Bound for Boston

Before the last day of November 1995, Hector had settled every cast contract. The principal actors began reporting to the production.

A black Rolls-Royce Silver Spur carried Evan toward the Warner lot. He leaned against the seat with a bottle of water in his hand, looking tired. Across from him, Nina read a fashion magazine and occasionally glanced up in concern.

The complete script for The Departed had finally reached the principal cast and key crew. Everyone was taking it seriously. Even after the working day ended, someone would call to discuss an interpretation or ask about a scene.

Those calls had eased somewhat after the first table read.

As Evan's attention narrowed toward the production, something at home made that concentration harder. One sunny afternoon, Fendi collapsed while keeping Naomi company.

The vet's assessment was bleak. The dog was very old, his body failing. He might have a few months left, but any long sleep could be his last.

Evan knew there was no bargaining with that. However much money he had, he couldn't buy the dog another lifetime.

The shoot was about to start. He had to put the film first, which meant forcing the worry aside whenever he could.

At the studio gate, they ignored the shouted questions, boarded a cart, and went straight to the temporary conference room on their preparation stage.

Most of the principal cast and department heads were already there. The actors and crew had separated into their own groups. Guillermo and Robert were quietly discussing camera positions. Everyone else was looking around the table, waiting for the meeting to begin.

"Well, look at Mr. Batman. Quite a change."

Evan took his place at the end of the table and studied Christian Bale.

A few months earlier, the actor had carried a tense, brooding intensity even between takes. Now the sharp edges seemed to have receded. He looked more like an ordinary man again.

Time away from the part had apparently helped him put it down. The mannerisms that had lingered after shooting were no longer so conspicuous.

Christian smiled.

"I've been doing the research. Playing a cop is easier than playing Bruce Wayne, at least so far. I don't have to sit in a room practicing how to look miserable in the mirror."

"So two months around the police did you some good."

Evan was genuinely curious. Unlike the other actors, Christian had known the broad story and his role months in advance. Without auditions to prepare for, he had been free to spend that time researching the character.

Through Warner, he had arranged to observe patrol work in Beverly Hills. He was a civilian observer, not a sworn officer, and had no law-enforcement powers. The point was to learn what the job actually felt like.

People saw police officers almost every day. That didn't mean they knew much about their working lives. The familiar uniform concealed a profession whose routines remained largely invisible to outsiders.

Movies used police characters constantly, often as antagonists. Their prominence onscreen didn't necessarily make those routines any clearer.

"It's not an easy job," Christian said.

The others were watching him now. He could see that they wanted to hear about the experience.

"I saw some ugly things. And that was Beverly Hills. It's not much money for the trouble and danger that can come at you without warning."

He looked around at the people he knew.

"About two weeks ago, just before the shift ended, the officers I was with stopped a Chevrolet they wanted to check. When they approached, the driver pulled a revolver and started shooting. They shot back and killed him."

Nobody had expected a story like that. An actor researching a part had ended up near real gunfire. These people were used to controlled sets, not unpredictable traffic stops. Whether that kind of risk was worth taking for a performance was another matter.

"Then what, Chris?" Wicks Hart asked from across the table. "Did you need a change of pants?"

Christian rolled his eyes. They had spent plenty of time together on Batman Begins, where Wicks's department supplied the props he used. They knew each other well enough for the joke.

"I was scared out of my mind."

He didn't hesitate to admit it.

"You don't understand what it feels like until someone fires in your direction. The sound of the bullets going past is horrible. Nothing like watching a movie."

He paused.

"The officers were experienced. They kept firing until it was over. Afterward, when I could think again, I found out they'd recovered more than ten kilos of drugs from the car. Damn Mexicans. Are they trying to flood Los Angeles with the stuff?"

His disgust was plain. The experience had made the subject much less abstract to him.

"Easy, Chris. Don't lump everyone together," Schwartz said, tapping the table and gesturing toward the assistant director. "Guillermo is Mexican too. He's not a drug dealer. He's a good guy."

"Sorry, Guillermo. You know that's not what I meant," Christian said quickly.

Guillermo smiled and nodded, letting it pass.

"You're not a police officer, Chris."

Evan put out his cigarette. Nearly everyone had arrived.

"You've seen enough to understand something about the job. Use it, but don't let it take over. Los Angeles would have a drug problem even without Mexican traffickers."

That drew a few rueful laughs. Nobody working in this industry needed to be told that drugs were readily available in the city. Parties and professional gatherings offered plenty of opportunities to encounter them, whether or not someone chose to take part.

"All right. We're here because we fly to Boston in two days."

He tapped the table and waited until the room was quiet.

"Settle whatever you need to settle at home. Most of principal photography will be there. Expect two to three months away, and don't bring me problems you could have dealt with before we left."

His gaze moved across the department heads.

"You've all had Hector's briefing. Make sure your crews understand the risks, particularly the minority crew members who could face hostility. Keep your people out of trouble. If an incident disrupts the shoot, I'll hold the department head responsible."

He waited until he was satisfied that everyone had heard, then leaned back and turned to Hector.

"Locations and hotels are settled?"

"All set. We've coordinated with the city and signed the necessary agreements. They'll help with permitted street closures and controlling the exterior locations."

"Good."

Evan looked toward the actors, his eyes passing over Pitt and the others.

"A lot of you haven't worked with me before, so let me make this clear. No drugs on my set. If you're impaired and it affects the work, I'll enforce the contract."

As on his previous films, the cast and crew agreements included provisions covering drug use and impairment. A clause wasn't going to give the production control over everyone's private life. Nobody would be stationed outside every hotel room after hours.

For the production, the clause was leverage: disrupt the work and put your pay at risk. Anyone tempted to ignore it would have to weigh that against the consequences under the agreement.

He went over the opening schedule with the department heads, then brought the final preparation meeting to an end.

The Departed was expected to take ten to twelve weeks to shoot. A contemporary film like this might need less if everything went well.

There was comparatively little visual-effects work, which would ease the pressure on postproduction. Evan had deliberately allowed enough time on set to work through the scenes carefully. If necessary, they could spend it refining one shot at a time.

His standards for the performances would be demanding. This was not a purely commercial picture, and box-office figures were not his only goal. He intended to take it into awards season. There could be no casual compromises in the acting.

Two days passed quickly. Most of the company boarded Warner's charter flight together and left for Boston, where the real work was about to begin.