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the administration building and were knotted in the centre of actors; lights; technicians; extras; grips. Here and there a few spectators dotted the lawn, mostly Jesuit faculty. Numbers of children. The cameraman, bored, picked up Daily Variety as Thompson put the paper in his mouth and giggled, his breath reeking faintly of the morning's first gin.
"Yes, I'm terribly glad you've been given a script."
A sly, frail man in his fifties, he spoke with a charmingly broad British accent so clipped and precise that it lofted even crudest obscenities to elegance, and when he drank, he seemed always on the verge of guffaw; seemed constantly struggling to retain his composure.
"Now then, tell me, my baby. What is it? What's wrong?"
The scene in question called for the dean of the mythical college in the script to address a gathering of students in an effort to squelch a threatened "sit-in." Shirley would then run up the steps to the esplanade, tear the bullhorn away from the dean and then point to the main administration building and shout, "Let's tear it down!"
"It just doesn't make sense," said Shirley.
"Well, it's perfectly plain," lied Thompson.
"Why the heck should they tear down the building, John? What for?"
"Are you sending me up?"
"No, I'm asking 'what for?' "
"Because it's there, love!"
"In the script?"
"No, on the grounds!"
"Well, it doesn't make sense, John. She just wouldn't do that."
"She would."