by Nick Cole
The Editor looks at him hopefully, more hopefully than he has looked at any other director in his entire career.
“Queue these numbers.” He looks down at his shot list. “I’ll show you what we’re going to do.” The Great Director takes out his phone and dials the real Jay Jameson’s home number.
Jay answers.
“Listen. I’ve got it, but I need some help.”
“Go ahead,” says a sleepy voice.
“I need the National Guard. About ten to sixteen helicopter gunships and one battalion of infantry. Oh, and I also need four blocks of downtown East Los Angeles.”
“When?” asks Jay Jameson, Producer.
“End of the week would be great.”
There’s a long pause. The Great Director knows that any other producer in the world would shut him down and hang up. The permits alone will take weeks. The request for National Guard helicopters longer than that. And troops, who knows? You can’t just summon a battalion of infantry to appear in your movie.
The Great Director cannot remember ever doing what he does next.
He asks the Creator of the Universe for help, silently.
Please, he says inside his head, his eyes shut tight in concentration.
Time stops to pick up a penny and then continues.
“I’ll get it done,” says Jay.
The Great Director feels suddenly close to tears. He puts down the phone with a sigh of relief.
He will ask for help once more before this story is over. But the next time will be to save his life.
He turns back to the Editor, looking at the queued shots. “All right, here’s what I want to see…”
“Just tell me first what we’re doing,” says the Editor.
“It’s all a dream.”
“A dream?”
“Yeah, did you ever see one of the last seasons of Dallas?”
The Great Director leans forward. He is intent on the various takes displayed on the many monitors. That’s when the chest pains start. Right next to his spine, radiating outward.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Flight of the Mini-Valkyrie
On the last day of your life everything seems to go right, and then again, if you really think about it, in a certain way… I guess it all goes wrong. Depends on how you look at it.
That’s how most people, given the chance, might recount the last day of their lives. After all, anything is great compared to dying, or so we think. If you die in the afternoon, the hours preceding it, whether it was work or a family picnic, must seem like a great day in retrospect. Don’t friends and relatives always say something to that effect? He was having such a great day. Then… they leave the sentence hanging in midair.
He was having such a great day.
But the Great Director really was having a great day, or so he felt that morning when he woke next to his wife in the predawn dark. He held her. He hadn’t slept most of the night. He was afraid of the chest pains that had begun to stab at him occasionally over the past few days of intensive editing and worry. But also he hadn’t slept because he still didn’t know what he needed to shoot. He knew he had one Saturday in the deserted city streets of East Los Angeles to get a series of shots he would use to build a framework around the footage he’d already shot. Footage he’d purposefully sabotaged.
Jay Jameson had moved heaven and earth to rally the National Guard high command to provide the production with eight Black Hawk transports and eight more Cobra gunships. He’d also managed to procure a field hospital battalion and a mechanized infantry unit, which would be arriving with Humvees and five-ton trucks. The super producer had gone on to obtain, with no such precedent ever being heard of before, the special one-day permit for the four city blocks, helicopter traffic, and police protection the production would need. This, in and of itself, was legendary enough in a city famed for political infighting, barrio corruption, a grinding legal process, and a host of city ordinances matched by no other in the world.
But the most legendary of Jay’s feats that week had been his multilevel appeal to the studio brass and stockholders on both coasts to allow a special one-day, shoot-everything-or-lose-it proposition. In essence, Jay had given the Great Director a one-day pardon in which to complete principal photography of the movie—or lose complete control of the project. “Career catastrophe for all involved” was left darkly unsaid but clearly understood. With the remaining hours left to him, Jay had rallied every crewmember he’d ever worked with. He’d called in a thousand favors and promised a thousand more. Multiple camera crews were at the ready. Close to two hundred and fifty extras were staged in a nearby empty movie theater. Production vans and star trailers lined the streets for several city blocks surrounding the location.
A special production designer, more artist than technician and who only went by the moniker Lars, was flown in from New York on Thursday morning. Lars was given a tour of the streets by the Great Director and told simply to make them look like the battle-scarred streets of any war-torn Third World country.
Lars declared, “Fabulous!” and went to work.
On that morning, as the Great Director’s wife drives him to the set, it’s still dark out. The club kids and the rock bands pass them in the night, some on their way to another party, others heading to back to the mausoleums they must surely wait out the day in. As she drives, he holds his coffee. He is excited. As they bounce over a series of train tracks, exiting the freight yards south of the city, she squeezes his hand. He looks at her and he is grateful for their love.
For a moment he sees her amid the mangled wreckage of the intersection of this film and his life. He experiences that moment of heart-stopping fear one has after narrowly avoiding a car accident. As though your heart has stopped and might never beat again.
She lets him off near the camera trailers. He kisses her long and deep, leaning over the hump between them. She promises to be back in the afternoon to get him. As he is getting out of the car, he feels another chest pain. He knows he should say something, anything. She will take him to the hospital.
What would happen to his crew? he wonders. They would lose the day. He has failed them too many times. He cannot fail them again. Not this time. Not this last time. Instead he looks at her, holding the door open, and says, “Remember. I really love you. I really do.”
She tells him she does too, and she drives away into the still-dark streets of the city.
A knot of people has formed around Jay Jameson: Goreitsky, Kip, Parker, and others. Even Langley, who won’t be needed today, is here for moral support. Scott the AD and Terry the Sound Guy, along with all the other department heads, are gathered. Roger’s presence denotes that Kurt is somewhere nearby.
“I’m glad you could all come out today. I appreciate your…” The Great Director is unable to find the next word.
Support?
Help?
Faith?
… Love?
The words all seem wrong, except maybe for that last one. Still he struggles to find a word he knows will explain everything he’s done. As if there is such a word.
Jay, sensing the mood and the loss of momentum, steps in smoothly, glossing over the momentary awkwardness.
“No problem. We’re all here for each other. Let’s get down to business though. I’ve got four camera teams and two hundred and fifty extras standing by. If we don’t get moving, it’ll be close to noon before we get our first setups done. So what’s the plan?”
Everyone looks at the Great Director expectantly.
What is the plan? he thinks. I thought I knew. They’re all so serious. So earnest. So intent on making a movie. I can’t let them down now. This has to be good, and it sounds weak before I even say it. Even now as I form the words… it sounds made up.
“The whole movie… everything we’ve just shot… is a dream.”
&nbs
p; No one says anything.
But they’re thinking. The Great Director can sense it, because it’s still too dark to look in their eyes and see what they think.
“Kurt’s character is a soldier,” the Great Director blurts out quickly, hoping to finish the words before he loses them. “He’s fighting in a war. It doesn’t matter what war. They’re all the same as far as we’re concerned. Muddy streets in the Third World where young boys die. Kurt’s character is wounded doing something heroic during the battle. He lies in the street dying. Before he dies he has this dream. And it’s our movie. That’s the dream. Everything that happens in the movie is the dream this dying soldier has before… dying. Get it?”
There is a long silence.
“But that’s not in the book,” states Jay plainly. Probably mirroring what everyone else is thinking.
“No. No, it’s not. But that’s okay,” replies the Great Director slowly.
Everyone thinks for a moment. They wait for someone to object. When no one does, that’s the Great Director’s cue to continue.
“So the first setup is going to be at dawn. It’s going to be a simple shot. I want to show a deserted street, with infantry moving up the sides. Then I want to show some helicopters overhead. The beginning of the operation Kurt’s character is involved in.”
They all relax a bit. They know how to do this part. Setup instructions are something they can wrap their minds around. Suddenly, to them, what seemed unknowable, incomplete, impossible, is now possible. It’s just a shot setup. That’s all.
“Goreitsky?”
“Yes.”
“Get your crew and follow me, I’ll show you the street. Jay, I need a camera in a helicopter to fly chase for the other choppers coming in above. Okay?”
“Can do. I’ll get the infantry staged. Do you want extras yet?”
“Not yet. But keep them ready.”
Everyone breaks off into their groups, scrambling to their equipment and the craft service table, racing the approaching dawn.
***
Within forty-five minutes, the helicopters are in the air and making a series of passes over the streets. Sunrise is just moments away, and when action is called, the helicopters, staged off to the northwest, await their cue. An infantry battalion moves toward the cameras. They emerge into the shot coming from around the corner. The audience will never know that right before they turned the corner to be captured by the camera, two women, set dressers, quickly worked down the line, spraying them with cocoa powder for dust or rubbing greasepaint into their faces. Anything to make them look war-weary, hardcore, battle-hardened. Moments later, the choppers are cued, and less than a minute after that, the shot is complete. The image captured.
The crew breaks down the equipment quickly. There will be no second takes. Today is not a day of second takes. There is little time. The Great Director himself knows this all too well.
When he quietly said “action” just before the scene, and Scott the AD gave the command via walkie-talkie, the Great Director leaned close in to the monitor to watch the shot. He felt another, more serious pain gripping his heart. It squeezed his rib cage and he had to straighten his back, which helped, then bang on the front of his chest. That seemed to make the pain go away. Now beads of sweat are pouring from his forehead. He stands and moves to the craft service table. He feels better. But he’s scared.
Within thirty minutes the various crews are rigging for the initial battle sequences. Calls come flooding in from the police and government offices. Mobs of inquisitive and angry neighbors are pouring forth toward the barricades at the outer perimeter of the film set. Helicopters and army troops have disturbed what residents had hoped would be a peaceful Saturday morning.
Jay Jameson fends off calls from the county and police. He assures them the production is well within its permitted rights. Kip, acting as his brother’s right-hand man, is dispatched to the barricades. Angry Latinos begin to park their cars near the set and turn up their radios in hopes of receiving a cash payment from the production to turn off their noisemakers. Informing them that the production is shooting mostly without sound seems only to incense them. Soon the entire community has gathered. The tone is angry.
Jay Jameson returns to the Great Director with the watch commander for the local police patrol. The watch commander is a broad-shouldered, clean-cut, mustachioed officer. He has an easygoing disposition and a genial face.
“This is Officer Wachowski,” says Jay. “He needs to talk to you.” Jay politely stands back, hands clasped. He has done everything possible to handle this problem.
The police sergeant extends his hand in courtesy.
“Listen, I’m a big fan of your movies,” the officer begins. “Setting that aside, my problem today is this.”
The Great Director leans forward, lowering his head. He’s taller than the officer. He feels another shooting pain in his chest. It takes all his control to grit his teeth and bear it.
“Last week,” continues the watch commander, “we had an officer-involved shooting. A young girl. A gang member. She happened to be the sister of a star athlete at the local high school. She was shot during a traffic stop. Since that time, the communities have been spoiling for a confrontation.” The pain continues to squeeze the Great Director’s chest. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears. “So far the situation is under control. If it gets worse, I’m going to have to close you down to prevent any form of civil disobedience. So it’s not the noise or anything. But as a fan of your work I advise you to work fast and get out of here.” He smiles confidently at the Great Director.
“Okay?”
The watch commander nods and walks off, sensing the Great Director is not going to reply beyond the nod and smile he can barely manage. The wave of pain passes, and the Great Director breathes deeply, trying to suck hot air into his lungs.
“I know,” says Jay, mistaking the Great Director’s exhalation for one of exasperation. “Just keep working. I can handle him as long as we don’t have a riot. I wouldn’t have brought him to you, except he insisted and he can because he’s the police. So no worries. Keep going. It’s just going to get a little tight. Hopefully it won’t get any hotter out here.”
***
A few hours later, with the special effects crew putting the final touches on the opening battle sequence, it’s much hotter. The early morning marine layer has burned off. Far inland, east of the city, the air is thick with heat even though the calendar has just announced spring. The crew sucks at plastic bottles of water as they race against the clock to get the next shot under way. The Great Director has suffered two more episodes of chest pains. This is indeed very serious. During the first, in which he was helping the camera crew to understand what he wanted Goreitsky to accomplish with the movement of the camera, he was bending over the eyepiece when the pain started. It was so bad he had to turn and walk away, placing his hands on his hips and arching his back to try to get air or relief. The crew mistakenly assumed this was due to his frustration. They immediately jumped to accomplish what they had been bellyaching about in the first place. The Great Director walked away and sat down on a curb. Kip grabbed a water bottle from a chest and sat down next to the Great Director.
“Here, drink this,” he said.
The Great Director winced at opening the bottle, as the motion seemed to grind his shoulder into his spine.
“Relax. They’ll get it. Is there anything I can do for you?”
The Great Director shakes his head and sucks down the cool water. It seems to help. For a moment Kip is silent. He takes a Kip swig of his own water, a large, slurping gurgle, then lowers his eyes to the pavement.
“I just want to apologize for what happened.”
The Great Director waves him off as the pain eases its grip on his chest.
“No, really. I know it was deceptive and everything, but I thought at t
he time I was doing it for the right reasons. I just didn’t want anyone to think my brother would let them down. He’s never let anybody down. Never ever.” He pauses and takes another gurgling gulp. “I’d do anything for him. That’s why I tried to help. I hope you understand.”
The Great Director gasps for air, then says, “It was me who let you down. It’s me who should apologize.”
“No way. This was… this was the best. Ask anybody. Nobody can remember such a great shoot. Ask ’em! That’s why they’re all here on a Saturday. In the heat. In the middle of a riot. We all believe this is something. Something special. You’re creating art here. This is going to be a great movie, and it’s been a privilege to be a part of it. We all feel that way. Someday in the future, when we’re all old and watching TV and someone recounts the greatest one hundred movies of this century, this movie will be one of ’em. We won’t remember the hardships, the buses, the late nights, or… the craziness.”
Scott the AD says something garbled on his bullhorn.
“I think we’d just give anything if we could do it all over again… one more time. It will be a good thing to have been a part of. I know that’s how I’ll feel, regardless of what happens with the rest of my life. I’ll know I made at least one beautiful thing. One gift to the world. You know what… I can live with that.”
The Great Director breathes a little easier. He feels like there are two twenty-five-pound weights resting on his chest. But he can breathe at least.
“You did a great job.” It’s all he can say. Then he stands up.
Right there he decides he will die finishing this movie. He will not give up. If today is the day for the heart attack he’s been waiting his entire life for… then so be it. But he won’t give up on these people. He won’t let them down again. Not today. Even if it means dying.
He goes back to work, and twenty minutes later it hits again. This time he just walks it off. He walks away from the crew pretending he needs to make a call.
But who can he call? He isn’t going to give up. Not now.
