Here's a little something that I wrote in a somewhat evil mood after having debated with my wife the question: "Is there such thing as a legit film deal anymore?" We concluded there wasn't and I proceeded to write a few pages of a story that's been forming in my head for awhile and loosely based on some of my experiences in the film biz (or what people here in LA call "the industry"). It seems that anyone who has lived in the LA area has at one time or another come into contact with the film industry and a good part of the time, it's been less-than-optimal. I've changed some venues and details to avoid needless offense (and not spoil my chances of making it big one day in the film business) . Here goes...
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“I want more misery!
Much more misery! This simply will not do.” The director, a short, thin balding
man with a goatee in his late 40s, was frustrated.
“Radek,
what sort of ‘misery’ do you have in mind? The living in foul conditions kind
of misery with shit all around type of misery or the psychologically
demoralized, angst-ridden, on-the-verge-of-suicide type of misery? You’re not
being very clear here…” Mac was exasperated with Radek’s crazy demands- nothing
seemed good enough and whatever Radek was envisioning, he was doing a crappy
job of communicating it to the crew.
“Well,
it should be obvious from the script or did you not bother to read it?” Radek
was dripping with contempt, his Eastern European accent abrasive.
“Tell
you what Radek, why don’t we just take a break and we’ll work on making the set
more ‘miserable’ for you. OK?” Mac fought to keep his temper in check.
“Fine,
you have 15 minutes.” Radek turned and stormed off the set and headed towards
ranch house that served as the base of operations for the production crew.
Mac
was close to walking off the set, he was that angry, and the prospect of a
four-hour drive back to LA or that he’d probably not get paid was becoming less
of a deterrent as Radek heaped abuse on him. Of course, with his luck, he’d
probably have to sue to get any money. But then were was Elise- he couldn’t
just walk out and leave her here in the desert alone, especially since Radek
was also a major leach who had a sideline seducing women on the set. She’d have
his hide for sure. No, he had to stay the course.
The
“set” consisted of a series of small canvas A-frame tents and lean-tos set up
in a gully with a stream running down the middle and located in a grove of
trees that was supposed to be a mining camp in the 1880s. About 300 yards
behind the gully was a series of ramshackle wooden buildings that was supposed
to be a generic Old West town out of late 19th Century. Further
beyond the town were a number of junky old trailers of indeterminate age with
non-functioning vehicles and miscellaneous junk of every description scattered all
about: it was late 20th Century Junkyard meets a spaghetti Western
version of the Old West. Such was the Big
Whiskey Movie Ranch, located some 45 miles northeast of Bakersfield in the foothills
of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and now the present home of Radek’s production
for the past two days. Complete Bum-Fuck Egypt, Mac thought. How he wished
they'd filmed at some place like Paramount Ranch or Big Sky Ranch- at least he
could sleep in his own bed every night.
Taking
a look around the set, Mac decided that based on the nearly incomprehensible
script he’d been given, the scene called for more of the shit-type misery.
“Charles!
Bill! Jose! I need you guys to get over to the corral and scoop up all the
horseshit you can find and bring it over here. We’ll scatter it around camp
some and then add some other touches to make it look like a bunch of people got
drunk the night before and then puked and shat all over everything.” The extras
were beginning to look at Mac nervously while Charles, Bill, and Jose muttered
under their breath and headed off to the corral, located on the other side of
the town. Mac figured that he’d strategically place a few piles of horseshit
around the camp and then scatter some old bottles he’d found piled up on the
side of the “saloon” in town. He’d also have a few of the extras play like they
were passed out, avoiding areas with the horseshit, or mime that they were
vomiting. That ought to capture the element of misery sufficiently enough.
Mac then noticed one of the extras surreptitiously walk
behind a tree next to the camp and proceed to urinate.
“Hey bud, don’t do that” The extra stopped but he wasn’t
happy about it.
“Why the hell not? Damn production is too fucking cheap
to hire a two-banger- film industry parlance for a porta-john- and the shitter
next to the town is backed up. What the fuck else do you expect me to do?”
“I have a better idea: pick out a spot in the camp and
pee. Mind you don't get it in the stream and remember to not lie down there
when we start filming.” The extra shrugged his shoulders, picked a place in
camp and proceeded to urinate right in the middle of the camp and farting for
good measure. Damn, that one’s got a big bladder thought Mac. The other extras
had a look of disgust.
“OK, now the rest of you! Come on, you've all been
standing around all morning drinking coffee so there's got to be something
there…anyone who has to go, go in the camp but mind you don’t lie on it or
something. Radek wants misery, we’ll give him misery!” Mac was inspired. He’d
give that son-of-a-bitch Radek plenty of misery. Reluctantly, the other extras
proceeded to select their places and proceeded to urinate. Good thing the scene
only called for males.
By this time, Mac’s associates had returned with two
wheelbarrows of horse manure that was extremely fresh. Mac directed them where
to strategically dump it and after it was all dumped, he stood back to admire
his handiwork. Yes, that ought to do it. Seeing the extras urinating all over
the camp set, Charles walked over to Mac.
“Mac,
just what the fuck is going on?” Charles said.
“Giving
Radek the ‘misery’ he wants…we aim to please!” Mac said.
“Shit…Mac,
you’ve got the one of the craziest motherfuckers I’ve ever seen- for a White
dude.” Charles shook his head in disbelief. That was a high complement from
Charles. Standing at six feet, four inches and weighing about 260 pounds, most
of it muscle, Charles looked positively terrifying: a gang-banging, straight-out-of-Compton
nightmare. In reality, Charles grew up in a stable middle class family from the
West Valley and his mom was an attorney and his dad a doctor. He’d played some
football in high school but stopped when he went off to college at UCLA-
interfered with his studies. And contrary to what was expected, he’d majored in
Museum Studies and minored in theater and ultimately graduated with a BA in
Museum Studies. Mac and Charles had met each other while in the Army Reserve
and had served together in the Gulf War. And like everyone else in LA, they
were both trying to crash the film industry but with little success.
Mac
looked at his watch, 10 am. At this rate, they weren't going to be finished
until midnight. They'd already wasted two hours filming drops of water coming
out of a keg while most of the cast and crew did nothing but sit around
smoking, reading, conversing, or checking their cell phones/personal devices in
the vain hope of getting a connection so they could check their emails or surf
the web. A typical day on a film set thought Mac. Just how had he allowed
himself to get sucked up into yet another low-budget/no-budget production that
didn't have a prayer of going anywhere? It was a question he constantly asked
himself….
