Pieces
Just a daydream of what it might be like to be on the set of The Dark Knight and see Heath Ledger transition out of his role as the Joker. And of course, there is a little romance.
**********This has no bearing on reality.***********
Heath here is as much a figment of my imagination as the fictional character of the Joker.
warnings: mild implied sexual content
You took a deep breath, trying to bring yourself down after the high of two scenes being shot back to back. You had been scrambling, adjusting the angle of the light fixtures to get exactly the right balance between cool and warm, shadows and highlights. You needed to calm down enough to at least eat - you knew you would need the energy to get through another seven hour shift.
You grabbed whatever catering had available, like usual, not paying much attention to your choices. You fidgeted with the silverware, trying to summon your appetite.
You looked up, noticing a presence, and you were shocked to see the star of the show today, Heath, sitting across from you. His skin looked a little raw, probably from the removal of the makeup. You had positioned diffusers and replaced bulbs, it seemed like a hundred times, this morning in his scene, your ears still buzzing from the sound of the Imax camera.
He was smoking, just eating a bag of chips. "Not hungry?" you said, trying to make polite conversation but not wanting to be intrusive. But of course if he hadn't wanted to see anyone, he would have retreated to his trailer like all the other actors today.
"Yeah, not really. Doesn't look like you are either," he said, motioning to the uneaten lunch in front of you.
He had asked you about your decision to dim the key light on one of the scenes, and of course you launched into a detailed analysis of film lighting. That was on him, this was your passion - you couldn't help yourself. He had just sat there, listening, asking you more questions about particular scenes whenever you stopped. Being listened to like this was something novel in this world, an uncommon luxury.
After that day, if you could, you timed it so you could meet him there. Talking about lighting. It wasn't until later that you found out he was interested in photography. He just smoked endlessly, listening attentively, so different from the aggressive character he portrayed.
That's why it caught you off guard one day when he started talking about what it was like to play the Joker. "People like the character on set, you know, it's like I'm in charge, in every scene."
He was certainly right. He stood out in every take - all eyes were on him. You were often there, looking on, and at times it seemed that it was too much for him, bringing on nervous tics and pacing. And just as often, he thrived on the attention.
"I guess people like that, someone who takes control?"
You weren't sure how to respond, but stammered "I don't know, maybe yes, maybe some people…"
"What about you?" he had said. You looked at him and saw his easy smile, his caramel and coffee eyes, and he had you then. He was inescapable.
You knew his life was broken up right now, fragile, scattered. That you were just a temporary fix, a glue to seal up the cracks, to hold him together for the time being.
But that didn't really matter, did it, when he looked at you?
The day of filming had worn him thin, just like it had everyone else. The Chicago weather wouldn't cooperate, the drizzle falling and ruining so many takes. He had obediently played the doll all day, allowing himself to be posed, doing each shot so many times. You were one of those who had to advise him on how to stand to catch the light correctly, where to end the scene, what angle would best highlight the bright red makeup shining on his lips. And you were relentless. Just like him, you wanted it to be perfect, you wanted everything to line up. You couldn't focus on anyone's feelings or fatigue, you only dealt with the moment and what you knew would make it all work on film.
He had done it without a hint of aggravation, but now he seemed to have hit his breaking point. He had come off set at the end of the day with the ringlets of hair plastered to his face from the drizzle that hung in the air. He wound his way through the chairs and tables set out on the street for the crew.
He saw you off to the side, through the open flap of the tent that protected the props and spare lights from the elements. He had walked inside, still intimidating in all his makeup and the overdone suit. It looked so heavy, but he carried it with ease.
He took your arm and brought you close. He said, "do you want to tell me what to do now?" in a low murmur at your ear. You were taken by surprise, "No, I'm sorry," you started to say, as if you could somehow apologize for all the fakery of a movie set and the hardships that were inherent in filming. He stopped your needless apology when he took your head in his hands and pressed his lips to yours.
He would leave the set sweaty and disheveled, his costume askew. He would loosen the tie and take off the heavy jacket. You could see the pieces of his character fall away and the cool, reserved Heath return. But for a while he'd be splintered somehow, fragments of the character remaining, sticking to him, even while he was emerging from it. There were bits and pieces falling off him as he walked.
He'd come to you in these in-between times. You'd watch him, see his expression change like a mist where indefinable shapes rose up and then hid again. He'd drag his fingers along the neckline of your shirt, playing with it, or weave his hand under your sleeve, pushing it off your shoulder, taking you apart slowly. He held you in his arms so tightly on those late nights and early mornings, as if feeling you there brought him back, gave him his breath again and swept away the shards of the Joker that remained.
