At first he let the abuse slide, channeling the Buddha as he sank slowly into the creaky old couch.  As the slander went on, though, he felt more need to interject.

If it was the director’s intent to motivate her actor by lighting a fire under him, she was doing a good job.

“He used to pretend he was allergic to foods he didn’t like so he wouldn’t have to eat them.”

“That was years ago.”

“And it took you years to figure out that you couldn’t have anything that had those foods as ingredients, either.  Too bad you can’t be allergic to cake and eat it too.  What else . . .?  His favorite movies are Disney films and chick flicks.”

“The Princess Bride is not a chick flick.”

“But Love Actually?  What’s that?”

“It’s British.  It’s . . . different.  And you’re worse.  You refuse to watch anything other than indie films.”

“Independent cinema is the only true cinema.”  (As has already been pointed out, this isn’t true, but some people never listen.)  “Only outside the system are you free to make movies about real emotions, real people.  All Hollywood cares about is appealing to key demographics.  And speaking of appealing . . . my brother’s last girlfriend—”

The tiger was finally roused.  “I think I get the picture,” he said, rising from the couch and stepping back into the line of fire.  His sister returned to her position behind the camera and eyed him warily—had she gone too far?  “Let’s get rolling.”  Thankfully he was unaware that the camera had been rolling the entire time.