HOLD THE STAGE | formula 1

one - actual f1 problems

"Cut!!" The director called. His voice via megaphone overpowered the sea around. "Michael, you're supposed to aim your bottle at the engineers below! WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS!!'

Actor Michael B. Jordan rolled his eyes and turned away in frustration. Their facade fell with the last bits of red-blue confetti, halting the take with a whimpered sigh from the crew. Perfection was beginning to drive Matthew Vaughn mad, along with everyone else. That was the eighth time they had to stop production on the fantastical shot. A completely dialogue-free scene with a million moving parts for the director to pick apart, take by take.

Sommer and Sam's introductions were the main selling point for season two. Star-studded additions to the already bright cast. A rising star, and a household name, hopefully just enough to get them off Netflix's chopping block for another year.

The crew worried they were running out of champagne, Claflin had to be off set by seven, and Red Bull exec Benedict Friis had already left, walking off location to pick up his phone, everyone knowing exactly why. The producers convened briefly and agreed to take five for everyone's sake.

Sommer led the performers down off the silver platforms to their tented sanctuary, where production took camp. A dozen tall canopy tents were situated beside the outdoor stage, organized by department. She quickly escaped toward the actor's tent while the boys went other ways, feeling Melina's presence shed off her with the undoing of her racesuit. It fell to her hips, revealing a white compression top underneath, a relief from the weather and her mind.

Sommer felt nothing like her character. Melina's blunt nature and desire for thrill and danger stood in stark contrast to herself, along with the training for the role. The months of conditioning, neck-training and actual shoots in the vehicles had taken its toll. Beads of sweat dripped off her brow, and she had a permanent ache in her frame from all the force jolting her around.

Her long golden hair fell over her shoulders as she dropped into her actor's chair, people rushing to her aide, fixing her appearance and asking her for anything she wanted, but declined.

The atmosphere on set was intense. 300 people were gathered in the crowd to cheer. A mix of new faces and celebs scattered amongst, annoyed with the whole event like an actual audience. They were packed tightly together, and it would take too long for them to vacant the stands between takes. In front, Sam chatted between the barrier with a group of girls, all vying for his attention and autograph, while Michael argued with a producer at the craft table. Time was counting down, and production was pushing near sunset.

Sommer's manager pushed her way into the tent. Mary Bilthe's professional style never waned. Very uptight, in a respectable but feverish way. She wore a heavy blue button up and long black slacks, sweat stains seeping through her top, though she didn't seem to mind. The last Sommer had seen of her, she was a nervous wreck. Mary now carried a smile over her tired face, phone flashed to Sommer on approach.

"The tweet about the break is going over insanely well," she exulted.

Sommer Silva wasn't an actor by trade. She wasn't really anything at all. Her goal in life seemed to be achieving the longest Wikipedia job list in history, but she was most widely hailed a musician. The frontman of "Neon Lights," a six-piece band from Leavenworth, a small cold tourist town secluded from the rest of civilization, where everyone was born to perform. The town was known for its ski resort, christmas parades, a village goat that roamed the streets, and a pop band that fled from them.

The first big story she read about herself was when she did. They plastered her face over the local news the night after her graduation, traveling down the winding mountainside for California with her best friends, her bandmates, and never looking back. That was one thing she did relate to in Melina: starting over.