Wednesday, May 18, 2011

48 Hours

It’s 4:00am Sunday morning, and I’ve been up for twenty - two hours.  I’m sitting in front of Samuel Hall’s editing suite in South Philly.  He’s just finished color correcting the last shot from our movie.
“Okay,” he says as we watch the yellow render bar slowly creep.  “What’s left?”
Somewhere, deep inside my barely - operational brain, a list begins checking itself off.  Fix the dialog for the second half of the movie.  Record and add foley.  Write, record and mix music.  Render a master and compress an online.  
Is it four in the morning?  Shit.
“I think,” Sam says, “for our health, we should get some sleep.” 

Bill Dwyer
Photo by Samuel Hall
*****

It’s 6:07pm Friday and we’re in my office in Center City, staring at the 48 Hour Guerrilla Film Competition’s website.  My mind runs through possible prompts.  
Romantic Comedy?  Difficult.  
Grindhouse?  No problem.  
Action/Adventure?  A dream come true.  
Space Opera?  We should probably just concede.  
Sam clicks the “Start” button and the GFC’s website refreshes as it loads our prompt.  We hold our breath.  
*****
“Email me a copy of the script,” Sam says before he leaves.  It’s 10pm Friday and we’ve just finished “Blood” a conspiracy thriller.  It will be our life for the next forty - four hours.
This is not a regular screenplay.  It’s four pages long, almost all dialog.  It’s missing scenes because they’re unnecessary to put down on paper.  It’s a cross between Fringe and the Bourne trilogy.  We wrote it in two hours.  We’ve spent the last two planning out shots and logistics.  We’ve contacted the actors and set up times.  In short; we’ve done all we can for the night.
Sam heads home and I email him the script.  We go to bed, where we barely sleep.  I dream that a fat diamondback rattlesnake is chasing me.
*****

It’s 11:30am Saturday.  Bill Dwyer, our everyman hero, sits on a bench in the middle of a crowded Rittenhouse Square.  Next to him is Alexander Sando, a scientist who might not be as crazy as he sounds.  He’s just told Bill that he needs to inject him with a secret serum; the cure to a deadly virus.
“I don’t mind assisting...” Bill begins.  This is the line he can’t screw up.  This is the prompt line, the one we were assigned, the one that has to be perfect.  
A girl, no older than 9, runs through the shot, yelling.  For a moment, the actors hold it together, then break into laughter.  
“Cut,” I say, grinning.  The father apologizes profusely, but we laugh it off.  This isn’t big budget.  Hell, this isn’t even low budget.
I look over to Sam.  He’s crouched behind his camera, laughing and shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.  
We are alive.  

Bill Dwyer, Alexander Sando, me and Beth Gorman
Photo by Samuel Hall
*****
It's 4pm Saturday and Andrew Feierabend is pointing a pistol at Bill's head.  Bill is tied to a chair in the middle of a derelict old building.  The floor is giving way in one corner.  Rain hammers the windows outside.  
"Who am I?" Andrew asks, rage coloring the edges of his words.  "I'm the man with the gun."
Bill looks into his eyes, fearful.  "Where's the man with the balls to use it?"
The entire crew breaks into laughter.  Beth Gorman goes over to muss Bill's hair.  It's too kempt for a guy who's just been kidnapped.
*****
It's 8pm Saturday and Billy Zane is talking to Jessica Fletcher.  Meghan Marvin lies on a yoga mat on the floor, occasionally offering words of criticism to the characters on Murder She Wrote.  I'm sitting on the couch.  Sam's in a recliner.  His cat, Rooth, is curled on his chest.  
We're waiting for the footage to transcode.  I close my eyes, trying to force myself into sleep for a few minutes.  It isn't working.
"I have coffee if you want it," Meghan tells me.
"I didn't know you drank coffee," I say.
"I don't generally," she explains, "but sometimes I just really crave it."
Rooth puts her paw on Sam's face.  It looks like she's trying to push his mouth open.  

Beth Gorman and Elizabeth Green
Photo by Samuel Hall
*****
"I can't do this anymore," I say.  I push away from the computer and stand up.  It's 11pm Saturday and I've been syncing dialog with images for two hours.  The first scene is almost done.
Sam takes over and begins to cut the chase scene.  I drink grape juice and wonder if I'm going home tonight.  
*****
It's 2am Saturday and I know I'm sleeping here.  The air conditioner hums in the window, the sound accented by the pitter patter of rain on its metal exterior.  
Our cut is done.  The movie is five minutes and forty - two seconds.  
"I think I can do the color correction," Sam tells me.
I feel like I'm going to die.  I can actually tell that parts of my brain have shut off.  I remember an episode of SGU where they talked about sleep deprivation.  They said that sections of your brain will actually go to sleep, even when you're still wide awake.  
Sam exports the XML and opens it in Premiere, then After Effects.  I keep seeing something out of the corner of my eye.  It looks like a human figure.  


Bill Dwyer and me
Photo by Samuel Hall

*****
Rooth jumps on me.  I'm on Sam's couch.  I don't know what time it is.  I've slept soundly and deeply.  
I check my phone.  8:45am.  Sunday.  I get up and take the coffee out of the fridge.  I consider making half a pot, then decide that's stupid and brew a full one.  I take my first cup upstairs.  It’s in a black Ikea mug.  
Sam's already there, in his pajamas.  He's only been up a few minutes.  The day is fresh and I feel surprisingly good.  
*****
11am Sunday.  I feel like shit.  I ate a bowl of shredded wheat mixed with soy milk and vanilla ice cream.  Then I took two painkillers for my headache.  I feel hot.  I think I'm going to vomit.  
Sam's music fills the room.  He's deep in Garageband, pounding out drums, cellos and pianos.  I go down to the basement and record foley.  


Bill Dwyer and Andrew Feierabend
Photo by Samuel Hall
*****
It’s 3pm Sunday.  Sam’s other cat, Chelsea, wanders over his desk, rubbing herself against his chin.  He reaches around her to use his keyboard.  He doesn’t throw her down.  
We’re doing the final mix: dialog, music and foley.  Sam doesn’t like the final piece of music.  He sits down at his keyboard, almost in a rage.  He re - scores the entire end of the movie.  It’s better.  
“I just want my life back,” he says.  It’s a half joke.  Only half.  
I never did vomit.
*****
It’s 4pm Sunday and it’s done.  We stand at the island between Sam’s living room and kitchen.  He makes beans and I eat ice cream.  Upstairs, the computer compresses an online version of our forty - eight hours of effort.  
“We have to re - integrate with society now,” Sam says.  This is true.  We’ve lived this movie for the past two days.  There has been nothing else.
I make a joke about the “civvies” and put my ice cream in the freezer.  We go upstairs to upload the movie to the website.  We are exhausted, pushed to the very brink of our endurance.  
We are alive.  



Watch it here.

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