Derek Dumbleton had been warned, of course. There had been the little matter of the memo, slipped across the laminate conference table at the pre-production meeting like contraband. The producer leaned in close and whispered with the air of a man handing over nuclear launch codes:

“Remember: waist-up only. Not a single frame of him below the sternum.”

At the time Derek assumed it was a metaphor—something spiritual, perhaps, the sort of twaddle cinematographers lapped up: capture the soul through the eyes, etc. It was only when he set foot on the cracked asphalt of Pineapple Studios and saw the reverence with which crew repeated the phrase that he realised the rule was brutally, prosaically literal.

Viktor Strelkov, the star, was a man of a certain vintage who carried the air of a samurai sage and the waistline of a regional pie-eating champion. Once billed as The World’s Most Lethal Human, he now emerged from the back of a black SUV with the grace of a walrus evacuating a lilo. He wore sunglasses large enough to double as windshields, a coat vast enough to house a small scout troop, and the sort of ponytail that screamed either remarkable conditioner or a brisk morning appointment with a wig-maker.

“Gentlemen,” he intoned, as his assistants fanned him like Cleopatra on a barge, “cinema is not about bodies. It is about destiny. And destiny, my friends, lies from the chest up.”

The crew, already demoralised by a 5 a.m. call, scattered like pigeons at Trafalgar Square. Derek, clipboard in hand and face damp with flop-sweat, scribbled: Camera to crop generously. Do not reveal belly under any circumstances.

**

The Sidekick and the Starlet

Among the human flotsam orbiting Viktor’s bulk were two fresh sacrifices to the altar of Silent Retribution (the working title, soon to be re-christened by Strelkov into something more eco-mystical, perhaps Whispers of the Tundra or Gaia’s Fist of Mercy):

  • Jimmy Foale, sidekick. Fresh from drama school, his only credits were three adverts for deodorant and a non-speaking role as “corpse number four” in a crime procedural. He’d been promised that partnering with Viktor would “launch him globally.” Jimmy looked like a rabbit waiting for the magician to either pull him out of a hat or serve him with mint sauce.
  • Celeste D’Argent, the love interest. Former soap star, surgically cheek-boned, convinced this gig was her passage to Hollywood. Her agent had told her she would be locking lips with the legend himself. At this early stage she had not yet discovered that Viktor’s contract stipulated no touching, no kissing, and absolutely no shots that revealed the right side of his face.

Jimmy’s first direction from the assistant director was peculiar even by film standards: “Stand two steps behind Viktor at all times, but never taller than him.” Jimmy, who had the lanky build of a flagpole, spent the rest of the morning stooping like a guilty giraffe.

**

Scene One: The Warehouse Fight

The day’s first sequence was set in a condemned warehouse, where Viktor was to battle three burly thugs. Straightforward stuff, Derek thought—a few haymakers, maybe a kick, certainly a stunt fall into some strategically placed crates.

Gaz, the stunt coordinator, lined up his trio of padded gorillas. “On my count, lads, come in swinging. Make it look rough.”

The men nodded, fists flexing. Viktor surveyed them with disdain.

“Unnecessary,” he said, his voice pitched somewhere between Gregorian chant and blocked drain.

“Sorry?” Gaz asked.

“My energy destroys them before I move.”

And move he did not. He stood there, immovable, a human bollard in sunglasses. At Gaz’s frantic hand signal the stuntmen obligingly flung themselves backwards as if smacked by an invisible sledgehammer. One careered into a stack of cardboard boxes which burst apart, showering the floor with plastic plumbing fittings. Another managed a mid-air somersault before collapsing at Viktor’s feet with an anguished groan.

Viktor nodded solemnly. “Perfect. Their bones are dust.”

Jimmy, who’d been watching from the wings, piped up with naive enthusiasm: “Can I try, Mr. Strelkov?”

Before Derek could intervene, Jimmy darted forward, took a stance, and threw himself to the ground in an elaborate pirouette that ended with his head smacking a metal pipe. The thud rang across the warehouse.

Gaz muttered something unrepeatable in a PG film as Jimmy lay twitching. “Did…did I sell it?” he gasped, blood trickling, hope blazing, like a man convinced concussion is the highest form of method acting.

Celeste, arms folded, surveyed the spectacle with arctic disdain and was trying to ascertain how this was supposed to be her breakout vehicle—what with all the nvisible kung-fu and interns giving themselves concussions.

Derek made a note for the insurance office: No contact made; casualties nevertheless numerous.

**

The Sermon

The script had gifted Viktor a single, testosterone-soaked line in the next scene: You’re going down.

Viktor waved it aside with a flick of his pudgy hand. “Too base. My character speaks truth, not clichés.”

He cleared his throat and launched into a rolling, ten-minute sermon that began with the evils of pesticides, detoured through the decline of spiritual values, and concluded with a hymn to the healing frequencies of Mongolian throat singing.

The producers, crouched by the monitors, nodded as though witnessing divine revelation. “Awards bait,” one whispered.

Celeste attempted to interject. “I had a line there. Just one. Are we—?”

“Silence,” Viktor boomed. “The people must hear.”

Derek’s biro worked furiously across his clipboard, trying to keep up. His notes read like the ravings of a cult pamphlet: Corn poison. Tree spirits. Ban denim for moral clarity.

**

Lunch Break

Lunch was served in the canteen: tepid curry, pasta bake, and something green masquerading as salad. Viktor sat alone at the head of the table like a monarch at a feast, tearing into half a roast chicken with his bare hands. Grease slicked his beard.

“Protein is destiny,” he announced.

Jimmy, perched beside him, gnawed at a celery stick with the defeated air of a condemned man. Celeste, nibbling lettuce, muttered: “My contract said romantic lead, not vegan hostage.”

By the end of the meal, Viktor’s table looked like the aftermath of a fox in a henhouse. Derek found himself writing, Star consumed 3000 calories; crew consumed despair.

**

The Chase Scene

After lunch came the chase sequence. Script said: Viktor barrels after villain through alleys, vaults obstacles, tackles prey.

Viktor declined. “Running is violence against the self.”

Solution: Shadow-Vik, a wiry stunt double with matching ponytail, shot from behind sprinting through puddles. The problem was that Shadow-Vik’s physique was trim, even athletic, whereas Viktor’s torso more closely resembled a beanbag.

The crew improvised. They dressed Shadow-Vik in a trench coat three sizes too big, draped a backpack over his shoulders, and kept the camera canted at such an angle that the screen was 40% wall.

Meanwhile, Viktor was filmed in close-up leaning against a fence, wheezing nobly. “I ran faster than light,” he whispered.

The continuity girl instantly raised an eyebrow. “How did he overtake the villain without moving?”

The producer beamed. “Mystical speed.”

**

The Love Scene

Celeste’s long-awaited moment arrived at four in the afternoon. She’d spent the day limbering, moisturising, and practising sultry gazes. The script promised passion: a desperate kiss before battle.

Viktor, however, vetoed the entire arrangement.

“Our souls kiss,” he explained, solemn as a monk. “Our bodies remain chaste in order not to drain my chi.”

The scene was re-blocked. Celeste stood three feet away, arms at her sides, while Viktor stared at her forehead with the intensity of a hypnotist. The camera framed them waist-up.

“Feel the kiss,” Viktor murmured.

Celeste felt only mortification. “This,” she hissed between takes, “is love as interpreted by the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

Derek wondered if Viktor’s chi, once depleted, could be replenished only with half a roast chicken and a large trifle, which would at least explain lunch.

**

The Climax

The finale called for Viktor to grapple the villain and hurl him through a plate glass window.

“Too violent,” Viktor announced. “I destroy with glare alone.”

Thus, after much wrangling, the solution emerged:

  • Viktor, filmed chest-up, narrowing his eyes.
  • Villain, rigged with wires, launching himself backwards through the sugar glass.
  • Insert shot of a latex hand (detached from a costume dummy) thrust into frame to suggest a shove.

The hand gag nearly derailed the entire production. First attempt: hand attached to wrong arm. Second: hand still clutched a sandwich left from lunch. Third: hand flopped into shot, dangling lifelessly like a deflated balloon.

By take five, Derek wanted to bury the hand in a shallow grave.

But Viktor, oblivious, raised one finger solemnly and declared: “That is the finger of destiny.”

The villain tumbled into the shards with a scream worthy of Adam Sandler performing the Bard. Later, at the pub, he confided to Gaz: “I launched myself through a window for a man who never stood up.”

**

The Wrap

After three days the film was declared complete. The execs clapped. The crew staggered. Viktor pronounced the project a triumph.

“Cinema is silence,” he said. “Cinema is truth.”

Derek typed his wrap report with the grim precision of a war correspondent:

Shot count: 83 close-ups.

Zero wide takes.

Fights resolved by glowering.

Chase outsourced to ponytail double.

Dialogue replaced by moralistic improvisation.

Star consumed: three chickens, half a philosophy manual.

Love scene re-imagined as stare-down.

Star emerged unscathed, both in flesh and ego.

He signed off with a sigh. We set out to make an action film, he thought, and finished with a documentary on the dangers of waistlines.

Somewhat glum, he headed off to a nearby KFC to replenish his chi, praying the Colonel had wisdom enough to serve it by the bucket.

The End

Roll Credits

© Anton Verma, 2025