Kayden Kross Blog
Something about lemonade...
I cannot drink lemonade today. I could not drink lemonade on Sunday either. The days in between were fine. Not that I care about lemonade. I don't like sweet drinks unless they're carbonated and full of cancer warnings and made by brands that have more sway than heads of states. I just find lemonade to be a convenient benchmark.
It was technically an Arnold Palmer that did it. Half lemonade half iced tea. I think you're probably a big deal to have a drink made after you, Mr. Palmer. I don't aspire to that. Mostly because a drink named after a porn star would probably consist of at least a few health code violations, and then expire quickly. Like things from Whole Foods. It's shocking when you see how quickly things were meant to go bad.
So this Arnold Palmer happened on a horse trail like all of my epiphanies. This was Sunday. My riding partner had the drink in a flask and there was some jumbled story about where the whiskey went and either way it didn't matter. My throat and the dry burn I couldn't shake is what mattered. So I drank from his kid friendly flask and then I threw it down in shock when the chords stung. It was like salt in a wound. I couldn't explain it.
Rewind three hours from there. There's this thing called ADR that Hollywood likes to do in post production to clean up the audio. Basically you have to dub your own lines with your lines. It is incredibly rough. There is timing and inflection and tone and it must be done perfectly in place so that when your mouth moves your separate studio-recorded words come out without a hitch. Try being exactly the same person at two points in time. Impossible.
But Sunday's ADR wasn't so bad, because my line was simply a blood-curdling scream. Granted, the scream had to be the right length of time for my open mouth, and the pitch and urgency had to convey the horror that I was beholding. Fake blood everywhere. Viscera. There was a goblin. It took any number of takes to get it right. I did. I screamed because it is my gift. I can hit terrible notes. I can make people believe in emergencies. I can blow out sound. I am a screamer.
When I drank the Arnold Palmer what I tasted on the back of my tongue was blood. I can scream until I slit my own throat.
Like all of my epiphanies, I quickly forgot about it. Fast-forward to today. More ADR. This time for an Indie movie that I swear to god will release, one day, before I die, because I've made deals with Satan to this effect. Not really. I don't need another person telling me I can't reference Satan because I'm an atheist. You know what? Satan. Satan satan satan satan satan. And god too.
Today was a whole movie's worth of dialogue. It was mostly fast paced whispers because I, Tara 1 and Tara 2, am not well. I/we am/are terribly addicted to a made up drug that is inhaled from what looks like maybe a futuristic hookah but is really a soldering iron that they forgot was real when they plugged it in and asked me/us to suck on the end of it. I really got into the character.
Tara 2 especially likes to whisper quickly. But her other speed is screaming. When it came to that the technician moved the mike back and said, Go. I went. The director stood up like a conductor and waved his hands with special flair. He said, More. I did. He said, crazier. I did. He said, great. Then he said, now more. And I did.
I taste blood.