Setting Up Breakfast
Today we filmed in the director's father's house.
The director's father is also the executive producer.
And he plays a shadow in the film.
His house is located in the affluent suburb of Lucerne.
The PA's had to get the six controversial wooden tables onto the second floor, traveling over precarious porch steps and a precipitous staircase that turned 180ยบ.
The room became crowded with grips and electric before we could set up the tables.
"COMING THROUGH! CLEAR THE WAY, PLEASE!" shouted Alex.
Jimblob - a fat grip - snorted.
"I love it when a PA tries to sound important!"
To their credit, the other grips thanked us for setting up the tables.
Breakfast Officially Sucks
So the director used to work for this Italian restaurant during high school.
He swears it's the best, y'know, food or something.
They gave him a big discount to cater our breakfast during the shoot.
Here's the daily rotation: pasta w/ red sauce, Italian beef sandwiches, pizza, repeat.
Today it was pasta again.
Once again it tasted numb and forgettable.
There are currently more breakfast options in the US prison system.
I checked.
Because of the crowded quarters, Jimblob sat at the same table as the PA's.
While we ate in apathy, Mikey casually mentioned the possibility of us all working together again sometime.
Jimblob scoffed with a mouthful of food.
"Dude, once this shoot is done I'm not gonna even remember you!"
?!?!?!
Why would anyone would ever say that to someone?
Hey Jimblob.
You've got red sauce on your face and asshole sauce on your life.
No wonder no one wants to sit with you.
There Is Crying In Production
While distributing radios I realized I hadn't seen Holli since the hotel.
She wasn't at breakfast.
Smart move.
Hmm.
I opened the screen door on the production RV.
"Hey," she smiled.
Her smile looked odd.
Like it had been driven over.
"Hey, Holli."
Tears leaked from her face.
Panic.
"Oh shit," I said.
I held out a mummy arm and cautiously advanced toward her.
Her phone rang.
It was her husband.
She split toward wardrobe and I split from the RV.
Today was going to suck.
Nice People Are Stupid And Should Be Punished
While Holli cried alone in the RV, the crew played ironic P-funk from an iPhone and discoed on the side street.
An intrigued resident approached the cluster of motor homes and trucks that had suddenly overtaken the neighborhood.
"What are you guys doing?" he asked nicely.
The gaunt best boy snapped, "dancing"
They all laughed at the completely stupid homeowner loser and went back to being amazing.
Electric Games
It was getting close to 6pm.
That meant it was time to ask the gaunt hipster best boy for some power to the motor homes.
The motor homes needed to be powered up before the talent arrived.
Otherwise they had no lights, no fridge, no microwave, no TV, no heat/air conditioning, and no toilet.
Hey, let's imagine that.
"Just hang out in here till they're ready for you. Yeah, it's really dark, huh. I'll see if I can get you a flashlight so you can read your sides. Let's see. I think the TV's out right now, too. What else. All the juices are warm, and there's a tupperware of some room temperature pasta somewhere over there, I can't see. Also, there's no air circulation, but we're working on it. Oh yeah, one other thing. If you need to use the bathroom, we're going to ask you to hold it. Cool, let me know if you need anything."
I loathed this task.
It was the same thing every day.
"Hey, we're going to need to run a line for the motor homes, please."
"i have more important things to do right now" (whoosh)
So then I would have to track down Jerry, wherever he was.
And Jerry would have to tell the gaunt hipster best boy to do it.
Because he had to do what Jerry told him to do.
I thought games were supposed to be fun.
Today when the gaunt hipster best boy brushed me off, he did so by strategically yanking a cable while I stepped over it, catching my foot and causing me to stumble.
I regained my balance and began to daydream.
I imagined his passive aggressive gherkin penis turning deep purple as a stoic fieldhand strangled it with an important, important cable. I imagined his blueberry scrotum bursting into little dead morsels, and blackened blood streaming down his skinny jeans, ruining his iPhone. I imagined paying the fieldhand his $20, while the gaunt hipster best boy's final cries remain muffled by the layers and layers of gaffer's tape over his quiet, arrogant, dying mouth.
Ah, but this did not happen.
Instead, I made my way to the talent RV and screamed.
Kate from wardrobe strolled past my brief meltdown.
"Hey Kate."
Bonding
I took a walk.
On my walk I encountered Tad.
Tad was a young intern for the grips.
He usually wore old school punk rock T-shirts.
Tonight he donned a Black Flag shirt.
"Do you have a favorite Black Flag singer?" I asked, attempting to make a connection. I've always been partial to Chavo and Keith Morris myself.
"Oh, uh. I don't really have one, I guess."
I told him I liked their earlier stuff.
"Yeah, I don't really know that much about them."
"Cool."
Just wear a Human League shirt, man.
No one's going to ask you about them.
Coddling
Also on my walk I saw Holli.
I asked her if she needed any water or anything.
"No thanks."
She had put on a work face.
I placed my hand on her arm as if to say "I'm going fucking crazy."
"How are you doin'?" I asked.
"I'm fine. Just so you know, do not coddle me."
What?
Oh.
Aw man.
Holli thought I had touched her arm out of a patronizing male obligation to be sensitive around her fragile little female emotions.
"Oh, no no," I tried to clear up, "I'm just about to lose my mind."
The radios went crazy.
It was time to work.
"10-4," I said to somebody.
Holli walked to set.
Ugh.
I couldn't even communicate properly with my own friend.
Locations! Locations! Locations!
Grundler Bend had no locations manager.
Locations managers are in charge of legally securing the filming areas.
This requires permits from the city, police cooperation, signs, etc.
Jerry and Sid had taken care of all the Ft. Floyd locations.
But they had overlooked Lucerne.
So without any notice, three motor homes, two box trucks, two cargo vans, a pick up truck pulling a generator, and a dozen crew cars had overtaken a small side street.
Residents complained about the cables on their property.
Some called the police about the bright lights.
The fire department said we had to clear one side of the street, so that in case of an emergency a fire truck could get through.
I wonder what would have happened if the crew had been nice to the residents of Lucerne.
Jerry was stressed when he approached me.
"We need to clear one side of this street right now."
The grip truck and all the RV's were parked on the south side of the street.
So all cars on the north side of the street would have to move.
The catch: Residents had also parked on the north side of the street. We couldn't move those cars.
Jerry returned with a plan.
He wanted us to park the cars from the north side of the street in a city parking lot a few blocks away.
"Okay Jerry, but some of these cars aren't crew cars. I don't know how we're going to move them."
"Well, then we have to move everything on the south side!"
"But that's the grip truck and the RV's."
"WELL, SOMEBODY'S GOT TO MOVE!"
Wow.
Jerry flips out, too.
I talked to Dan in the production RV.
"I don't care what anyone says. I am not moving this RV."
So I meandered over to Jimblob who drove the grip truck.
"Hey Jimblob, bad news. The fire department says we've got to move everything on our side of the street."
"Where are we supposed to fuckin' go?"
I pointed vaguely toward some parking lot I knew nothing about.
"What the fuck?"
Jimblob spread the word on the radio.
Soon Jerry and Sid were hot in my face.
"Let's go! We've gotta move these cars!"
"Why haven't you moved these cars?"
"I'm working on it," I said.
"What's the issue?!" yelled Sid.
"Some of these cars belong to the residents!" I yelled back. "We can't move them!"
"What do you mean we can't move them?!"
The gaunt hipster best boy whooshed up to the three of us.
"what is this about having to move the jenny"
He shined his headstrap flashlight in my eyes.
Now three angry men glared at my illuminated face, demanding an answer.
I gave them all a gleeful, open mouthed smile with jazz hands.
"Meeee!!!!"
Sid yelled.
"WE JUST HAVE TO MOVE ALL THE CARS ON (THE NORTH) SIDE OF THE STREET!! WHAT IS SO FUCKING DIFFICULT ABOUT THAT?!"
"oh that's it? i thought we had to move the jenny" and the gaunt hipster best boy whisked over to his pick up truck.
I lost my smile along with my cool.
"WE CAN'T MOVE ALL THE CARS ON (THE NORTH) SIDE OF THE STREET BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT ALL CREW CARS!!"
Sid wasn't having it.
"JUST MOVE THE FUCKING CARS!!"
I began to move the vehicles that I could.
For the rest of the night, a compact car and an SUV would remain parked on the north side of the street, blocking potential emergency traffic.
Moonlight Drive
I drove a van from the north side of the street and searched for a new parking spot.
On my left I noticed one and turned around.
As I started to back into the spot, the gaunt hipster best boy's pick up came from behind and snuck into it.
I don't know why I didn't step out of the van and shoot him in the face.
Maybe I hated to see a decent headstrap flashlight go to waste.
And I don't own a gun.
I guess I knew it wasn't worth it.
So I peeled out and took a big dumb drive.
I drove around Lucerne.
It felt healthy to be away from the set.
I considered not coming back.
What would happen?
Would I never work in this business again?
Maybe.
Would that be all that bad?
No.
But it would mean giving up way too easily.
Over a few shitty hipsters and some mommy-funded blunderkinds.
It would also make Holli's life more hellish and reflect badly on her.
She had already had enough bullshit today.
I couldn't do that to a friend.
Oh, and the van I was driving.
They would probably want that back.
It was the vehicle they kept all the production tents in overnight.
After a few nights of rain, the moist tents had caused the van to smell like a giant stale sweat sock.
Even with the windows rolled down the stench was palpable.
I had to get out of there soon and face this dreaded day some more.
It wasn't even 10 o'clock.
Key Gripe
The key grip was absent today.
During filming this week, he got stung by bees.
His leg had puffed up red all the way to his thigh.
He would be out for a few days.
I went looking for more hives.
No dice.
I did find a sliver of carpet on the moho and took a nice, long fuck you nap.
Dan laid down on the couch and began moaning.
"You okay?"
"I feel sick."
He remained this way for the rest of the night.
Skate Or Die
At 4am Holli woke me up via the radio.
"Tony, come to set, please."
Ooh, maybe I was being fired!
I ambled over to the set.
"Can you run to Meijer and get a skateboard?"
Jerry handed me a credit card.
I didn't ask questions.
Meijer is like a 24 hour Walmart.
You can buy shirts, blenders, lawn ornaments, popsicles, a futon, crayons, shampoo, bird seed, a digital camera, cribs, diamond pendants, a CD burner, Christmas trees, clothespins, survival knives, a humidifier, dinnerware, gadgets for Dad, linens, Guitar Hero guitars, boots, artwork, coffee filters, pants, salad dressing, an HD TV, peat moss, household cleansers, an air pistol, a levitating globe, and loose leaf paper any time you want.
Shopping there at 4am can actually be quite soothing.
It's like having a giant Walmart all to yourself.
You get hypnotized by all the shiny goodies.
A stocker pointed me in the direction of the skateboards.
He seemed nice.
Later I found his blog about working at Meijer:
and then at like fuckin 4 this dipshit guy comes in and is like DUH I NEED A FUCKIN SKATEBOARD. and i'm like dude this is fuckin MEIJER! their over there. fuckin idiot wants to take up skating AT LIKE 4 IN THE MORNING when hes like fuckin 40 or something. HEY ASSHOLE YOUR OLD!!!!!!!! FUCK YOU FOR SHOPPING AT MEIJER!!!
Back on the set, they used the skateboard as a camera dolly.
Amos
The morning dragged.
Like a dead, lassoed outlaw through a wild west town.
Filming labored on in the dank basement of an old coach house.
Dust. Mothballs. Mold. Asbestos.
Those fortunate enough to obtain masks wore them.
Sid and I watched the action from a monitor in the garage.
"Pull fucking focus, man!" Sid yelled at the screen.
His wrath was aimed at Amos, the 1st assistant cameraman.
Amos had an Amish haircut and wore Dutch Colonial glasses.
He had been having problems focusing the camera for most of the shoot.
Many scenes had to be reshot due to blurriness.
I tried to tell Amos that they made eyewear from this century, too, but he couldn't talk to me because I was a PA and it went against his spiritual beliefs.
But he did show me a VCR that he whittled from wood.
Fire In The Cornholio
The weapons specialist had returned to conduct a safety meeting.
Today he wore a Crocodile Dundee vest with a Beastmaster hat.
He talked about guns and blanks and noise and nails.
The entire crew listened like zombies, except Dan, who laid somewhere in an RV writhing in gastrointestinal pain.
Nobody cared about anything.
It was 9am.
We were in our 16th miserable hour of work.
The defeated crew schlepped themselves down to the basement with the loaded gun.
Holli gave me the cue.
"Fire in the hole!" I announced sheepishly.
Some of the crew snickered.
"Uh huh huh huh."
Then they made fun of MTV videos and tried to get high off a frog's butt.
Can We Just Get The Fuck Out Of Here?
I'm ending this day right here.
Dan was sick.
Alex couldn't walk.
Holli was depressed.
Everyone hated each other.
The hotel still crawled with hideous manufactured garbage beauty.
By 11am we had all fallen asleep on the hotel floor in mid-grievance.
Verdict: Loss
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