I wasn’t even supposed to be in this movie. I was supposed to be in another one. See, a few weekends earlier I drove all the way to Carrboro to audition for a part in a documentary as a junior reporter (it didn’t seem like too far of a stretch). But I didn’t get a callback for that film. Instead, another producer at the audition, Darrell Parker, offered me a lead role in one of his projects. The film was called The Roommate (And no, it’s not what you’re thinking).
Parker would be collaborating with Shane Gill, a horror auteur who emphasizes his name with “Hollywood” quoted in the middle. To Hollywood, fear doesn’t involve science fiction or imaginations gone wild, but exists in events that could happen in real life. The Roommate is about a serial killer who stalks women who place “Roommate Wanted” ads.
Victoria Brigman would play the other lead female role. You haven’t heard of her either? Brigman’s claim to fame, my producer excitedly told me, was that she went to high school with Jennifer Garner back in West Virginia. Big deal, I work with someone who’s friends with someone who was Forest Whitaker’s assistant for Waiting to Exhale.
First bad omen of the start to my movie career: I arrive at our meeting place in Gastonia and nobody’s there. As I’m about to head back to Charlotte, Hollywood runs me down. Because of a scheduling conflict, we would now be meeting at his apartment. (Hmm?)
As I’m filling out release forms (just in case I’m actually hurt while they pretend to kill me), I watch Hollywood chain-drink three jumbo cans of Monster energy drink. Just a little freaked out, I divert my attention to a large Aaliyah poster on the wall. The excess energy from way past the recommended daily intake of guarana makes Hollywood chatty, and since I’m not as talkative as he is (who would be?), he offers me a Monster of my own. Fortunately, some of the team arrives: my co-star (Jen Garner’s study buddy), Nick Ritter, the director of photography and Darrell Parker, the producer who offered me the part.
We convoy to a gas station down the street from the house in whose basement I will ultimately meet my end. The first scene of the day is of Denise (me) in her car talking to Casey Porter (Brigman). I’m supposed to apply lip liner in the rearview mirror and then call her on my cell phone. Sounds pretty simple, right? Add to the equation desert-like temperatures and a tall cameraman cramped in the back seat of my Saturn, and complications are bound to happen. My head must be contorted at the perfect angle. The heat causes a hot spot on my cheek. The sun plays hide-and-seek. It was the most personal time I ever spent with my car.
We head to the death house where I meet the home’s owner, Nicer Young, who will play my killer, Melvin Butchear. He’s a huge, intimidating figure — like a baby Hulk, but better spoken. Sliding black pantyhose over his face, he becomes “The Butcher.”
We break for lunch while Ritter sets up the lights in the living room, clipping wax paper over them with clothespins to soften the shadows. Before long, the paper starts smoking from the heat.
Don’t let the small budget fool you. These guys are pros. In Brigman’s confrontation with her character’s killer, she lets loose a scream heard down the street. Shoot, she scared me (more because I didn’t think I would be able to duplicate her intensity for my own Scream Queen moment). However, when I come face-to-face with the tobacco-stained teeth and blood-splattered face of Casey’s killer, Wilburt (Parker), I find my own sonic note to hit.
As luck would have it, I suffer a wardrobe malfunction. Not as big as Janet’s though. My wraparound skirt unwinds to reveal my undies, but thankfully Brigman, the only other female on set, promptly catches it. Fixed and back on cue, I’m back in action only to have The Butcher quickly floor me with a punch to the stomach. Who says making a movie is easy?
Fast-forward to the scene I dread most: the basement. By nature, I’m not really a crier — hence my apprehension with having to react to my impending demise. To get in character, I think about how I lost my cousin this past January in a car accident. Not sure even then if the tears would flow, I ask for an onion for back-up. I spend 30 minutes doing some of the ugliest crying I’ve ever done in my life all while handcuffed to a pole (not bad for a first-time movie star).
It’s clearly not my character Denise’s day. She just needed someone to share the rent with, that’s all. Instead, she gets accosted by the most disgusting human being alive, punched in the stomach and stabbed in the chest with a ginsu knife (sawed-off, my ass — that thing hurt!). That’s probably what she’s thinking, too, when the blood dribbles down her mouth as she dies, slumped on the dirty basement floor. (Note: corn syrup + food color + mystery ingredients = rancid taste).
By the time we’re done with this day’s shooting, I’ve spent a good 12 hours in Gastonia. My front is covered in fake blood, but I’m still not as red as my co-star, whose hair is dripping with the stuff. Wearily, we rise and take turns in the shower, leaving behind a giant red ring in the tub.
Pulling out of the driveway around midnight, I wish I were already famous so I could tell my chauffeur, “Home, Jeeves,” then curl up in the back of the Bentley. For now, it’s a long ride home in the Saturn with the windows down and Damita Jo blasting at full volume to keep awake. Ahhhhhhh … there’s nothing like being a working actress.
This article appears in Jun 28 – Jul 4, 2006.
