(Or alternate title: Lights, Camera, Stand around and do nothing for a really long time!)
My friend is back in Beantown filming her movie with her whole crew of Georgia hayseeds, and I have the privilege of being a production assistant/wardrobe assistant/crew slut. It has been a truly enlightening experience thus far. And magical. Don't forget magical--in the black, ominous sense of the word.
Let's see, the first day began by getting locked out of the warehouse only moments before the casting call; then, without warning or provocation, the Chelsea DPW decided to destroy the street where the first scenes were to be shot; the owner of the house that was supposed to be used for a multitude of exterior shots decided that it would be an awesome idea to fill their front yard with plastic statues of liberty and a vast army of lawn gnomes; then the storm hit, making it impossible to shoot "spring" scenes, halting production and stranding a car full of actors and vital crew members; the production van got towed, with all the equipment still inside it; and the costume director went missing for almost three hours along with the all of the costumes when she was due to be on set. That was only the first day. Not to mention that everyone is running on Georgia time, people are getting sick left and right, and that it's about ten thousand clams over budget.
I mean, seriously, does this kind of shit happen to Spielberg? Enquiring minds want to know.
Nevertheless, I thought it would be a good idea to bring my brother along with me to the set, because he has big, shiny dreamsicles of being a big shot film director. It was all part of my grand scheme to dissuade him from going down the career path to becoming an egotistical art-whore, or worse, Matthew Barney. It's a slippery slope, you see. One day you're selling your sperm to buy super 8 film, and the next thing you know, you're up to your armpit hair in petroleum jelly and making babies with Bjork. Anyway, I had hoped that in bringing him along, he would get a more realistic picture of the crummy side of filmmaking: the tedious, stand-about-waiting-for-shit-to-happen end of the whole business, the panic-panic-panic-town that ensues when nature and other uncontrollable events put you on the fast train to Sadsville, and the sleep-deprived crew meltdowns fueled by long hours and prolonged exposure to extreme cold. Fortunately for me, there was enough of all of those things to push everyone to the limits of sanity.
Much to my surprise and dismay, this experience did not have the intended effect on my brother. In fact, I would have to say that it galvanized him.
Bjork babies. Alas.
You know, I'm not even sure where I was going with this blog. Chalk it up to the long hours and 4:30 a.m. wake-up calls.
I'm only glad that there are enough film directors in the world so that I don't have to be one. I mean, I'd just end up firing everyone anyway. You, costume director--you're fired. And you too, whatever your name is. And you over there, with the face--pack your shit and leave. And you, holding the camera--you're fired too. You're all fired. Additionally, I would never shoot a movie during the day because I now have a new rule, and that rule is that Jtron gets out of bed at 5 a.m. for no man, even if that man is Spielberg himself. Spielberg can suck it. And so can Bjork. She can suck it too.
And Chelsea. Chelsea can suck it as well.
Everyone, suck it.
I'm going to bed.
Wake me up on Thursday.
