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Monthly Archives: December 2014

AGENT COLT SHORE: DOMINO 29

29 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by Book Lover in Action Adventure, Fiction, Thriller, Young Adult

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Agent Colt Shore, Axel Avian, Domino 29, domino chain reaction, Neuschwanstein Castle. first chapter, regular guy spy, secret agent, start reading, Thriller

Colt_cover-330-expIn the Agent Colt Shore books, Axel Avian is looking to putting the fun back into saving the world. The first book, Domino 29, has gained an enthusiastic following among teens and adults alike. Why? Start reading…

AGENT COLT SHORE: DOMINO 29

PROLOGUE

I’m locked in a small chapel, an oratory, in a Gothic castle. I’m badly hurt. With me are eleven girls, dressed in color-splashed tunics, pants and chadors. They’re terrified. We have three minutes. Three minutes to escape, or be captured.

A week ago, I was a normal kid. Not a secret agent at all.

As far as I can tell, it was one of those domino chain reactions. You’ve probably seen the videos where people set up thousands of dominos in a pattern, then push the first one and watch them all go. But did you know that, with dominos, a different kind of chain reaction is possible? That a domino the size of a tiny piece of gum can knock over the next one that’s one and a half times larger, and so on, until with twenty-nine dominos, you’ve started with one the size of gum and are knocking over one the size of the Empire State Building?

castle nightHas your life ever spiraled out of control like that? Where if you had changed just one thing, one tiny thing, none of the rest of it would have happened?

Never mind one thing leading to the next that is crazier, to the next, crazier yet—and before you know it, you’re in a huge castle in the Alps, injured, chased by men with guns, trying to save twelve lives.

For me, it all started because I got a pair of drumsticks out of my backpack.

CHAPTER ONE Everything Changes

Here’s the thing: it’s tough having an older brother who’s a hero. It’s even tougher when he’s dead, because as often as you screw up, he’s never going to screw up again. He’s perfect. He’s also frozen in time at twenty-two, forever handsome—winning smile, great teeth, sparkle in his eye. I know because there’s a photo of him that’s the first thing you see when you walk in the front door. It’s why I came in through the kitchen.

All my life, I’d heard what a great tragedy it is that he’s gone. Left unsaid was what a letdown it is that I remain instead. Fifteen and awkward and unfinished.

His name was Dix, short for Dixon, and he died before I was born. I was the consolation prize. By the time I came along, my parents were older. Not only older, but slightly used up. As if they’d spent all their energy on their only son, and when their second only son came along, they had to go to the reserve energy tanks, which didn’t work quite as well. I slept in the bedroom that had been his, grew up in the same town, went to the same special save-the-world school, even had some of the same teachers, whom I imagined looked at me with sympathy rather than admiration. I was the also-ran.

Or that’s what I thought until my Uncle Don came to dinner that September Monday at our cream-colored brick home on Brent Hill in Springfield, Missouri. We had herbed chicken and rutabagas. He was a favorite uncle, never married, constantly in good humor. He was always glad to see me, always calkled me “Colt my boy,” as if “my boy” was my middle name.

They were at the dinner table having decaf coffee and angel food cake when I asked to be excused. I decided to practice my drums before finishing my homework, because Uncle Don was a music fan from back they they actually called it “rock’n’roll.” So I went to my room, cranked up the music, and sat down behind my Ludwigs to finish working out the drum part to a new song by a band I liked. I’d been through it once but I wanted a different sound. Then I remembered I had some new jazz drumsticks in my backpack.

I let the band continue to wail while I headed out to the front hall to fetch them.

Domino one.

I wasn’t sneaking, or being especially quiet. I was still digging my drumsticks out of my backpack when I heard Uncle Don say, “He’s getting pretty good on those drums. He might be good enough to play in a professional band. Has he said what he’d like to be? A professional drummer, or does he show any of his dad’s interest in being a secret agent?”

This stopped me in my tracks. My dad had never been an agent. He was an engineer.

“No,” Mom said. “Thank the Lord.”

A pause. Then Uncle Don said, “Don’t you sometimes wish his parents could see him? I think they’d be so proud.”

There was dead air. Then Mom said, pointedly, “We’ve discussed this.”

It was right about then the hall tilted. I had to put my hand out to steady myself. After a minute of gulping breath, I lurched back to my bedroom.

Click here to order and keep reading! Domino 29 is on a HUGE sale at Amazon THIS WEEK!

 #   #   #

Axel close headshotAxel Avian has traveled the world for his work. To relax, he enjoys sky and SCUBA diving, fencing, rugby, hang gliding, horseback riding, and snowboarding. He reads whenever he can, and routinely trounces opponents on video games. He would also like to note that he is humble, easily amused, and occasionally very funny.Since he is not (usually) an active agent these days, he thought it might be time to write some books in hopes of letting kids know they, too, can change the world.

 

THE WORLD BENEATH by Rebecca Cantrell

22 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by Book Lover in Action Adventure, Fiction, Thriller

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Fiction, First Chapter, International Thriller Writers, ITW, Prologue, Rebecca Cantrell, The World Beneath, Thriller

The World Beneath (Small)The World Beneath by award-winning novelist Rebecca Cantrell  is the Winner of International Thriller Writers’s Best Ebook original Novel award. What are you waiting for?   Start reading…

THE WORLD BENEATH

Prologue
November, 1949
Presidential train
En route to Grand Central Terminal, New York

Dr. Berger looked into the long dark mouth of the tunnel. This tunnel would lead to another and then another until they stopped at a secret platform under New York City’s Waldorf Astoria hotel. Only one train had permission to stop there. This one—the presidential train car. It hadn’t been used by the president since the war and, despite its original purpose, the car was surprisingly utilitarian—simple wooden cabinets, a stainless steel counter bearing four liquor decanters, and leather chairs bolted to the floor.

He clutched his precious briefcase with nervous fingers. The train had almost arrived at its destination, and nothing had gone wrong. Yet.

Darkness engulfed the train car as it pulled inside. The train slowed to a crawl. To see why, Dr. Berger adjusted his round spectacles and peered through bulletproof glass so thick that it had a green cast. Dim, electric lights hanging from the ceiling revealed a field of silver tracks merging together again and again as the tunnel narrowed. The engineer had slowed to switch tracks. The car was deep underneath the city now. Close.

He cast a sidelong glance at his sole traveling companion: the uniformed soldier who was tasked with protecting him and the secrets he carried. What did he know about the man?

What was there to know? The man sitting straight-backed and alert with a Thompson submachine gun flat across his lap was merely an ordinary American soldier. A soldier much like the one who’d taken Dr. Berger prisoner in Bavaria a few years before. Another square-jawed man with close-cropped hair whose narrow eyes told Dr. Berger how much he hated all Germans. Of course he did—because of the war. These American soldiers held him personally responsible for all the deaths caused by Hitler’s madness, as if these soldiers could have influenced Roosevelt’s decisions themselves, as if his adherence to orders was so different from theirs.

In the end, he had defied his superior’s orders when he’d packed up his notes and gone to meet his destiny on a train not unlike this one, fleeing west, praying only to surrender to the Americans and not the Russians. He’d been lucky. The troops who’d stopped his train were sturdy and well-fed, chewers of gum and crackers of jokes—American through and through. Their orders regarding high-level scientists were clear, and they hadn’t mistreated him.

They’d brought him to the United States, interrogated him respectfully, and paid him a good salary to continue his research. They’d even retrieved his yellow parakeet, Petey, and the upright piano he had inherited from his father. His specialized knowledge had put him in the president’s own train car on a special and secret mission that would change the future.

Funny how things turned out.

“Near now,” Dr. Berger said.

The soldier jerked his head. Almost a nod, but not quite. The man had probably been given instructions not to speak to him. As kind as they seemed, the doctor doubted his American colleagues trusted him. A mutual state. The wounds from the war had not had time to heal.

Dr. Berger’s fingers tapped out a song on his briefcase, but instead of helping him play music, the notes in its leather interior helped him to play the human mind. The trials were promising indeed, though protocols in the United States were more complex than they had been in Germany. Here he spent too much of his time talking about safeguards, about how to minimize risk and wondering if his funding would be canceled.

He hadn’t worried about such things in Germany.

The SS valued only results.

He tilted his head, certain that he had heard a familiar sound. The clacking of steel wheels against track filled his ears. The reassuring rhythm told him that every second brought them closer to their destination. He closed his eyes and relaxed.
The sound came again—like Petey’s soft warble when he tapped his mirror with his rounded beak. This sound wasn’t quite the same. Seeking its source, he scanned the front of the car. A small hand emerged from behind the door of a cupboard at the front of the car, and tiny brown fingers with dark nails groped the frame.
“Gott im Himmel!” The precious briefcase slid unnoticed to the floor as the doctor sprang to his feet and brushed past the startled soldier. The little hand vanished behind the wooden door as if it had never been there. But he had seen it.
Dr. Berger lurched toward the cupboard. It was impossible. It couldn’t be there. It must not be there.

“Come out, little one.” He eased the door to the side. Its nerves were probably on edge, too, and he had no wish to startle the creature.

The soldier stood behind him, gun trained on the half-open cupboard. “What’s in there, doc?”

So, he could speak.

Dr. Berger reached inside the cabinet with one cautious hand while speaking in a gentle singsong voice. “No one will hurt you. We are all friends here.”
Leathery fingers curled around his wrist, and a slight weight dropped onto his forearm. Slowly, he pulled the creature out.

“A monkey?” asked the soldier.

Not just any monkey. The animal on his arm was a female rhesus monkey. Short brown fur covered her plump body, except for the inverted pink triangle of her face. Huge brown eyes stared up into his.

“Do I know you?” Dr. Berger crooned.

He touched her soft ear and felt for a tag punched through the cartilage. His heart sped with fear, and the monkey tensed, too. He took a deep breath and hummed a few bars of Eine kleine Nachtmusik to calm them both. With one hand, he tilted her to the side to study the small piece of metal that would determine his fate.
The orange tag bore the number sixteen. The worst of all.

He wanted to throw her out the window, as far from him as possible, and pretend he’d never seen her. He could. The soldier didn’t know what the tag meant. She’d have a few days, perhaps weeks, of precious freedom before she succumbed, and he would be safe.

“How’d a monkey get in here?” The soldier seemed charmed by the little creature. “He’s a cute little guy.”

“It is a female monkey.” As if that mattered.

The thick bulletproof windows had a complicated latch, but the soldier would undo it for him, if he asked. He could not ask. He was a scientist first. This monkey must never be freed. Indeed, she must be contained at all costs.
Because she was infected.

She’d been infected only a few days before, but the infection ran its course quickly in primates. The danger already swam in her rich red blood. Incurable.

He remembered her now, recognized the distinctive shock of golden fur above her brows. She had been the most docile of animals, before. But she might not be docile now. He must not agitate her.

“Find a cage,” he said quietly.

He stroked a finger along her warm cheek, and she followed the movement with round eyes the same shade of brown as the soldier’s. Smiling, he hummed to her, while she relaxed in his arms. He drew her close to his chest and cradled her like a baby. She reached up and left an oily smudge across the right lens of his glasses.
The soldier looked blankly around the car. The doctor watched him go through the cupboards with methodical efficiency. The young man pulled out paper, pens, liquor, snacks, a towel, but nothing to contain the monkey.

If they could not imprison her, they would have to kill her. The doctor could have done it easily, but a deep wound ran along the palm of his hand where he had cut himself yesterday when slicing bread. If the monkey’s blood entered his cut, he might become infected, too.

“You must kill her.” He lifted the animal up toward the soldier. She weighed about five and a half kilos—he translated the metric measurement because he was in America now—twelve pounds, not much more than a human newborn.
“It’s only a monkey.” The soldier made no move to take the warm furry body.
“Take her,” the doctor ordered.

The monkey’s eyes widened as if she knew what he intended. Lightning fast, she sank her teeth into the doctor’s thumb. Her sharp canines grated against his phalange bone, and his grip weakened. She squirmed free of his wounded hand and landed on the floor on all fours like a cat.

Holding his bloody hand, the doctor stumbled back against the wall of the car. He cursed. Pain throbbed through his thumb, but that was not the worst of it.
A harsh screech rose from her throat. His blood dripped from her bared fangs and fell onto the floor. She trembled and swiveled her head from side to side as if she saw enemies everywhere. She probably did.
While the soldier gaped at the angry creature, gun lax in his hands, she leaped onto his knee and climbed him like a tree, little hands and feet gripping the folds of his uniform. When she reached the top of his head, she leaned down to sink her teeth into his ear before leaping off his head and grasping a light fixture hanging from the ceiling of the car.

Nimble and quick, she swung along the wire toward the back door. The soldier’s bullets stitched a neat line behind her, never quite catching up. Bullets ricocheted around the car, and both men dove to the floor.

When they stood, the monkey had disappeared.

The soldier cupped the bite on his ear, and Dr. Berger gripped his bleeding thumb.
“We may be infected,” Dr. Berger said. “We must follow protocols.”

The train engineer’s surprised face stared at them through the thick glass window separating the engine from their car. The engineer was protected from them, and from the monkey. He lifted a black object with a curly cord. His radio. Good. He would explain what had happened, and proper protocols would be in place when they arrived. The danger would be contained.

Dr. Berger nodded his approval, and the man turned around again.

The doctor lifted the heavy top off a cut glass decanter that stood next to the compact steel sink, and the harsh smell of gin billowed out. That would do. He sloshed gin over his thumb. The alcohol burned like acid in his open wound, but it was not to be helped. It ran down the drain, colored pink with his blood. He tore a strip from the bottom of his white lab coat and used it to fashion a crude bandage for his thumb. Then he cleaned and dressed the soldier’s wound, slow and fumbling because of his bandaged hand.

The monkey stayed hidden, and neither of them attempted to find her.

The soldier put down his gun and poured them each a glass of gin. He pointed to the bottle of vermouth, and Dr. Berger shook his head. The soldier didn’t bother with any, either. Some things called for liquor straight up.

The gin burned a warm trail down his throat. His aching thumb would heal, and the chances of cross-species infection were minor. It was a mere inconvenience, but they would both have to be quarantined for a few weeks to make certain. Fortunate, indeed, that he had brought his notes. Perhaps the time in isolation would let him truly concentrate. At least there he would be spared the drudgery of meetings. He drained his glass, and the soldier filled it again.

The train jerked to a stop. Dr. Berger peered into the gloom. The row of orange light bulbs hanging from the ceiling cast faint light on ten armed soldiers standing in formation around the car—four on each side and two behind. These soldiers looked like the soldier inside the car, except that their Thompson submachine guns were raised and pointed at the train.

With his hands raised above his head and a meek expression plastered on to his face, Dr. Berger stood. He knew how to surrender. He walked toward the back door, to open it and explain to them they had nothing to fear from him or from the soldier.

“Don’t open the door, sir,” barked one of the outside soldiers.

Dr. Berger stood still and called through the door. “It is not airborne. You could only be infected by transfer of blood. There is no danger.”

The soldier kept his weapon up.

Clanking at the front of the car told the doctor that a worker was unhooking the engine, but he could not see him. Half the lights were burnt out. Postwar rationing.
He’d have to wait until an intelligent man arrived to whom he could explain the situation properly. In the meantime, he sat and drank more gin while a new engine pushed their car down the tracks from behind after the old engine had left. There would be time to explain when they reached their destination.

He hoped.

A spike of paranoia rose in his brain, but he quashed it. He posed no threat to these men, and they posed no threat to him. They were no Nazis. Human life mattered to them.

The engine pushed his blue railroad car into a dead-end tunnel, then pulled away.
Darkness cloaked the car at the back and on both sides. He stared at the mouth of the tunnel. Soon they would send a doctor to whom he could explain the risks, and they would be released into quarantine.

Lit from behind by the lights strung from the ceiling, the silhouette of a tall man moved in front of the men with guns. The tall man carried a triangular blade and a bucket. A smaller man carrying the same curious items walked behind him. Were they setting up to disinfect the car with chemicals from their buckets? That was unnecessary, and they must know it. They wore blue overalls like workmen, not white lab coats, so they must be here to perform a different task.

Dr. Berger pressed his face against the cold bulletproof glass to watch.
The first man fumbled with rectangular objects on the ground, covering them with something from the bucket and slapping them with his blade. He’d already completed one row before the doctor realized what they were.
Bricks.

The two men were walling them in.

The gin burned through his system in an instant. Blind panic replaced it.

He yanked open the train door and jumped onto the tracks. Dank underground air hit him like a wall. The soldiers standing outside the shed raised their guns to point at him.

The bricklayers gave him frightened looks and increased their pace.

“There is no risk,” the doctor said. “None. You are all safe.”

He took another step toward the soldiers, tripping on a train tie.
“Don’t move, sir,” said a voice behind him.

He faced the soldier he had been drinking with a moment before. The man stood on the steps of the train, gun leveled at the doctor’s chest. Blood had seeped through the makeshift bandage on his ear, but his dark eyes were determined.

“We are ordered to stay here. We must stay,” the foolish soldier said.

“Those are bricks.” The doctor pointed a white-clad arm at them. Already there was a second row. “They wall us in here now.”

The soldier stared at the bricklayers as if he had never seen one. Perhaps he hadn’t. He was young.

“We will follow orders,” he said.

The men worked quickly and methodically—laying in a brick, covering it with mortar, and adding another next to it. If he ever built another house, he would want to hire them. He pulled himself together—his mind could not be allowed to wander, not now.

“We will die in here,” the doctor said. “Together with that damned monkey.”

The soldier lowered his weapon a few degrees.

That was enough. Dr. Berger walked toward the light.

“These are not the correct protocols,” he called. There was no scientific reason to brick him in here. His heart sank. There might be political ones.

“Don’t take another step, sir.” This time, the soldier who spoke was on the other side of the bricks. His weapon aimed straight at the doctor’s chest. The doctor did not doubt that the man would shoot him.

Already, the wall was up to his knees.

“I am an important man,” the doctor said. “I come on the orders of your president. In his very own car. Do you not see his seal?”

The soldiers didn’t seem to care about the seal. Dr. Berger waited precious seconds while more bricks were fitted into place. They did not understand him. They would not. They were burying him and his research. Something had gone wrong, and it had nothing to do with the errant monkey. Someone wanted him out of the way. His research was unpopular in certain circles. His enemies were burying it—and him along with it.

He spoke to the soldier he had just tended. “Give me your weapon.”

The man looked between the German doctor and his American compatriots beyond the wall. His loyalty was clear. “No, sir.”

“Do you want to die in here?” The bricks had reached waist height and climbed higher.

“If those are my orders.” The young man looked shaken but resolute. There was no time to win him over.

Dr. Berger would not die in the darkness here. He must find out who had put him here. He must escape. He sprinted toward the growing wall, keeping low.
The soldier outside opened fire.

A bullet ripped into the doctor’s shoulder near his neck. Another tore a bolt of fiery pain through his leg. He fell heavily to the hard ties. Steel track struck his temple. Warm blood ran down one cheek. Full darkness blinked in his head, but he fought it.

He must keep his wits about him.

His broken eyeglasses fell to the ground as he crabbed toward the entrance, using his good arm and leg. The smell of his own blood filled his nostrils like water filled those of a drowning man. He gagged on it, spit onto the wooden ties, and crawled forward.

They could not kill him. He was an important man. A doctor.

As a doctor, he must stop the bleeding in his neck, must assess the damage to his leg. But he was an animal first, and if he did not reach the ever-narrowing crack of light, his wounds would not matter.

Another row of bricks was added. Already, he would have to stand to climb through it. If Petey were here, he could have flown to freedom. The thought of his small yellow body flashing through the room and out into the light cheered him. Petey flying free.

Weakening with each motion, he dragged himself one body length, then another, until he reached the base of the newly built wall. The odor of wet cement overpowered the smell of blood. It reminded him of the summer he built his house, after he was appointed head of his research lab at the beginning of the war, when everything had seemed possible.

He grunted in pain as he hauled himself upright. His good leg took his weight, and his fingers found holds in the wet cement slopped between the bricks.

Then the light vanished.

The last brick was in place.

# ##

Keep Reading!

Download THE WORLD BENEATH from Amazon and keep going!

cantrell_150pixcolorNew York Times bestselling author Rebecca Cantrell’s novels have won the Bruce Alexander and the Macavity awards and been nominated for the Barry, Mary Higgins Clark, APPY, RT Reviewers Choice, and Shriekfest Film Festival awards. She and her husband and son just left Hawaii’s sunny shores for adventures in Hannah Vogel’s hometown–Berlin.

Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Cantrell

No part of this work of fiction may be copied or distributed from this blog without express permission of the author.

Actor David Oyelowo [Selma] on the Importance of the Long Game

15 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by Book Lover in Hollywood, Non-Fiction

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acting, acting school, David Oyelowo, Golden Globes, Jr. . Acting advice, Martin Luther King, Selma

David Oyelowo pic

Interstellar. A Most Violent Year. Lee Daniels’ the Butler. Jack Reacher. Lincoln. The Help. Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Is there anyone who doesn’t want to work with this actor? But not that many years ago, David Oyelowo’s phone wasn’t ringing. “Acting jobs seem to follow the pattern of buses in New York City,” he says. “None come at all, then six arrive at once.”

[If you’re serious about acting or succeeding in any field] you can’t just turn up from a small town where you were the big fish in the little pond and expect to make it in the big city. Good looks and the fact you played Annie in school will not get you very far in Hollywood, New York or London. You must train! The people I see having success and long careers are people who, in any profession, put in the time. There’s a lack of respect for what goes into being a good actor. A lot of people think that if you can learn lines and say lines without fumbling in front of a camera and you work out a lot, you’re good to go. It’s not true. You may get one opportunity or two; but you will be found out quickly, and you will not have a long career.

Keep your eyes on the long game. It can actually be detrimental to get your biggest opportunities early on. You want to build slowly. If you do that great, big, successful thing, the Hollywood machine will want you to do that same thing again and again and again.

After I played Henry VI [at the RSC in England], I began being referred to as a classical Shakespearean actor. That’s a fantastic label for any twenty-four-year-old actor. But the thing I needed to do straightaway was challenge that perception. So I took a TV show, a spy show called MI-5.

When I was very young–and this was a sort of naive audacity coming through, but it was absolutely right–I told my agents, “Put me up for things that are not race-specific.”

They said to me, “But casting directors stipulate! They say they want ‘young, black, twenty-two, rough around the edges,’ whatever…” And I said, “I’ll go up for those, absolutely. But if they say, ‘young, white, twenty-two,’ put me up for that role, also.”  Some agents actually laughed at me when I said this. I didn’t go with them. I held out until I found an agent who believed in me enough to put me up for many kinds of parts. It paid off, because one of the roles he put me up for was Orlando in Kenneth Branagh’s As You Like It, and I got it!

Now, I’m not saying I won’t play race-specific roles. But if it’s going to be a caricature, if it’s going to be about being a gangster or a criminal or a stereotypical thing, then you will not find me anywhere near it. If it’s a three-dimensional character who is saying something other than “I am black” in every scene, I’ll do it. It’s very important for me as an actor to continue to challenge the perception of the audience. You’ve got to keep the employers guessing as well; that’s when they’ll consider you for anything and everything. I remember hearing that early in Denzel Washington’s career, he said to his representation, “I want you to send me all the scripts that Harrison Ford turns down. Those are the things I want to do.” And it’s paid huge dividends for him.

David Oyelowo 5 111

photo Eric Williams/DR photo

If I got the lead in some kind of studio tent-pole type film, it may well be a great payday, may be fantastic exposure, may be fun–and I love action. I love getting to run around and do boy stuff. But it’s never going to come close to playing Martin Luther King, Jr., just in terms of the levels of challenge and depths of emotion and soul-searching and research and interviewing of extraordinary people. That’s the zenith. That’s the absolute height in what you aspire to do. But having said that, there is never a role to which I give anything less than 100 percent of my attention and ability. I will never coast, because I’ve seen actors who do, and you can tell, especially if they’ve done good work before. You watch them, and you can see that they don’t want to be there. They’re phoning it in. This job was a paycheck. I never want to be that guy.

For me, what works is doing the research on the character, reading the books, taking the dialect classes, reading or listening to interviews, just jamming it all into my brain, then practice, practice, practice–and let it go. On the day you’re filming, you trust the the combination of your preparation and the other actors, the director, and being there in the costume in the right setting, hopefully, will allow the action to happen.

For me, this process is all built on theatrical training. In the theater, you tend to have a minimum of four weeks rehearsal, so you know the character back to front, and you have a muscle memory of what the character feels like so that you can walk from the wings onto the stage and be taken over by the character. And that, by and large, is how I approach film. Do the work beforehand, and do it rigorously. You’ll never find someone more obsessively voracious than I am in terms of imbibing as much information as I can before I am on set; and then, by the time I’m there, there’s no question in the world you would be able to ask me that I won’t be able to ask in character.

Read a lot more from David Oyelowo: Click here to buy the book from Amazon, and keep reading!

Interview by Chris Willman

About the book:

NYTM_Actors_71Now You Tell Me! 12 Actors Give the Best Advice They Never Got is chock-full of insider advice about acting and having a successful life while being an actor. It features MUCH more backstage and insider advice from David Oyelowo, Pauley Parette, Sam Waterston, Eden Sher, and many more. Grab it today on a special sale for either the actor or the theater/television/movie fan in your life! (The ebook is enhanced and is stuffed full of even more photos, links, and videos.)

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