Film School

by Steve Boman

  When we see them again, the two have built a little temple to the toilet paper out of rocks. They both kneel before it, touching it gently.

  The boss enters, angry, and pushes them out of the way and grabs the toilet paper. Before he can throw it away, however, he, too, is struck. Suddenly the pissing, spitting boss is standing in an ornate, candle-lit cathedral.

  But then he blinks, and he’s back in the desert. He looks at the roll, and he understands.

  He runs, carrying the roll with him. The other two take chase, and now there’s a footrace through the desert. The boss is intercepted in a narrow draw by his second-in-command, who holds the sharpened survey pole like a spear. The roll changes hands. The second-in-command is then chased across the landscape by the third-in-command and is finally caught at the top of a cliff, where the two engage in a fistfight on the very edge of the precipice. With a mighty swing, the tiny third-in-command surveyor punches his coworker in the chin, sending the toilet paper roll flying from his hand down the cliff … right into the hands of the boss. The boss laughs, gets into the truck, and guns it. He’s free and clear, looking at the other two suckers in his rearview mirror when … Wham! He hits the brown-skinned woman with the truck and runs her over.

  She’s sprawled in the dirt, bleeding, dying. The three surveyors gather around the woman. Then, the smallest surveyor pulls toilet paper from the roll and applies it to her bloody wounds. His coworker takes some of the paper and applies it to her head.

  The boss, the guy who started the fighting, finally takes the last of the toilet paper and puts it under her head. Then the woman opens her eyes.

  The film ends.

  My script has everything my 507 fiction films lacked: conflict, action, adventure, humor, surprise, suspense, and depth. It also has a bigger cast—this little film features four characters—and it tackles a bigger issue. The central theme is what might happen to people when they see God or when they think they see God. My script is also ambiguous. It doesn’t try to tie up every loose end. It doesn’t answer questions. I want people to keep thinking about this little film when it ends.

  When writing the script, I feel a freedom I didn’t in my first semester. Then my stories were simple little affairs. Short hits to the infield. Now I’m swinging for the fences. I work as if there may be no tomorrow, and there’s a lot of freedom in that. Before I had my stroke, I’d joke I would die at 105 after being shot in the back by a jealous husband. Now I don’t know what the future holds.

  T

  he script is easy. Now comes the hard part. I need a location, three surveyors, a truck, survey equipment, a Mexican woman, and about twenty-four rolls of toilet paper.

  I put a notice on Nowcasting.com, the online matchmaking site for actors and producers. I write I’m a USC grad student shooting on sixteen-millimeter color film who needs actors who can work in extreme heat or cold out of doors for six days over three weekends, in difficult terrain. I warn there will be no dialogue—so no speaking parts. I note that the shoot will take place somewhere outside of Los Angeles, rain or shine, dawn to dusk. There is no pay, just free food. It sounds like that famous advertisement for the Pony Express: Must be expert riders, willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred.

  I now need to find a location, which is complicated by yet another fire season that’s being called one of the worst in memory. I’ve now been in California five years, and every fire season, the locals seem to have short memories. Every year is bad, one of the worst, according to the locals. This year is no different. As a result, all National Forest Service lands are closed to all filming. That means almost every bit of public land in Southern California is off-limits. I call Film LA for help. They never return a call. As usual, they’re worthless. I go online and find nothing.

  After several days researching via the computer and working the phones, I go back, fill up the Suburban with gas, and start driving. I’m looking for private land. I stop at horse farms, ranches, shooting ranges. I drive up canyons, get out and ask.

  No one I talk to wants to have a crew of USC film students on their property for six days. Despite my assurances, the owners worry about fire risk and liability. It crosses my mind they think I might be a thief—I’m sure I sound preposterous when I say I’m a film student—or that I’m looking for a location to shoot porn or do something else illicit. I go to a paintball range, quarries. No luck.

  I’m driving late in the afternoon, and I’ve been on the road for eight hours. I’m in northern Los Angeles County on Highway 14 when I see a promising road off the highway. I turn onto it and see a sign advertising a Film Shooting Ranch. I follow the sign.

  The place is closed. But off in the distance, I see some very cool rock outcroppings, and there’s a sign for Vasquez Rocks County Park. I drive in right before closing time and find an unbelievable location. There’s a weird slanted rock outcropping and uninterrupted vistas to the east. It’s a small park, less than a thousand acres, but it seems eerily perfect.

  I go to the ranger’s office and knock. When I step inside, I realize I’m not the first person to find the area unique for filming. On the wall are photos of movies and TV shows the park has hosted: STAR TREK, THE FLINTSTONES, BONANZA, and THE LONE RANGER to name just a few.

  A grandmotherly park ranger greets me. I tell her I’m looking to shoot a student film, and she asks me which film school I attend. I say USC, and she says, “Oh, that’s good. You give us the least amount of trouble.” I ask her to clarify and she says she’s had some bad luck with other Los Angeles–based film schools. She shrugs and won’t explain any further. She pulls out her scheduling book, and I see how many other production companies are slated to use the park in the coming two months. She says the set for the next STAR TREK film is under construction, so we can’t use the park Monday through Fridays. She looks down her ledger and announces we could shoot weekends later in the month. “You’d be the last group I can take. There’s already an AFI crew coming those weekends.” AFI is another film school—American Film Institute. She needs me to fill out permits and a site map where we’ll be shooting and lots of insurance paperwork. And, I’ll need a filming permit from Film LA.

  She’s friendly and upbeat. I can’t believe my good luck.

  I’ve never heard of Vasquez Rocks. USC has a rule that 508 films must be shot within a fifty-mile radius of campus. Vasquez Rocks is within that radius. It’s perfect.

  The next day, I drive to the park and tromp through the wilderness and onto the fantastic rock outcroppings in my Red Wing boots. I’m glad to have them because this is snake country. Yet it’s a mystical place where it’s possible to lose perspective. I see why Hollywood has loved shooting here since the 1930s. It’s sunny and gorgeous, and I can’t imagine a better place to film.

  T

  he next things I need are costumes and props. The big film studios will rent an amazing variety of equipment to film students—if you’re willing to pay the price. I can’t afford to spend much, so I try to rent some dated equipment from survey supply stories. I can’t. Then I call a half-dozen surveyors. Nothing. Call another handful. Zip.

  Then I get a call back from a surveyor in Glendale, Robert Hennon. At first, he’s wary, but he becomes friendly the longer we talk on the phone. He invites me to meet him at his office later in the week.

  When I walk into Hennon’s office, I find he’s made his decision already. There’s a stack of surveying equipment in the corner. Poles, surveying telescope, backpacks, orange safety vests … the whole nine yards. He says he and his wife thought it was a pretty cool idea for a film. “Surveyors are never in films. And if they are, they’re always bad guys,” Hennon says. He entertains me with surveyor lore and shares a tremendous amount of information about his profession. “Do you know that a licensed surveyor is the only person who can legally trespass through private property without a warrant?”

  “No, I did not,” I answer.

  “What do you think is the first man-made thing on ear
th a visitor from space sees?” Hennon asks.

  “Um, the Great Wall of China?” I answer.

  “No!” he explains, triumphant. “It’s the original survey grid of America!” He points to a photo of the earth taken from space. Sure enough, there’s a patchwork of squares of farmland in the Midwest. The entire American West is defined by one perfectly straight snap-line, an idea thought up, he says, by Thomas Jefferson, a surveyor by training.

  We talk more and discover I live just a few blocks from his house. That seals it. Now I’m really a good guy.

  I ask him how much he wants to charge for his equipment. “Ah, nothing. Just don’t lose it. The equipment’s still useable and it would cost me a lot to replace it.”

  I gulp. “Thanks. You sure?”

  He’s sure.

  We load the equipment into my truck and shake hands. “Bring it back whenever you’re done,” he says. “Maybe I’ll come out and give you a hand when you shoot, if you want.”

  I drive away, having ticked another item off my list. I’m feeling really lucky. Dan is still toiling day after day on the sound for THE ORPHAN, and I’ve got a location, costumes, and props.

  An hour later, my phone rings. It’s Hennon. “Hey, Steve, I was just talking to my wife about you. We both thought it would be great if you wanted to use our old surveying vehicle. I’m buying a new pickup truck, and we won’t need our old truck when you’re making your movie.”

  I’m wondering if he’s pulling my leg. He’s not.

  “It’s a really great-looking truck,” he goes on. “I mean, it’s old and battered and it’s full of surveying gear. My guys beat the crap out of it. It’s really great.”

  I remind him I’d need a vehicle for three long weekends, and I’d be putting hundreds of miles on it. “Oh, I don’t care,” he says. “We’ve had that truck for twenty years, and it means a lot to us. My wife and I would love to have it be in a movie. Then we can watch it and remember it. We started our business with that truck.”

  Okaaay, I say.

  I’ve now got a free vehicle.

  I

  ’m still missing the most important thing I need for my 508 film. I check NowCasting.com. I posted for three roles on the site: Boss, who needs to be physically imposing; Matt, who needs to be medium-sized; and Lil’ John.

  The list of those who responded to my posting and submitted their information is a bit short.

  So I call and email everyone who submitted and invite them to an audition on the USC campus. I’m aware from conversations with classmates that only a fraction of actors will respond. The audition serves two purposes. One, it obviously gives me a chance to meet actors face-to-face. Two, and perhaps the most important thing, it makes actors jump through some hoops. If they really want a role, they’ll fight through traffic and make a pilgrimage to the intersection of Hoover and Jefferson.

  I get a call back from a dozen actors who say they’ll come to my audition. I set it up for a Saturday. I reserve a classroom. Make signs giving directions. Buy lots of donuts.

  USC asks that all students holding auditions do so in pairs at a minimum. It’s to protect the actors and avoid casting-couch temptations—or the allegations thereof—and to protect the students because they are inviting strangers into a closed room. Because I’m producing this by myself, I don’t have the luxury. I’ll be doing the audition solo. I’m not worried. I’m casting men. I can take care of myself.

  The day of the audition, I’ve got my afternoon blocked off from 1 P.M. to 3 P.M. It’s an open call—show up when you can. At 1 P.M., a neatly dressed man named Robert enters. We talk, he gives me his headshot. He’s a likable guy, we talk, he leaves. For the next hour, no one else comes. I’m bored, so I move out into the hallway and take a seat on some of the chairs I’ve lined up. I grab a donut and eat it. I eat another one. There are a lot of donuts left. I eat another one.

  As I’m eating, a guy walks down the hall and sees the number on my audition room door. He’s an outdoorsy looking guy, hiking boots and a thick stubble.

  “Here for the audition?” I ask.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Yup,” I say. I pause a moment, and continue: “I don’t really know if I wanna go through this. I’ve been listening through the door. The director sounds like a king-sized ass.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. A few minutes ago, another guy left. The director was yelling at him.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s really too bad. We come all the way down here to USC and get treated like this.”

  The guy doesn’t want to agree with me. He just shrugs.

  I keep piling it on: “These film school directors suck.”

  He’s silent.

  I stick my hand out. “I’m the director.”

  He breaks into a big smile. “I’m Jeffrey Miles.” We shake.

  We spend a few minutes talking about the role and his acting background. We never leave the hallway. I like this Jeffrey Miles. He leaves.

  Fifteen minutes later, I get a call on my cell. Another actor. He wants to know if I’m going to be there. I am, I assure him. He’ll be there in ten, he says.

  Fifteen minutes later, a small, fine-featured man runs down the hallway. He apologizes for being late. I’ve made sure to write down a long list of names on my legal pad. When he gives me his headshot, I add it to a folder that I’d prestacked with other headshots. I want to give the impression that all of Los Angeles is vying for a spot in my film. The actor says his name is Dream. He’s bubbling with energy. He says he really wants to work on this film.

  He leaves, and I’m left with a half box of uneaten donuts. Three hours. Three actors.

  They don’t know it, but they all have a role in my film.

  Lots of people in Los Angeles say they want to act. But when the rubber meets the road, few seem willing to spend the time and effort to get a role. For me, what starts with thirty-eight applicants ends up with three willing actors.

  I wait a day to call the three back. And this being the training ground for Hollywood, I feed them some bullcrap.

  Me: “Hey Robert/Jeffrey/Dream: I really liked you. I think you’d be awesome for the part.”

  Robert/Jeffrey/Dream: “That’s great!”

  Me: “Now, there’s a lot of interest for this part. I think you’re the best, but I need to know for certain that you can make it every single weekend. This is six days of shooting. I simply can’t have anyone dropping out. If you have any doubts, let me know and I’ll go with someone else.”

  Robert/Jeffery/Dream all insist they will be there, every single weekend.

  E

  verything is turning up roses for my 508 film. Location, props, costumes, actors, script. I call up my nephew Mikey and ask him if he’s game to be an assistant during the shoot. We’ll be in the desert, and I need as many hands as possible. He’s excited. He’s got more energy than a Lab puppy. He’ll drive his motorcycle up from San Pedro, a ninety-minute haul.

  Robert the surveyor says he will indeed come out to the set, if I don’t mind. He’ll show me the ropes, he says, and stay out of the way. He gives me the keys to his old truck.

  Irene tells me she’s going to cater every meal for the cast and crew. She refuses to be talked out of it. “I can make some really nice roast beef sandwiches and a coleslaw salad and some fruit. Do you think they would like that? I’ll put some cookies in there, too.”

  She and Carl want to come and watch, too. Is that a problem? they ask. Of course not, I tell them.

  I’ve had a sign maker create a pair of metallic door signs for the truck: ARIZONA SURVEYING

  The only thing I can’t find is a pair of Arizona license plates. I spend a morning at auto salvage yards in the far reaches of the San Fernando Valley looking for an old Arizona plate. It is time badly spent: a junkman tells me California law prohibits selling old license plates.

  We have eight vehicles between cast and crew and an hour drive. It’s becoming
a real production.

  The week before shooting I’m watching two films over and over before I go to bed: THE SEVENTH SEAL, directed by Ingmar Bergman, and LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, directed by David Lean. I use them both as inspiration.

  The day before the shoot, I walk the desert. I’ve got a list of shots I want sketched out on storyboards. I spend the day tramping around, running up rock faces, standing atop the huge outcroppings that make Vasquez so unique. In the still desert air, I feel my blood pump in my ears. It’s so quiet. It’s so beautiful. I just hope everyone shows up.

  I

  ’ve now preproduced the entire film. I’ve never so much as texted Dan asking him for help.

  The first day of the shoot is scheduled for Vasquez Rocks, 8 A.M. Saturday. The park gates open then, and close precisely at 5 P.M. We have our work cut out for us.

  On Saturday, I leave before 7 A.M. in the old surveying truck. It creaks and groans like an old ship, and the leaky windows create a roar inside that makes the radio pretty useless. The surveyor had warned me about the brakes—they were bad, he said—and he was right. I push the brake pedal on the Highway 14 off-ramp and the truck slows slightly. I grunt down with both feet, and the truck loses speed with only a little more alacrity. The truck has character, however, and it looks perfect.

  I’ve long felt that the right props and the right location don’t make a movie, but they sure can kill it. When I watch a film, I obsess over the little things, and I look and listen for errors. If I find them, they take me out of the film. Good films and television shows are good for a reason, and attention to detail is a big part of it. On this film, I feel I’ve got all the details right … except the darn license plates.

  I’m at the entrance to the park by 7:30 A.M. Today will be the acid test. Will the actors be on time? Will they find the park? Will they show up at all?