creating a/broad, May 25, 2013
by Cameryn Moore
I was going to write this whole column this week about how I’m starting to see the merit and the interest in writing shows that other people would perform in with me, and maybe at some point shows that other people would perform in without me, and wouldn’t that be a mind-blowing thing? I’m still going to write that piece, but that is not this week. This week is the week that filming is happening for the feature-film adaptation of Phone Whore, a five-day shoot in an apartment, and everything normal is out the window.
I think I’m maybe going to get half the word count in for this week’s column, and I’ll be happy with even that.
I’m writing this in the morning of the second day of filming, one day under my belt, and maybe by the time you read this, by the time Saturday rolls around, I will understand all these things, but right now I’m just sitting here AMAZED by so many things in film work, like, how come I’m so tired even though all I did yesterday is sit on my ass and wait for the director to call me over and do the scene again? Seriously, my whole body feels like it’s been through a pebble polisher. Or a meat grinder. Or just stomped on by 20 football players at once.
EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVERYTHING IS AT ALL TIMES
I can’t even imagine how wiped Jason is, who is shifting around heavy tripods and lights, or Vincent from France, the sound guy who is making like a tree the whole time, holding the boom over his head, or Sheri, the P.A. who keeps stepping up to give me an ice pack to keep cool just when I need it, or Stephanie, the script supervisor and assistant director, who has to remember WHERE EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVERYTHING IS AT ALL TIMES, lights, pens, last position of that glass of water, what order I take things out of the grocery bags. She takes pictures of it all, and re-sets it, scene after scene. Never mind my director, who is like a sweaty, slightly impatient little hummingbird all day. I don’t know what’s in that Gatorade bottle of his, but I’ve never seen anything like it.
Except for my director, I didn’t know any of these people before Thursday. I didn’t know any of what their jobs were or anything.
And now they are making things that I can’t even see, they are standing in the kitchen and having passionate discussions about light and shadows, and discussing the texture and sound of the light, a conference of synaesthetics launching into debate with each twitch of a reflector, each layer of gel. I feel like I am watching cats look at the wallpaper: it’s clear they are seeing something, but I don’t know what it is.
Sheri says to give it three days and then I will be jumping into the discussions along with the rest of them. I don’t think so. I’m just too damn bemused by the whole damn thing. More next week, y’all. It’s 8am and I have to put my makeup on and find free all-day parking in the Plateau and be there by 9, and I’m not going to make it, but at least I’ll be beautiful and ready to sit and wait.
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