by Nick Cole
For the rest of the hour, the Great Director listened to such hits as “Sometimes I Don’t Love You Anymore,” “Pittsburgh Blues,” “Real Bad Things I Have Done,” “Now I Have Nothing,” and “Read My Lips, Woman.” He drove around his neighborhood for the last ten minutes as the show ended in a final interview with Bones, recorded in studio live ten years earlier. Bones picked out a simple rhythm on his guitar, then plucked a few whiny strings as he spoke. It wasn’t a song in the classic sense, just Bones talking about the life of a blues man. His voice was a deep bass grumble, broken only by a wheezing laugh that often ended in a coughing fit as he recounted the comedies, and tragedies, that were his whole entire life.
Again he said the words the Great Director had been waiting for, though he did not know it at the time. They were what he had been waiting to hear. What he felt he needed to hear. Bones said:
“Life for a blues man is never simple. All the time, ’specially nowadays, people, rich ones, young ones, life’s fulla problems already for ’em. They come ta the shows and at the end they says, maybe I chose wrong. I think I’d be happier a-doin’ whatchu’s doin’, Bones. I has to laugh ta myself when they says that, ’cause they don’t know about not gittin’ paid, long nights on buses, what eggs and toast in the mornin’ tastes like after a night fulla bad gin and cheap cigarettes. Not havin’ any family and makin’ your lady so mad atcha all the times.”
Off mic someone asks an inaudible question as Bones continues with his guitar. Picking out a wry little bright stringy blues romp.
Then Bones is back at the mic after his one-of-a-kind wheezing laughs. “I did it ‘cause I had the blues so bad for so many years and everyone knew it ’cept me. Then one day, I jes’ knew it. Then it wasn’t so bad. I jes’ played what I felt, and when all them other things got too rough, you know, life and bills, mainly the women, well I jes’ lit out onto the road. By the time I got back, things were either so messed up that they could not be fixed, or they’d fixed themselves, and usually my lady was gone by then, which is just about perfect fo’ a bluesman, specially when it comes time to lay down some tracks in the studio. Either way, there comes a time when you jes’ got to take your troubles out there on the road.”
The Great Director liked that.
“You jes’ got to take your troubles out there on the road,” he whispered to himself as he drove ’round the streets near his house.
Take your troubles out there… on the road.
Staying in town was only helping the production and making things worse. Maybe he needed to escape now. Not later. Escape right now, except this time he would take the production with him.
Escape once and for all. Finally.
***
On Friday afternoon, the Great Director, with the help of Scott the AD, gathered the crew together for an announcement. Most were expecting some sort of way-to-go keep-your-eyes-on-the-prize type of speech.
“Listen everybody, great job.”
Someone in the back muttered something about not being able to hear. Scott repeated the Great Director’s words into his ever-present bullhorn. “He says, GREAT JOB, EVERYBODY!” The bullhorn whistled and popped.
“And what I’m going to ask of you next might seem a bit unorthodox.”
Another straggler in the back asked if there had been an outbreak of chicken pox. Again, Scott with the bullhorn: “Not chicken pox. He’s going to ask us something crazy… er, I mean, unusual.” This was quite the Freudian slip for Scott, as he had long suspected the Great Director of actually being crazy.
“Go on,” Scott whispered into the bullhorn loudly.
“I think we have a really special film here,” continued the Great Director, this time using his loudest voice so as to be heard by all. “And what I am proposing may seem so un-Hollywood. Many of you might question why I want to do this. I want to say first, you’re right. What I am proposing is something so unorthodox it can’t be denied.” His voice had slipped to a lower register on the last word, and he noticed it when the make-up girl in the back announced that her diet prevented her from eating anything fried. He raised his voice and continued on.
“I want us, after next week’s schedule, on the following Monday, to meet here. There will be a large caravan ready, which our producer Jay Jameson will be working with each department to assemble. At that point we are going to turn into a mobile production.”
He waited. No one questioned him. It was better than he’d expected. Now all he had to do was sell it to them.
“Many have approached me.”
No one had.
“And expressed admiration with the top notch acting that’s going on in this film. I’ve been around long enough to know that films like this don’t happen that often. For many of us, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. So I want to take a chance with that and make this film out there, on the road, where the second act actually takes place. It’s a road picture and I want it to be real, and I want it to be gritty, and you know as well as I do that we can’t make that here, on this backlot. We’ve got to take this film to the people, out there… on the road. I know some of you have families or schedule conflicts, or maybe you just don’t want to leave home. I want you to know, that’s okay. No hard feelings. Find your own replacement and have them here next week. I trust your judgment. For those of you who want to go on this adventure, I want you to know it will be an adventure. One you’ll remember for the rest of your lives.”
No one spoke.
He made eye contact when they searched his face for some clue to guide their decisions. Then Scott the AD, via bullhorn, ended the day by calling, “That’s a wrap. See you Monday.”
Chapter Nineteen
But It Was Not Okay
The mood has changed.
The production is set up and working in an office park in Reseda. It’s the setting of Kurt’s character’s job, from which he is about to be fired. The morning started off foggy and cold, but now the sun begins to heat up the valley floor, promising to put temperatures into the mid-eighties, even though it’s winter in Southern California. At points, crewmembers come and apologize to the Great Director. Each secretly and with much sincerity. The reasons are myriad. Some claim family, others reasons too obscure to understand. This could hang a permanent miasma over the careers of those associated with it. The Great Director feels, suddenly, the need to be kind. To let those who wish to continue working, work. He has known many of them for most of his career. The least he can do is give them a chance to get off the production before it implodes.
The Great Goreitsky approaches. As usual, his hands are in his pockets. He wears his humility like any other piece of clothing. Not for statement, but for protection. He is eager to please.
“The parking shot. How is to be done?”
A defeated and beaten Kurt shows up for his job at a faceless corporation. It is a small scene. It merely sets the mood and speaks volumes about the life Kurt’s character is leaving behind.
Normally the Great Director tells Goreitsky to do it however he wants. Then Goreitsky does it with lots of angles and places for jump cuts. In the two weeks he has been shooting in this style, he has mastered and even improved upon the technique. Now the Great Director gives him license to do it again, and Goreitsky, his instructions reflecting what he thinks are the Great Director’s wishes, has already set the camera crew in motion.
Goreitsky stays for a moment.
They watch the men and women work. Neither of them are small talkers. In the past, with other people, they have felt compelled to be. But with each other, in the short time they have spent together, they have enjoyed their shared silences.
After a moment Goreitsky ventures, “Next week many of my people are not wanting to be coming. I do not have knowledge anymore of people whose jobs are same.”
The Great Director processes the grammar.
“Don’t worry. So
meone always wants to work.”
Another silent moment passes.
“About next week,” begins the Great Director. “We’re moving into the second act, and I want you to think about something stylistically.”
Until this point Goreitsky has really let him down. The Great Director had hoped for more time-consuming long shots and slow arduous pans. Giant cinema. Completely outdated and guaranteed to sink the production commercially with words like “self-indulgent” and “artistic.” Instead Goreitsky has delivered what the studio has chosen to call brilliant camerawork in a series of memos congratulating the production. He’s been woefully lacking in providing poor product. He hasn’t even thrown one artistic tantrum. The Great Director expected much worse from him and has been sadly disappointed.
“I will to be thinking about what?” asks Goreitsky. He stands very still.
“I want to end this movie with the way you used to shoot. You know those beautiful long shots you used to compose. I really want to see a painted canvas at the end. So, very gently, as we get there, I want you to slow down a bit. Take more time in frame. Then transition back to the way you used to make movies. Okay?”
Now it is Goreitsky’s turn to be silent.
“Okay?” asks the Great Director, turning to look at the old man.
“This is what you want?” asks Goreitsky timidly.
“Yes. That’s why I hired you. You’re a master. I want to celebrate your style at the end of this movie. As the character triumphs, I want your style to become more pervasive at the end. I want to rejoice in our hero through your eyes.”
“Oh. Okay,” says Goreitsky. He is silent for a moment and then backs away toward the A camera crew.
But it is not okay.
Not at all.
Chapter Twenty
The Fox Opens Up
“Fox! This is important news. Why didn’t you call me earlier?” exclaims the Executive VP, his voice rife with disbelief.
It is now Wednesday. The Fox has called the Executive VP to relay the news about the Great Director’s road trip.
“Well, I didn’t know how I felt about it yet.”
“Felt about it! I’m not paying you to discover your feelings on pertinent information. I’m paying you a lot of money to tell me what happens on the set.”
The Executive VP paused amid a growing wrath as he stood at his desk. He began breathing through his nose and reaching into his private fridge for a bottle of water while at the same time digging out a packet of nicotine gum from his pocket. After a drink, more breathing, gum, and a nice hard snap from the rubber band, he moved on.
“What if I told you that you were fired, but I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about it. How would that be, Fox?”
“Bad?” came the mumbled reply.
“That’s right, Fox. It would be bad. Because you’d still be fired. We just wouldn’t be sure about my feelings on the subject, would we?”
“No.”
“But then again, would you really care about my feelings if you had to go home and explain to your family why you didn’t have a job anymore?”
Silence.
“No, you wouldn’t. So using that as our analogy, you can understand why I don’t care how you feel about potentially bad information that might affect my employment status. Right?”
“Okay.”
“I just want you to give me information, not get touchy-feely with it. Understood?”
“Understood,” muttered the Fox.
“Excellent.” The Executive VP paused to compose himself. He drew in a large amount of air through his nostrils, then let it go through his mouth.
“Now, does the crew think this is bad?”
“Oh yeah. I mean, we’d have to be away from our families and living on location. We always hate that. Plus the Clips have a big game against San Antonio next week and we don’t want to miss that.”
“I’m not talking about your personal hardship!” screamed the Executive VP. “Does the crew think this will harm the marketability of the picture? That’s what I want to know!”
Silence.
“It would?” tried the Fox.
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’m not.”
“You just said it would.”
“You interrupted me. I wasn’t finished.”
“So it would not harm the picture.”
“It’s hard to say.”
“No, it’s really not. Will it, or will it not, harm the picture?” roared the Executive VP, pounding his desk.
“Listen, I don’t generally go in for these kinds of movies,” began the Fox. “If me and the wife are going out, paying for a sitter, having a romantic evening, I want to see a good movie like that one where the terrorists take over Niagara Falls. What was that called?”
“Death Falls,” answered the Executive VP, the dryness in his voice betraying his true feelings about the Fox’s idea of a romantic evening.
“Yeah, Death Falls. Now that’s a movie! What we’re doing here is great for the ‘arty’ crowd, but it ain’t no Death Falls. If this guy wants to take the show on the road, who cares. What harm can it do?”
“So the crew feels ambivalent about next week?”
Silence greeted the question as the Fox struggled with the meaning of the word ambivalent. Sensing this, the Executive VP added, “The crew doesn’t care one way or the other?”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. I mean listen, we’ve all worked on bad films and the occasional good one. It doesn’t matter to us, we’re ambivalent, sure. I mean, the vision and stuff like that, that’s for certain guys; you know, the director, the DP, actors, the PAs. But us regular guys, it’s just early mornings and free food. Otherwise, work is work is work. We’re just happy to have it, and then, not always. Know what I mean?” laughed the Fox.
“Sure,” answered the Executive VP, not knowing at all.
“It doesn’t really matter though, whether he wants to take this picture on the road or not, because he might not have enough crew next week to make that happen.”
“Why?” asked the Executive VP.
“A lot of the crew just don’t want to go, and they’re supposed to find their own replacements. Most of ’em won’t.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t want someone who can do your job better than you doing it. They might get it in the future. Also, you don’t want to just saddle your buddy with some lame production that’s going out into the sticks, ’cause then he’s just gonna come back and give you a hard time. Make like you owe him one or something. Secondly…”
“Thirdly,” corrected the Executive VP, who had a passion for the correct enumeration of points.
“Thirdly, it’s playoffs. Go Clips!”
“I see.”
There was a long pause on both sides. The Executive VP struggled to ascertain how a sporting event could impact a person’s desire for career advancement. But that really wasn’t the point, was it? The point was that the production was slipping out the back door. Away from his control.
Was this good?
Was this bad?
Only the receipts on opening day would judge rightly. But it was his job right here and now to do something. To affect the outcome.
But what?
“All right, Fox. I think I had better call the producer this afternoon.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Warbirds of Doubt
Kip barely made it to the set that week. Not that he’d made it to the set much in the first two weeks of production, but now, with the burden of arranging transport having fallen squarely onto his shoulders, Kip was juggling to accomplish the mission while still keeping the chainsaws of budget, logistics, and paperwork in the air all at the same time.
The task was difficult. Finding buses, l
ighting trucks, camera trucks, make-up and hair trailers, generators, star trailers, and the various vehicles that were needed on a film set was proving harder than expected. And by late Monday afternoon, a whole new problem had begun to rear its ugly head. Large sections of the crew were not interested in the grand adventure the Great Director had proposed. A sense of anger began to grow and gnaw at the ones who had opted not to follow the production into the great unknown. Department heads were too busy working on the daily production of the film to find replacements. They began to insist loudly this was not in their job description. Instead, lists of positions that needed to be filled began to arrive on Kip’s desk on Tuesday morning.
Kip closed the door to his office and put on Listener Supported by Dave Matthews.
It was all too much.
Rental companies were not willing to part long term with vehicles the studio normally rented, for local use only, to be used out of town. Crewmembers were deserting in droves. Kip had no idea how much of the fifty-five million of the film’s budget was left. A desk had been brought in to contain all the receipts that were piling up, and these still had not been processed by the production accountant, who was struggling with payroll and the studio’s constant demand for budget projections anticipating the weeks ahead. She had crested the edge of a full-blown nervous breakdown on Friday and called in sick on Monday, after hearing about the planned odyssey of the following week. Thankfully she reappeared on Tuesday morning saying nothing to anyone. She proceeded to fill the office with silent hate and glaring scorn.
Just prior to lunch, she knocked on Kip’s door. After a moment, Kip slid from behind the narrow crack of the barely opened door.
She had worn her best business suit to the office that day, but already her hair had fallen, betraying her intention to present an atmosphere of calm professionalism. “I just want to know…” she began, her voice breaking on the word “know.” She seemed to gather herself and then continued. “Do I have to go with you on this—this… whatever it is?” Her voice was dry and cracked. Fragile even. Wavering between bottomless despair and giddy insanity.
