Fiennes and Dandy -by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, Eating, ~SWG)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BHM, Eating, ~SWG - an actor plumps up for one role, and find its suits another quite well.

Fiennes and Dandy
by Big Beautiful Dreamer​

[Note: Someone recently posted asking for a celebrity WG with Paris Hilton. I can't quite get into her head ... not without a good tour guide ... but a recent viewing of the "Schindler's List" DVD reminded me of someone who had gained weight for a role. Hmm, what if......?]

Francesca padded out of the bedroom, toweling her hair. “Tell me again, how much does he want you to gain?”

Ralph looked up from the script. “Thirty pounds.”

“Well, whatever worked for ‘Schindler’s List,’ just do it again,” Francesca replied.

Ralph met her gaze. “That was twelve years ago.”

“So?”

“It’s a lot harder to take that 30 pounds back off than it was then.”

Fran kissed the top of my head. “One step at a time.” She headed into the kitchen. “How much time do you have to put it on?”

“Er, two months.”

Fran gasped. “That’s not much time, is it?”

Ralph joined her in the kitchen. Letting a slow smile spread across his face, he opened his arms wide. “Bring it on,” he said. “Pasta with cream sauce, lots of Guinness, whatever worked for ‘Schindler.’ I’ve got to hurry.”

“Well,” Fran said briskly. “Best get to work.”

Two hours later, Ralph was leaning back in his chair, groaning and rubbing a swollen and aching belly. His normally trim waist bulged with more than a pound of pasta and prawns, cream sauce rimmed his lips, and a couple of pints of Guinness sloshed in his bulging stomach. He attempted to stretch, but he was so stuffed it hurt to raise his arms. Very gently, he pressed a hand to his midriff, stretched tight as a drum, and succeeded in coaxing up a belch. “Oof,” he grunted. “This better work.”

Fran came up behind him and massaged his full tummy. “It’s a start,” she reminded him. “You’ve got to keep it up.”

Ralph groaned at the thought. “Right now all I want to do is lie down.” He grunted with effort as he shoved back the chair and stood. He winced as his aching belly sloshed heavily, nearly throwing him off balance. He stumbled into the parlor and sank into his favorite wing chair, putting his feet up on the footstool.

Without thinking, he slid a hand into his waistband to ease the discomfort of its pinching. While he was down there, he undid the button, belching again. He slid into a doze without quite realizing it.

In the morning, he was roused by the scent of bacon. Bacon! That wasn’t something he normally smelled in the house. Yawning and scratching his belly (was it a little soft?), he ambled into the kitchen. “Morning,” he mumbled, burying his face in Fran’s tumble of hair.

“Morning. Have a seat.” With her pancake turner, she gestured to the table. “Breakfast in a minute.”

“Mmf.” Ralph made a face. He didn’t usually eat breakfast.

“I know. But you’ve got to gain.”

“Yes, yes.” Ralph poured tea from the pot into his favorite cup, then sat down.

A moment later, his eyes widened as he saw what Fran was putting in front of him. Bacon, sausage, pancakes and a large bowl of soft-boiled egg prepared with butter, salt and pepper. She leaned over and poured a generous stream of syrup over the cakes, then sat down beside him with her own single pancake and soft-boiled egg.

“Enjoy,” she said, lifting her fork in an ironic toast.

Ralph rolled his eyes, but dug in.

Half an hour later, incredibly, the plate and bowl were wiped clean and he’d mopped up both the syrup and the egg with several slices of toast. Ralph tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Ugh (urp). I may never move again.” He hiccupped. “Oof.”

“What are your plans for today?” Fran asked, ignoring his grousing.

Ralph belched again. “Study my lines.”

“Need help?”

“Not yet.” He squeezed her hand.

It wasn’t easy, but Ralph managed to stay on schedule. The only way to gain that much that fast was to stuff himself to bursting around the clock. Of course, that also meant that he was uncomfortably full most of the time. He sat and learned his lines – he ate – he slept – and not much else. Over the ensuing eight weeks, of course, he put on weight.

He could both see and feel his face becoming plumper, with pads of fat under his eyes and a new fullness in his cheeks. His chin softened and began to sag into a second chin. His chest softened, a combination of less exercise and a lot more food. He felt a new flabbiness in his backside and his thighs were getting bigger. But most of the weight seemed to be going straight to his burgeoning belly. His waistline was perceptibly thicker and love handles perched above the waistband of his larger pants – which were becoming snug. He could see a definite pot belly forming, then growing. No question, if this was what they wanted – well, they’ve got it, he thought.

When he reported to the set, the director was noticeably pleased. “Good God, Ralph,” he said. “You’ve packed it on.”

“As ordered,” Ralph said, raising his eyebrows. Was the sodding director going to change his mind?

“Good, good,” the director said absently, his mind already on the next problem. “Fine. They’re waiting for you in wardrobe.”

Wardrobe had proved to be a humiliating experience. Ralph had managed to avoid looking in the mirror until now, but there was no escaping mirrors in Wardrobe, they were everywhere. Instead of the trim, lightly tanned actor’s body he was accustomed to enjoying, the bright lights and gleaming reflections showed pale, sagging flesh; he was no longer Ralph Fiennes, head-turning award-winning actor – he was Average Tubby Bloke.

Ralph sighed heavily and raised his arms so the underpaid sub-assistant could measure his chest.

Filming went uneventfully, though a number of the scenes required, Ralph thought, more takes than usual because he simply wasn’t accustomed to moving around with an extra 30 pounds on him.

It was off the set that life was less uneventful. The media knew perfectly well that he’d gained weight for the role, just as George Clooney had packed it on for “Syriana” – and they went after him, just as they’d gone after Clooney. Pictures, tabloid headlines, gossip bits. “Round Ralph,” read one tabloid headline; “Ralph Gets Rotund,” read another. Photos were shot from the most unflattering angles possible.

“Ralph Fiennes has put on the pounds for his latest role,” Us magazine reported breathlessly. “The double chin and spare tire are all part of the Method approach that won the formerly handsome Brit an Oscar for his role as Nazi soldier Amon Goeth in ‘Schindler’s List’ and a Tony for his Broadway turn as Hamlet. Danish ham, anyone?”

Ralph crumpled the news sheet and threw it disgustedly into the bin in his trailer. “Formerly handsome.” Thanks a lot!

Francesca, for one, didn’t seem to mind. Tired as he was when he came home, she was meeting him with a hot dinner – a large dinner – and the only kind of exercise he was getting these days, the bedroom kind. His sex life, which had become so boring that he had been finding himself seriously looking elsewhere, suddenly spiked. And, oddly enough, it was his extra flesh that seemed to appeal to her. Fran loved cuddling his gut, which she called the “Fiennelet,” squeezing his softer backside, nuzzling his chin, er, chins.

The filming finally wrapped. “The premiere won’t be for several months,” the director said pointedly. “Time enough for you to lose … that.” He nodded in the direction of the Fiennelet.

Skinny little git, Ralph thought. He’d actually become attached to the extra weight, no pun intended. And his relationship with Francesca, which had been THIS CLOSE to hitting the rocks, was tighter than ever. But so long as he was plumper, the scripts would dry up fast. There were plenty of middle-aged actors chasing the good roles, and the competition was stiff enough when he was at his best.

Was he at his best … well … fatter? Francesca had pouted when he’d barely nibbled at the dinner she’d served.

“Filming’s over,” he reminded her. “Time to take it off.”

“But I love the Fiennelet.”

“I know,” Ralph said. He cleared his throat. “Um, maybe I don’t have to be in quite such a rush.”

That was the right thing to say.

The tabloids turned. Their indulgent tone, the reminders that the 30 pounds Ralph had put on was “just for a role,” vanished. “The movie’s in post-production, Round Ralphie,” one mocked. “Time to lose the pot.”

“King Ralph?” jeered another, a reference to the portly John Goodman’s comic movie.

“Easy to put on … hard to shed,” said another dryly. “Once a head-turner, Ralph Fiennes is looking distinctly tubby these days. He seems to be finding it harder to lose the movie poundage than he did a dozen years ago. Then, he packed it on for his Oscar-winning role in ‘Schindler’s List’ and pared it off with seemingly little effort. Age seems to be catching up with the British actor, who’s being seen-about-town with longtime squeeze Francesca Annis – and looking pretty thick about the tuxedo.”

“I happen to like you ‘thick about the tuxedo,’” Fran pointed out when she saw that one.

“You might like me less if I become an unemployed actor,” Ralph pointed out. “My skills waiting at table are a little rusty.”

“Your skills on the other side of the table are just fine,” Fran said, giving him a squeeze. "And wse''re hardly destitute."

“Hmph.”

Oddly, though, the scripts didn’t dry up. There were fewer leading-man parts, but there was no shortage of roles, and he thoroughly enjoyed voice-over parts, including the part of a villainous SUV in “Cars 2” and the part of the possum daughter’s suitor in “Over the Hedge 2.”

“Thank God for animated sequels,” he groused goodnaturedly to Fran one night in bed.

“Thank God for the role that made you big,” she replied drowsily, snuggling into his nicely padded belly.

 

[FreneticFangs]

 

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]