“Insert a heart attack,” said Eddie imploringly.
“What do you mean?”
“A heart attack,” Eddie repeated. “Here, on the bench. I’ll look exhausted, sink onto the bench and lay my hand on my heart like Dr. Zhivago. Make me die.”
The clapperboy looked at the director, waiting for instructions.
The director moved his fingers like scissors to signify that he’d cut later, but meanwhile the shooting must go on.
“What do you mean by a heart attack?” he said to Eddie. “Do you think you look like a man about to have a heart attack? Pull your hat over your eyes, like a good Eddie, don’t make me start all over.” And he signalled to the crew to put the pumps into action. “Come on, move! It’s starting to rain. You’re Eddie, remember, not a poor lovelorn creature… Put your hands in your pockets, shrug your shoulders, that’s it, good boy, come towards us… your cigarette hanging from your lips… perfect!… eyes on the ground.”
He turned to the cameraman and shouted: “Pull back — tracking shot; pull back!”
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