Ian does as he is told, slowly kissing Sarah on the mouth, then making his way down to her neck and breasts.
How strange, Sarah thinks as she feels Ian’s lips enclose her nipples. What a miracle that she can trick her body into responding to the stimulation of a stranger. Her brain and all its complicated neurons and sensors, it appears, can’t tell the difference between real lovemaking and make-believe.
Ian’s task is to kiss, lick, and nibble his way down Sarah’s belly slowly, but he has rushed this on every take. Maybe his nerves are getting to him. Maybe he is uncomfortable about kissing the naked breasts of a woman he barely knows. Whatever his reason, he is going too fast for the director’s liking.
“Stay there a little longer, Ian,” Sarah hears Christopher say in his unbearably loud voice. “Don’t head down too fast. Now circle your tongue around her nipples. Yes, that’s brilliant. And, Sarah, dig your nails into his back. I want to see marks on his back. Yes. Very good, indeed.” There is a creepy trace of fatherly pride in his voice.
Magically, Sarah Turlington, the celebrated stage actor making her feature film debut, and scene partner, Ian Harmer, the hunky movie star, pull off the tricky scene. Despite their director’s blow-by-blow commentary and booming voice, they accomplish what good actors always strive for but rarely achieve — a synchronicity of action and emotion, of give and take, so much so that for a moment they convince the onlookers on the set, and themselves, that they are indeed lovers lost in bliss. With increasing speed and passion they gyrate in unison, their moans rising to a crescendo like the high notes of an aria. She kisses his mouth and forehead, tasting the mixture of sprayed-on water and sweat. She bites the side of his neck. Suddenly, she feels him get hard. His erection, thankfully still covered by the modesty patch, presses against her. Since this is a master shot that shows their entire naked bodies, it is imperative that they keep in constant contact to give the impression of intercourse.
Sarah is gripped by a strange combination of discomfort and excitement. She desperately wants to remain in the moment and not ruin the sense of intimacy they have been trying to achieve for the past eight takes, but she also can’t help the excitement, the sense of actual sex invading, contaminating, what should be a completely platonic relationship between professional actors. Sarah does her best not to register his hardness, not to mention the increasing friction of his hips against hers.
During the fleeting moments between action and cut, Sarah and Ian are Lady Chatterley and her lover. Not wanting to take herself and her partner out of the loop, Sarah continues in this dangerous fashion, waiting and hoping to hear the director’s voice cry, “Cut!” But the command never comes. She imagines Christopher sitting in his chair, staring at the little monitor, lost in the flickering vision of untamed passion before his eyes, mesmerized by its theatricality, its staged realness. Sarah knows a good director wouldn’t cut a scene this good, this authentic, but she hopes Christopher will, anyway.
Red with embarrassment, Ian continues his vigorous humping. Sarah, now lost in this strange terrain of real/fake orgasm, clings to her partner, desperately trying not to betray what is happening — that she is really feeling something she should only be experiencing in theory. A part of her also cherishes this delicious
