Soul Deep

The director was a well-established titan of the industry. The tabloids and online forums all claimed that his best years were behind him - twenty years behind him - but there was a small contingency of influencers who thought the man was a genius. One of those influencers was his longtime producer, whose company was backing the entire production.

Seth Turner, the director in question, was focused on the scene unfolding. A woman, alone and in despair, was dancing wildly in a public park, free perhaps for the first time in her life, with crowds of people all around. But no one was watching her or even appeared to sense she was there. It was as if she was invisible, but she was the focus of the scene. The idea that Turner was trying to portray was that no one noticed beauty anymore but conveying that in a “me now” generation was tricky and complex. Seth was sweating, refusing to let his eyes leave the scene.

“And cut!”

A few seconds later the first AD called out, “first positions, we’re going again.”

Uriel had watched the scene fifty-six times so far. Turner was notorious for endless takes, but even for him that many takes was extreme. And people were beginning to notice, were muttering among themselves. The once omnipotent filmmaker was falling apart inside, and it was beginning to show in his work.

Gabriel had issued the job to Uriel the same way he had been doing for thousands of years. A little note with three pieces of information: a name, a location, and a time. That was all. Uriel would translocate to the correct time and space, listen, observe, and find his assignment. In the early days, the information was delivered by various means including carrier pigeon, notes on his door and at one point smoke signals.

With the modern era, text messaging was more normal: The name, Seth Turner, the coordinates where he would be found, and a time. In this case, eight in the morning on Tuesday.

Uriel knew who Turner was, of course. Everyone with a creative spark in their bodies did. He’d never worked with anyone on any of Turner’s films before, since the artists who worked with the great director were well established and not short on inspiration. Uriel was thrilled with the assignment. It was the sign he needed from Gabriel that Uriel was not only back in the game, but ready to be trusted with such a highly regarded soul.

To many people the loss of a film wouldn’t mean much. But Uriel knew just how important his assignment was. Not only was Seth Turner’s film on the line (not to mention the millions of dollars and hundreds of souls invested in the making of it), but also the lives and souls of his fans. They numbered in the hundreds of millions, and each one of them would be changed for the better, as they always were, when they saw one of Turner’s films for the first time.

That’s what Uriel loved most about motivating and guiding artists: it scaled so wonderfully. With each artist he inspired and led to the light, millions more - through the experience of the artist’s work - would be led there as well.

It was nothing short of blissful, and the Ultimate Muse was happy for the first time in ages.

“Stand by.”

Uriel could see that the crew was exhausted, and the muttering among the key players increased. Even the actress playing the dancer looked as though she wanted to say something, which could be career suicide for her if she did. She was young and new to the business; questioning her director during her first job was not a good idea.

“And… action!”

Halfway through the fifty-eighth take the focus puller lost his footing, bumped the camera, and ruined the shot.

“Cut!” Turner barked. “What the mother suffering fuck?”

“Sorry,” the focus puller confessed. “My bad.”

“My bad? Don’t you mean your bad? Your bad?” The director repeated, his anger rising. “And if it’s your bad, does that mean ‘yours’ in the possessive sense, as in the ‘bad belongs to me? Or are you referring to a conjunctive ‘you’re’ meaning you are the bad that’s just occurred and wrecked my fucking shot?”

The focus puller, along with everyone else on set, exchanged glances back and forth. Even Uriel was confused by the director’s rant.

“Well? Answer me. Are you the rotten apple in the barrel of my set? The root of the problem? The reason we’re all here for the seventh hour and fiftieth fucking take of the simplest focus pull in the history of making movies?”

“I… uh…” the poor fellow was starting to crack. Whipping boys get whipped, and those whips stung. He looked to Uriel, even though he couldn’t have any idea of Uriel’s presence, but like he was trying to find a place to crawl away and hide. Who could blame him?

“Which is it? ‘Your’ or ‘You’re’?” Nobody could make any sense of what Turner was yelling, but they all knew it was open season on the poor focus puller.

“Seth, let’s take a break, shall we?” The D.O.P suggested in his soft Swedish accent.

“Mind your own fucking business,” Seth screamed and turned back to his whipping boy. “Answer my question. ‘Your’ or ‘you’re’?”

“Me. Mine,” the focus puller said, salvaging his dignity. He remained calm, professional, seeing the quickest route out of this clusterfuck was to take responsibility for it all. “It’s my bad and I’m bad. Everything’s my fucking fault.”

There was a moment of silence while Turner stood still as a bull, his nostrils flaring.

“Can we just get back to work now?” The silence forced the focus puller to ask the question.

“Get off my set, you lippy little shit. You’re fired.”

The young man didn’t move.

“Did you hear me?” Seth bellowed again.

“Was that ‘your’ fired or ‘you’re fired’? It’s hard to tell the difference, you pathetic has-been. Because if you don’t know the difference, then I’d rather quit.”

“Right, let’s break for lunch,” the producer announced with the cheeriest voice he could drag up in such a tense scene. “Everyone back in forty-five.”

Uriel’s heart went out to both of them. Not only the focus puller, but Turner himself. The young man would bounce back. He was a professional and he would get more work. But Turner was deep in the muck of despair, and the entire film was at risk of collapsing around him.

The producer pulled Turner aside as the crew thankfully retired to the catering truck. Uriel followed along to silently observe.

“What’s up, Seth? That’s not like you back there. The kid made an honest mistake.”

“I know, Mike,” Seth sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. You can give him his job back.”

“He won’t want it, that’s the thing. And the rest of the crew are this fucking close to mutiny,” Mike said, holding his index finger a quarter inch away from the pad of his thumb. “Things are falling apart.”

“I’ll pull it together, don’t worry,” Seth replied, but his confidence was shot, and it was obvious. Uriel wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around the poor man.

“You damn well better,” Mike shot back. “Or else the studio will shut this down and cut their losses.”

Seth’s face turned as white as his hair, and he looked pleadingly at his producer and one of his dearest friends. “You can’t be serious. Jesus, Mike, we’ve worked together for forty years. You know me better than anyone. I always come through in the end.”

“You did, Seth. I know you did. Past tense. To be honest, old friend,” Mike said as he shook his head. “I’m not so sure now. I mean we’re already six months off schedule. It’s been delay after setback after delay. Good will, even for someone playing at your level, only goes so far. Especially with this kind of money on the line.”

Uriel watched helplessly as the old director fought back tears.

“So, what do we do?” he asked, a child lost in the shopping mall.

Mike glanced around, but everyone was steering clear of the couple. “Marketing has come up with an idea,” he muttered. “Something to throw to the wolves. It’s a bit outside the box, but they figure it just might work and buy us some time.”

“Whatever it takes, old friend. Whatever it takes.” Seth looked broken, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes puffy.

Mike pulled an envelope from inside his tailored sports coat, along with a pretty fancy pen.

“Here’s the proposal,” he said. “If you’re comfortable with the gist of the campaign, they’ll need your signature to pull the trigger.”

Seth held out his hand. “Hand me the pen. I trust you, Mike. Like I said… whatever it takes to save this sinking ship.”

Uriel watched as Seth signed the document without even looking at it. The poor man was at the end of his tether.

“Take your time, Seth,” Mike said, then nodded once, curtly, and walked away. Uriel watched as he pulled his mobile phone out. “Yeah, it’s me. Turner signed off. We’re good to go.”

Uriel stood unseen beside the director. Now that they were alone, he wrapped his invisible arms around the shoulders of the old artist and held him as he wept. Uriel couldn’t take him away from the scene, or render Seth invisible himself, but it was within the angel’s power to shield him from curious onlookers and prying eyes.

He extended his wings and folded them around the man, creating a cocoon of safety. By wrapping his arms around the man, Uriel provided comfort. By wrapping his wings around him, he provided shelter from prying eyes and hateful words.

Uriel whispered into Seth Turner’s ear as the filmmaker wept. The words were encouraging, affirming, and meant to awaken the confidence that had, for whatever reason, all but abandoned him.

Seth couldn’t physically hear the words Uriel was saying. He didn’t have to worry he was suddenly hearing ghostly voices. Uriel’s efforts were more like an antidote had been unleashed in his system; a vaccine, undetectable and untraceable, but meant to provide comfort and solace. Similar to a surge in dopamine or oxytocin from the brain. This was how Uriel and other angels worked. Slowly. Subtly. Unseen and unheard but one hundred percent present.

Mankind. So beautiful. So fragile.

Uriel wept as well. He wept for Seth and for all artists everywhere. And he wept for himself. He wept at the sheer and utter joy to be back in the land of the living, doing what he loved most.

Time passed differently for angels, artists, and all those who grieve. Forty-five minutes flew by, and soon the first AD came and tapped Seth gently, tentatively, on the shoulder.

“We’re back, Mr. Turner, and ready for you.”

Uriel unwrapped his invisible wings and arms and looked into the filmmaker’s eyes. Yes! There it was. The tiniest light of change. A glimmer of hope.

“Thank you, Matt,” Turner said, the change already evident in the tone of his voice. “I’ll be right there.”