A Curvy Death

For her big Hollywood break, my sister, a professional ballerina, was plucked from a rehearsal and thrust onto a chaotic movie set. The role was simple: die. But the director's increasingly bizarre notes—from "faster" to "slower" to the baffling "curvier"—turned her debut into a masterclass in absurdity.

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Hello, I'm D. K. Wall, author of novels and short stories. Welcome to Musings and Tales. Whether it's a story I'm spinning or a thought I'm sharing from my home here in Asheville, it's all 100% true... except for the parts I make up.

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Episode Transcript

D. K. Wall (00:28):
For fifteen years, from her teens into her early
thirties, my sister was aprofessional ballerina. That's
an eternity in the dance world,spending her days in plies and
pirouettes, embodying the graceof a dying swan for many a
company and on numerous stages.
But this tale isn't about thoseperformances. No, instead, I

(00:52):
want to address the rumorswhispered in the wings beyond
the glow of the stage lightsabout the day of her break into
the world of being a movie star.The legend of her big screen
debut.
When her celluloid breakarrived, she danced with the
Montgomery Ballet. One fatefulafternoon, the artistic director

(01:15):
swept into the studio and made apronouncement with the distinct
ring of Hollywood or at leastHollywood that had lost its map
and compass considering theywere deep in Alabama. A major
motion picture, sought talentwho could, and I quote, move in
artistic ways.

(01:35):
That was it. That was thecasting call. Movement.
And who can move better than aprofessional dancer? With
precious few other details, theyimagined bringing a major
musical to moviegoing audiences.What an opportunity.
My sister and another dancerwere selected or perhaps they

(01:57):
volunteered. Or, and this wasthe most likely scenario, they
were lured by the siren song ofa paycheck that didn't depend on
the ticket sales for TheNutcracker.
Let's just say the compensationfor most professional dancers
isn't exactly in the top taxbracket.
Our lucky pair piled into a carand drove to the undisputed

(02:18):
movie making Mecca of Selma,Alabama, Tinseltown of the
South. Upon arriving at thedesignated location, they were
immediately introduced to thefirst and most sacred rule of
the film world. Waiting.
They performed a master class inthe fine art of sitting for

(02:39):
hours, still clueless what rolethey were to play.
Just when all hope was lost, aproduction assistant, barely old
enough to rent a car, beckonedthem into a warehouse the size
of an airplane hangar.
The set, to be fair, was awonderland of cinematic chaos.
An entire small town Main Streethad been constructed indoors.

(03:03):
Storefronts, lampposts, parkedcars, a smoking helicopter lying
on its side like a great woundedbeast.
Twisting along the fake MainStreet was a single solitary set
of dolly tracks for the camera.Yes. A camera. The budget, it

(03:23):
seemed, had been largelyconsumed by the helicopter
rental and pyrotechnics.Multiple angles couldn't be
afforded.
Still in the jeans and T shirtsthey had driven in, they were
instructed to lie on thepavement near the tracks,
joining a few dozen other souls.The direction was simple and
profound. Simulate the agony ofa painful death by squirming as

(03:47):
the camera rolled by.
Confused and wondering how theirdance skills qualified them for
such a performance, theyembraced the direction. They
were prepared for anythingexcept falling rain. Indoors.
A grid of overhead sprinklerskicked on, casting a miserable

(04:09):
drizzle upon the near corpsesbelow. This might have been a
refreshing artistic choice hadanyone bothered to mention the
impending indoor meteorologicalevent. They were now simulating
a painful, agonizing, and verydamp death in the only clothes
they possessed for the journey.

(04:31):
Despite the discomfort, aglimmer of talent must have
shown through. Something caughtthe eye of the director or the
assistant director or theassistant to the assistant
director or perhaps theassistant's intern.
Whoever, once the take wasfinished, my sister and her

(04:52):
friend were plucked from thedamp pavement and told to report
to makeup. Most everyone elsewas given a hearty, "Don't call
us. We'll call you."
Years of mastering the pas dedois had apparently forged the
perfect pas de mort.
Dancers are accustomed to stagemakeup, but what followed was an

(05:14):
ordeal lasting several hours.
A team of artists meticulouslytransformed them into extras
from a George Romero B side,crafting gaping wounds and
gruesome burns. By the time theywere done, the dancers didn't
need to act like they were onthe verge of death between
excruciating hours waiting, alack of food, a soaking indoor

(05:38):
rain, and no clear instructions,they succumbed to the power of
method acting to mimic death.
Finally released from the gripsof the makeup artist, they were
sent not to the set, but tocatering. Inside a giant tent, a
glorious banquet was spreadbefore them. But there was a
catch.

(05:59):
"Don't move your faces toomuch," they were warned. "No
wide chewing. Keep your mouthsclosed." Their beautiful
expensive wounds might crack.They were dying of hunger
surrounded by food they couldn'tproperly eat.
At long last, stomachs rumbling,they were summoned to the stage.

(06:19):
It was time for their close-up.Their role, it was now crystal
clear, was to die slowly,agonizingly, beautifully. Who
else but a dancer with theirunparalleled body control could
execute such a maneuver oncommand?

(06:40):
And so upon hearing the call foraction, they died.
Wasn't quite good enough.
"Take two, faster this time."And so they died again.
"Take three slower." And again.
"Let's try it this time with aturn." And again.

(07:06):
"Now I need you to drop." Andagain.
"Can you do it curvier?"
I should note they exchanged alook of profound confusion
trying to decipher the geometryof a curvy death. But being
professionals, they gave ittheir best shot.

(07:26):
They died in total 18 times,enough to exhaust the lives of
not one, but two cats.
On the last take, they receivedthe ultimate direction, a single
perfect word. They were towrithe. And writhe they did.

(07:50):
Trained in the most demandingphysical arts, they writhed like
no one had ever writhed before.It was the Mount Everest of on
screen death throes.
"Cut. Print it."
A full twenty four hours aftertheir arrival, without a moment
of sleep, they were released.

(08:10):
They drove back to Montgomeryand returned to ballet
rehearsals. Save for when asmall check arrived in the mail
as compensation, they thoughtlittle what was to become of
their starring moment.
Until months later. The movie, aremake of a remake of a
legendary, if of somewhatquestionable quality film, was

(08:31):
released. Overcome withcuriosity, they went to the
downtown cinema, bought theirtickets and a giant popcorn, and
settled in to watch their 14frames of fame.
The big scene arrived. Thesmoking helicopter, the rain
swept street, the bodiestwisting, turning, dropping,

(08:54):
dying. But none, none wereriving with the exquisite
control of a trained ballerina.
The camera swept across thecarnage, a slow dramatic pan.
Closer and closer it came to ourstars, their moment had arrived,

(09:14):
and in pure cinematicheartbreak, the camera cut away.
Not a toe, not an elbow, not asingle artistically blood matted
hair made the final cut. Theirmagnum opus of writhing was left
on the cutting room floor.
Who knows what might have been?A new genre of physically

(09:38):
demanding roles? Professionaldancers bringing new heights to
on screen deaths? An Oscar forbest agonized expiration?
That their masterpiece wasdiscarded, unseen by the world
is not just their loss. It iscinema's.
Hollywood is the poorer for it.