Stuntman
A director confronts his star's dangerous obsession on the doomed set of his film.
Doniel is a film director who believes he is under someone’s hypnotic influence. It all started ten years ago on the doomed set of an action film called Paradise Five. Upon being hired, he immediately recast the lead role with an unknown young man by the name of Jackarind Bellows. Read Part 1 here.
Stuntman
Tragedy struck early.
Doniel always thought the best part of working with nobodies was that they rarely showed up on set with “big ideas” of their own, at least not the kind they couldn’t easily be disabused of. Unfortunately for Don and the young man himself, Jack Bellows was not quite so malleable. He did, in fact, have big ideas of his own, the most persistent being that he believed he should perform his own stunts.
No, he didn’t have a speck of formal training in stunt work, only the unshakeable, semi-conscious belief shared by so many young men and women that he was impervious to harm. And from such a point of view, it made sense; if you were trying to make a name for yourself and also believed yourself invincible, why wouldn’t you do your own stunts?
It was obviously out of the question. When Jack insisted and re-insisted, Doniel went so far as floating the idea to his producer. The response was predictable: under no circumstances would the star of a 160 million dollar movie perform his own stunts.
The major set pieces weren’t to be filmed until midway through production, which gave Don at least two and a half months to put the kid off.
“Focus on the small stuff,” he told Jack. “It’s the moments when nothing’s blowing up. When the music is silent. The script is out the window, the camera’s pushed all the way in on you and every single eyeball is watching and waiting. Those are the moments when stars are born.”
Jack handled such moments adeptly. He had a natural charisma and animal magnetism that never waivered or faltered, even under pressure. He lit up every single frame he was in. He elevated the material far above what it had any right to be. He was brilliant.
But his obsession with stunt work continued.
At first Doniel assumed the boy just wanted something interesting to talk about at press junkets. Instead of asking, “Who is Jackarind Bellows?” they’d be asking, “Did Jackarind Bellows really jump off a four story building?”
But as time wore on, Don began to suspect that his star’s preoccupation was more deeply pathological. There was something existential about it for him. It wasn’t enough to be the pretty face. He needed to be the body and blood of Christ personified. He needed to feel the blows. “Hit me!” he yelled during heavily choreographed fight scenes. “Really hit me! Harder!”
Was it masochism? A thirst for cinema vérité? It didn’t make sense. Doniel began to worry that the boy was deeply disturbed. Even more than that, he began to worry that denying him his request might jeopardize the production in unforeseen ways. He let the matter simmer for two weeks before delivering the bad news on a Thursday.
“Insurance made up their minds. You can’t do the stunts. And if you insist on jumping off a four-story building, they’ll shut us down.” This wasn’t entirely true, but it got the point across. Jack frowned, nodding a little.
After a few moments, his eyes lit back up. “What about the banister scene?”
“The banister scene” was an outlandish sequence that saw Jack’s character wearing soap shoes, grinding 60 feet down a long and winding banister straight out of Sunset Boulevard while firing two enormous pistols at a group of mercenaries who had just burst in the front doors of his family’s mansion.
“You can do the banister scene, of course.”
“No wires.”
“No. I mean- yes, wires. You can’t grind down a banister without wires. Especially while firing guns. I don’t even think it’s physically possible.”
“It’s possible. I’ll prove it.”
“No you will not,” Don said calmly. He explained, yet again, how many millions of dollars were hinging on Jack’s well being. “A lot of people’s livelihoods are tied up in this. It’s not just you on the line. It’s all of us. You’re willing to take the risk, but it’s not your risk to take. Do you understand?”
Jack stared at him with a sociopathic emptiness that Don found more unsettling by the second. “It’s my body. My choice.”
“Your body, yes. Your choice, no. You signed a contract. After reshoots, if you want to shave your head or go skydiving without a parachute, you’re free to. But right now, we need you in one piece.”
Jack sat back, frowning again. Don paused for a moment. He was a people pleaser at heart, and his lead actor was displeased. Surely there was some small bone he could throw him? He stood there, one foot out the door of Jack’s trailer, his lips pursed, ready to say more, but hesitating. The weight of that moment wouldn’t hit him for some time. But it would come to be his greatest regret. Those few precious seconds of hesitation, he would eventually realize, were his last opportunity to salvage the life he’d always wanted. It was his final chance at salvation, if only he left well enough alone, if only he walked away.
Instead, he squandered a lifetime’s worth of ambitions with just a few simple words. “I’ll tell you what,” Don said. “There is one stunt you can do.”
The Accident
It was originally envisioned as a one-shot: a camera mounted to a pursuit vehicle tracking the green Jeep Wrangler as it tore down an abandoned stretch of unpaved Southern California road at 90mph. The script called for Jackarind's character to kick open the door and tumble from the speeding vehicle moments before it hit a conveniently placed storage container—buried in the dirt at just the right angle to serve as a ramp. The Jeep would soar through the air, crash into a building full of enemies, and cause a massive explosion that the story editor was still struggling to justify after nine rewrites had rendered the elaborate set piece nearly incoherent.
With Jackarind taking on the stunt work, they’d have to break it into three distinct shots. First, the high-speed tracking sequence. Then, at a much safer 25mph, they'd film Jackarind performing the jump and roll from the moving vehicle. Then, with the production deeply behind schedule, most of the crew would pack up and move to the next location while second unit shot the Jeep hitting the ramp and the subsequent explosion. It would actually be simpler this way. Efficient. By the book. Safe.
The stunt coordinator spent a week drilling Jackarind on the mechanics of rolling from a moving vehicle. By day four, his body was covered in purple bruises, but he insisted on more and more practice, never once letting up on the intensity of his training.
On the morning of the tracking shot, Doniel felt his stomach turning. That mischievous, insubordinate glint in the kid’s eyes. Doniel couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had the sinking feeling that the whole production was suddenly at risk.
When he caught up with Jackarind in wardrobe, the boy was putting his stunt pads on beneath his shirt and pants.
Jack looked up, startled, as Doniel walked in. “Oh. Hey.”
"I thought the pads were for the tuck and roll," Doniel said. "You don't need those today."
"Yeah, they’re just in case."
"In case of what?"
"I don’t know.” Jack shrugged. “To protect me."
The way he’d jumped when Doniel had first walked in— it was like he’d been caught red-handed. Doniel’s dread hit a fever pitch. The kid was actually going to try jumping out of a speeding car. Even at 75 miles an hour, it would almost certainly be fatal. Again, Doniel found himself at a crossroads.
Again, he chose the wrong path.
Doniel left and found his special effects coordinator immediately. He whispered something into the man’s ear.
"What? You're kidding."
“No. I’m not. Do it.”
There was no roll cage in the Jeep, no need for it on this particular day, but the Wrangler was still heavily modified. The suspension had been beefed up with heavy-duty coilovers and reinforced control arms, massive off-road brakes were installed, and an upgraded cooling system was added to handle the abuse. The undercarriage had also been reinforced with steel plating to protect vital components.
So the sight of a welder working on the car didn’t give Jackarind pause as he strolled onto set. "Get in on the passenger side," the stunt coordinator told him. "They're still working on the car."
Jack got in on the passenger side, slid over to the driver’s seat, and fired up the engine.
Soon enough, the cameras were rolling. The Jeep hit its marks, kicking up clouds of dust as it accelerated down the dirt road. Doniel was in the pursuit vehicle, eyes glued to his handheld monitor. He watched every twitch of Jack’s face. He watched as Jack licked his lips, grinned, and then went for it.
He threw his weight against the driver's side door, to no avail. He didn’t hesitate. He did it again, slamming his shoulder harder into the door.
“Cut!” Doniel yelled. But Jackarind didn’t slow down. Again he crashed his body into the door with all his might. Again nothing happened.
“Cut!” Doniel yelled again. The pursuit vehicle slowed but the Jeep never did. Jack wasn’t giving up. “Oh dear God,” Doniel whispered to himself. He was sure that his plan would work. When the door wouldn’t open, Doniel thought—when Jack realized that it had been welded shut from the outside—surely that would be the end of it.
But it wasn’t. Never taking his foot off the gas, Jack slammed into the door one last time, his grip on the wheel faltering. The Jeep swerved, catching the uneven ground at precisely the wrong angle. The whole vehicle pitched sideways, propelled into a violent roll. The Jeep rolled once, twice, three times, a blur of motion and debris, each impact crushing the frame further, rupturing the fuel lines.
When it finally stopped tumbling, flames were already spitting out, licking at the undercarriage. Inside, Jackarind fought frantically with the driver’s side door as black smoke and fire filled the cabin.
But the door didn’t budge.
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Paradise Five is a sick name though