by Logan Miller
Pierson volunteered to stick around. We gave him our .40 caliber HK automatic pistola and told him that if they don’t have no stinking badges, start blazing. Pierson is an Eagle Scout. He waited on Zorton. The tow truck showed up and he met us at Patagonia Lake.
IN THE AFTERNOON a storm swept across the desert. Black clouds and electric veins darkened and flashed. Rain and dust scoured the plateaus, hurling muddy torrents down the riverbeds. We stood on the shore and watched the turquoise waters seep into liquid coal, whitecaps swelling and colliding. We called off shooting and headed back to Tucson.
Pierson hopped in the rental car with us. We bought some beer and chewing tobacco in Nogales and drove toward the sunset, purple thunderheads swirling against orange bursts of fire, mesas silhouetted black on the horizon.
We floated on alcohol and nicotine and a straight shot of asphalt with glowing yellow lines. We reminisced about the long road behind and visualized about the unknown road ahead. Six years earlier, Pierson was in the room when we completed our first typed draft of Touching Home. We didn’t own a computer back then and he helped us out with that.
At the time, Pierson was editing a television show at a postproduction house on Cahuenga Boulevard in Hollywood, working the night shift a few blocks from our roach apartment. He would sneak us in at midnight, set us up on a computer, disappear into his editing suite, and come get us at dawn.
It took us a week to type the screenplay from our notebooks onto that computer. We finished at 4 A.M., called Pierson into the room and drank a beer together. Pierson went back to work and we lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling as we listened to “Bridge over Troubled Water,” floating on a raft of accomplishment.
And we had the same feeling now as we rolled down the highway with the sweet sagebrush. We had come far. But we had no idea how far and how fast we’d go in the next few months.
DON’T KNOW HOW, WHERE, OR WHEN
THE NEXT MORNING we felt like the lords of the desert. We strutted across the street from our hotel and had coffee with the crew before hitting the road. Morale was high. We joked about the enormous uncertainties going into the operation and the band of threats riding our tails every minute we were out there.
Ricardo had been terribly undermanned. He had one light to work with and it was busted. He fearlessly shot from an obsolete and perilous crane nicknamed “the widow maker,” and despite these handicaps, captured steady and beautiful images. Typically he would’ve had a semi truck full of lights, a four-to five-person camera crew, and eight to twelve grips and electricians assisting him in his art, roughly twenty people at his disposal. On this shoot, he had only three. Two of which, counted less than one. And still, we averaged over twenty-eight setups per day. In baseball terms, he hit .500.
Sound Ranger’s recordings, especially those in the stadium, were remarkable. Prior to Tucson, he’d never recorded baseball, knew little of the game, and was now fascinated with its rich and distinct sounds. You could place the CRACK of his bat and WHOOSH of his ball against any that have ever been recorded. He and boom man Voot are perfectionists, with a keen obsession for sonic nuances. Sound men live on planet Onomatopoeia. What you see, they hear. On their planet, you’re blind.
Connie was especially helpful in the scenes in which both of us were acting. We trusted her opinion and consulted her often. She was a rallying force of womanhood, commander of men.
Lenny, our first assistant camera, pulled excellent focus. Every shot was pin sharp.
And Pierson was the indispensable component, the fulcrum upon which the world moved.
They asked us when we were planning to shoot the rest of the movie. “By the end of the summer,” we said.
“Where are you going to get the money?”
“Don’t know how, where, or when. But we’re gonna get it.”
They’d all heard this bold claim from many directors and producers who had failed. But it appeared, in the haze of that sunny-sun-shiny morning, that they believed we just might do it. Just might. Tucson had turned skeptics into half-believers.
We were physically exhausted but mentally uplifted. We’d written, produced, directed, and acted in a four-day shoot. Mission accomplished. Granted, it was only four days. But as any veteran producer will tell you, shooting for a week requires just as much legwork as shooting for a month.
We remembered what Coach Gough, our surrogate father growing up, said to us three days before filming: “It’s midnight…The enemy is creeping under the wire. You gotta keep your cool.”
Coach Gough is a Khe Sanh marine, was there for the siege, living in a muddy hooch, isolated, a world of thunderous explosions, bullets, and blazing fire, bombarded and attacked for seventy-one days straight. And that was his wisdom at zero hour. The enemy is creeping under the wire. You gotta keep your cool. We repeated this in our minds whenever things got hectic, repeated it to each other throughout the tumult of filming.
AND ON THE FIFTH DAY, THE CASH WAS BURNED AND THE PLASTIC TIME BOMBS EXPLODED
American Express, the first company to take a gamble on us, Visa, Chase, MasterCard, Washington Mutual, Discover, and a host of other credit issuers were now our best friends. They started sending us mail every week, sometimes twice, wrote us more than all our other friends combined. And they did it the old-fashioned way—on paper and through the United States Post Office.
When we checked out of the Randolph Park Clarion in Tucson, Logan’s stack of credit cards—rubber-banded in his pocket—had mysteriously stopped working. The exercise went like this: Logan would hand the clerk a card, she’d run it. Denied. Sorry about that, try this one. Denied. Whoaa, shit. Uhhh, shuffling through the stack, trying to remember which cards had a chance. The blue, the green, they all weighed the same. Oh, here it is. Yeah, the red one should work. It’s good luck in the Orient, you know. And again. Denied. He smiles. She doesn’t think the game is funny anymore, and she’s cute, so it’s even more embarrassing for Logan. He had ideas of asking for her number, not anymore. Noah has slipped out of the lobby, the car packed, engine running, in case we gotta drive out quick. Logan hands her another card, a big, desperate, uncomfortable smile.
This is it.
This is the one.
Has to be.
She fakes a smile before she runs the card. Are you sure? Logan smiles, brighter than the desert sun: definitely. That’s right. Money. Only a wealthy man would have such a large bundle of credit cards. Lunatic rich is what he is. Only he doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s Park Place. She knows he’s Freddie Mac.
She runs the card. And again. Denied. The shame. Should he split? He gives it a thought. Bro is in the car, ready to speed. It’s fast. It’s new. It’s a rental. He’s wearing sunglasses. She’ll never get the plates. No. He can’t. She’s got his ID, knows who he is. He thinks…He could always blame it on his brother…He looks at her. Damn, she’s cute. Can’t run from that. There’s still hope. Still more credit cards to run. He digs up another card. And again, and again, until a purple one accepts the burden. Phew…
We shuffled cards all over the desert.
TUCSON TAUGHT US many financial lessons, among them:
Receipts are no longer trash that builds up in our pockets.
Plastic friends are better than no friends.
And happiness in America is being comfortable with debt.
Post-Game Analysis: We got ripped off on a couple deals, even on most, and ahead on a few. Most importantly, we accomplished the objective. The travel days killed the pocketbook—we had to pay for wages, meals, and fuel—but we made up for it by establishing the core of a strong team: Ricardo, Connie, Taylor, Pierson, and Sound Ranger and Boom Man Voot.
In total, we were roughly $45,000 in debt. A heavy pile. And it would only get heavier before we climbed out.
We had a hot lead on some money in Northern California. Things were kindling, a small flame pressing up and around the edges. We didn’t want to go back to L.A. and risk losing the heat. So we drove west and then turned
north with the belief that we could steal the fire burning over the horizon.
BAD BROCCOLI*
Noah got food poisoning somewhere in the desert between Blythe and Chiriaco Summit, right around Patton’s tank. It attacked his bowels until we reached the Bay Area the following afternoon. The potential financier turned out to be blowing steam. But without this jackass leading us on, it’s doubtful that we would have been home for the San Francisco International Film Festival. In all likelihood, we’d have left Tucson and returned to L.A.
But we hadn’t. And that would make all the difference.
PART IV
THE AMBUSH
HONEST PETE DETERDING AND THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING GREAT
HONEST PETE DETERDING had been following our unsuccessful writing career for several years. Pete is the founder of Diamond D Construction in Sacramento. He’s got thick forearms and workingman’s hands, wears jeans and boots, drives a truck, eats red meat, and doesn’t need to pour his beer into a glass; the bottle is just fine.
We’d usually see Pete during the holidays at the Lafranchis’. Pete’s beautiful wife, Dee, is the sister of our mom’s boyfriend, Randy Lafranchi. The Lafranchis have been dairy ranchers in the Nicasio Valley for over a hundred years, a few miles from where we grew up. After dinner, we’d walk outside with Pete and have a chew and beer together on the hilltop overlooking the dairy.
“Always take the high road, gentlemen,” he’d say. “Quality counts. You build your career on quality, on word of mouth from your customers. I suspect your business is the same…How’s it going in Hollywood?”
“We just finished a new screenplay.”
“You’ve written quite a few of them, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
For years, we never had much to show for our hard work other than a dozen scripts on our shelf. And you don’t bring those to Christmas parties; they’re a lousy gift.
EASTER SUNDAY 2006
Our mom is having Easter dinner with the Lafranchis. Pete asks our mom, “How are your boys doing?” Our mom tells him that we’re finally making a movie. “They’re down in Tucson filming spring training right now.”
She tells Pete about the Panavision Grant, Kodak, etc. “It’s been hard for me to keep track of what they’re doing because all of this has come together so quickly.”
We’d last seen Pete at Christmas, had our customary beer and chew together, and now, a few months later, we were shooting a movie.
“They finally got their big break,” our mom says.
“Are they looking for investors?”
“…I think so.”
“Let me know if they are,” Pete said. “I might know some people in Sacramento who can help them.”
Our mom calls us the next day in Tucson and says we should call Pete. “You never know. It might lead to something.”
So we called Pete when we got back from Tucson. He told us to send him a few business plans. He’d pass them around Sacramento to see if he could find us some money. We had a good feeling about it. The capital has a legacy of gold seekers and dreamers, a risk-taking appetite that swirls in the confluence of the American and Sacramento rivers.
Only one problem: we didn’t have a business plan yet. So once again, we consulted the books and Internet, figured out the general structure and language, wrote a detailed plan, and called Pete three days later. We told Pete we’d drive up and deliver the business plans in person.
“No need to drive all the way up here,” Pete said. “Just throw them in the mail.”
“We’re in the car. We’ll see you in a few hours.”
Two hours later we sat down with Pete in his office. He was blown away by our progress. But it made sense to him. He told us about his big break in the construction business, how he’d struggled for years, barely getting by, when one day, while sitting in a bar, Pete’s brother asked him to take over the construction management of a large development in Sacramento. The job changed Pete’s life. But the overnight success was a decade in the making; the only thing that happens overnight is the check clearing in the bank.
We shook hands with Pete. “Thanks for driving up guys. I’m glad you did. It says a lot about your character…I’ll see what I can do.”
WHEN POOR IS GOOD
The San Francisco International Film Festival was honoring Ed Harris with a lifetime achievement award. It was a two-day celebration: Thursday, April 27, and Friday, April 28. Thursday night was a $500-a-plate black-tie gala, an intimate affair, Bay Area socialites schmoozing with the stars. It was a great environment to rub elbows with celebrities, a great environment to talk to Ed Harris, pitch him on our movie, and give him our script.
Yes, Ed Harris. The movie star we wanted to play our dad on the big screen. The actor we had talked about at our jailhouse casting session, when we were three fools laughing at the impossible.
Ed Harris was coming to the city near us. And we were going to be there.
We called Gordon Radley, our mentor.
“Gordon…Did you know that Ed Harris is coming to San Francisco for the film festival? We just read about it in the Chronicle.”
“Yeah, I heard something about that…Why?”
“We’re going to talk to him and give him our script.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Wait in the lobby of his hotel and buttonhole him as he walks by, maybe corner him in the elevator, something like that.”
“NO! You guys are insane! You can’t do it that way. It’s gauche. Wait until you get the money and call his agent. You’ve gotta go through the proper channels.”
“We’ll never get the money without an actor like Ed on board. He’s the number one guy to play the role of our dad.”
“Get the money first!”
“If we use conventional methods, we’ll get conventional results…What about the Thursday night black-and-white gala thing?”
“What about it?”
“You going?”
“No.”
“Do you know anybody who is? Do you know who’s in charge? What about talking to Ed there?”
“Guys, guys, guys, listen to me!” Gordon can yell with the best of them. And he was yelling right now. “GET THE MONEY FIRST! You guys are too damn impulsive. Get the money and then go through the agents!”
For some reason known only to science, we have NEVER had any success with convention, or conventional settings, even when we’ve tried our king’s best to fit in and make it work. Maybe it’s a twin thing. We’re a genetic deviation. Perhaps this interferes with conventional energy or structure on some unconscious level. For us, the front door has always been locked.
So we came up with a pitch and called the festival: “Hi, we’re a couple of local independent filmmakers and we’re shooting a movie in the Bay Area this summer. We’d love to attend the gala. It would be a wonderful learning experience for us, only we can’t afford it. We think this presents a great opportunity for you to waive the fee, support the starving filmmaker, give back to the community, the very spirit of your festival. In turn, we’ll come and speak at the festival when our movie comes out. In March, we received the Panavision New Filmmaker Grant and just concluded a four-day shoot in Arizona. We’d LOVE to come to the gala…”
And anything else we could throw at their benevolent side.
The Person with the Festival: “Wow…Sounds like a noble venture…Don’t see why we can’t bend the rules and support a couple of local filmmakers.”
It sounded reasonable to us.
Festival: “I’m fine with it. You need to call the person above me. Tell them I gave you their number.”
Great. Progress. Moving up. Next phone call. Same pitch.
Festival: “Don’t see why we can’t get behind a couple of locals…That’s the spirit of independent film, right?”
“Right.”
Festival: “I don’t have a problem with letting you in, but it’s not my call. You need to talk to my boss.”
We worked our speakerphone all afternoon, climbing the marble steps to the Film Festival Ticket Queen. Two hours later, everyone below had signed off. It was all roses and dandelions, rolling plains of pretty flowers, pixies and posies and butterflies with wings.
Only the Queen was unimpressed. “No.”
“C’mon.”
“No.”
“We’re locals.”
“Guys, there’s seven million locals. We haven’t waived the fee for anyone. I wish I could. But this is our only fund-raiser of the year…I’m sorry.”
“What about a two-for-one? $500 for the both of us? C’mon, let’s make a deal.”
We looked at each other. We didn’t have the money. If she said yes, we’d find a credit card to throw it on.
Queen: “Sorry guys. I can’t do it. Good luck.”
No black-and-white gala. Thursday night was out. We didn’t have a thousand bucks. It’s a good thing we were broke.
THE AMBUSH
ON FRIDAY NIGHT Ed Harris was going to appear at the Castro Theatre for a career retrospective and interview prior to the screening of A Flash of Green, one of his first starring roles. We’d ambush him there, at the Castro, and detain him in conversation. How? We had no idea. We’d never stepped foot in the Castro. But the Castro was now our only hope to speak face-to-face with four-time Academy Award nominee Ed Harris. To boost our confidence in this far-fetched mission, we used a syllogistic argument:
Men conduct business candidly, face-to-face. Ed Harris is a man. We are men. Therefore, we should conduct business with him face-to-face.
We convinced ourselves that Ed Harris needed to be in our movie. This was the role he’d been waiting for his entire life. The only reason he had an agent was to find him a role like this one. It would help not only us, but also him. We were helping him. We were helping Ed Harris.
Of course this probably sounds grandiose and delusional. (Ed Harris needs us? We’re helping him?) And it was. Times two. Because there’s two of us. So the delusion was twice as strong. One guy is gathering wood as the other one is throwing it on the fire. It keeps feeding and feeding, the twin fires of psychosis.
