You And A Catalog.

You’re a production assistant, the bottom of the ladder, a farmhand in the realm of the creative, a stable boy surrounded by poets.  Yes, here are bagels; here are donuts; here is coffee.  Quick, carry this metal pole up a hill.  Hurry, make sure the actors know they’re needed in five.  For God’s sake, keep the extras quiet.  All of it can be rather overwhelming.  Though, to be honest, you love it.

That first October morning on set was rather spiritual in the most wonderful and primal of ways.  There was the attentive crew hustling about with equipment held like delicate weapons, and there was the eager cast standing in sunlight, bobbing their heads while they practiced their lines, as if listening to some silent music.  My fingers danced in my stubble, nervous in a way I hadn’t been since puberty.  It was an eye-opening moment when I realized, fresh out of film school, that there was this whole world to which I was a virgin.  The Aristocrat was a crash course in how not to crash behind the wheel of independent moviemaking – of independence in general.

I like to think that many others would’ve folded under the pressure, sprinting in the opposite direction, tail between their legs, tears streaming down their face.  The weight of the PA’s responsibilities would’ve crushed them.  Regardless, I knew I might not have been the keystone in the construction of the arch, but I was sure as hell one of the bricks.

I remember those early lines spoken into a prop telephone with relative accuracy, but I am paraphrasing here:  “This is Eddie Kent.  Yeah, the new guy…  Well you better, because I’m gonna keep calling – I can never tell when a joke’s gotten old.”

I was completely captured by the fact that they were actually filming this scene in front of me and that it would actually be in a movie that thousands could see.  I had trouble grasping it.  The process before me was over a century old; it was sweat and blood and pure art.  It was magic.

Despite being that presumed lowly PA, I was blessed with a supportive, upbeat cast and crew, and, most importantly, a director who made me feel like everything I did was essential toward the success of the film.  When looking at my amateur caterer’s spread of M&Ms and Cheez-Its and pretzels, I was told, “Ian, this is amazing.”  It might seem silly, but those casual one-liners of encouragement would keep me going through fourteen-hour days and blistered feet and near exhaustion.  I was a part of something, something lasting; it was obvious.

And I felt, really, that I was in on a joke that would never get old.

Night falls and we start preparing for scenes 51 and 127. Eddie and Marc coming back from the bar drunk. Jeff does an hour of improv as a drunk to get ready. You can’t take your eyes off him. He walks through the set, the craft table, stumbling. He passes out. I wish we were shooting. He honestly reminds me of Chaplin when he’s in this mindset. I think what makes him so unique is how, even when standing still, he’s an actor who is still very much in his body. He knows he must use his physical as much as his voice, the words. We’re all pretty blown-away by what he’s been doing over the last couple days.

He’s something special.

Jeff, Adam and I talk about maybe improving this scene. I meant to write ‘improvise’ but ‘improving’ is just, if not more accurate. Jeff was telling me a story earlier about his father, a drinker and a fighter. “He and his friends used to fight.” he told me. “They’d get drunk and fight each other.”

I suggest we use that. How can it relate to sales? He begins working. While the crews lighting, I bring Jeff and Adam into the spare motel room. We have a beer and work the scene.

It’s windy. Hill and Brian have a piece of CTO on the 2K HMI. It’s whipping back and forth, making a lot of noise. Hillary and I get into a little snap about it. I need her to pull it because I can’t ADR improv. I don’t like ADR as a rule, I think it’s artificial and always noticeable but certainly not on improv. We need the gel, it makes a difference but if it effects the performance, I don’t care. Hillary understands and pulls it.

We bang out the scene and it’s as good as I could have hoped. I think it’s a top-level, great piece of screenwriting. An awesome monologue delivered by an awesome actor. And it was all improvised.

I feel really good. My actors have disappeared into their characters. I’ve thrown out the script and the shotlist. I now look to Hillary to be my eyes. Rachel keeps us running. Rich is there if I need a new line.

And the crew. I look out at them from the balcony of the motel. It’s begun to rain and the temperature’s dropped at least 15 degrees since we started. They’re shivering.

But they’re committed.

Five days down. Forty to go.

Hill needs porn. She has the brilliant idea that Eddie and Flodie should be [redacted] on porno mags instead of hotel stationary. Jonny A goes to the store for it. (”No one’ll get the right kind but me!”) and leaves PA’s to dress the set.

I rehearse with Gary and Adam while Stack hangs sound blankets. He said to me before he left: “Which direction are you shooting in?” I told him. “So I can hang sound blankets here?” I assured him he could.

As we move through the rehearsal, Gary mentions that I’ll probably cut to another angle, because the scenes too long to run in a master. I assure him that I will be getting coverage of this scene but “There’s no scene too long to run in a master.”

Jonny returns. He’s brought me, as usual, options but he’s also brought, as usual, such a perfect find there may as well not be any options.

An all-Spanish porno mag. Done and done.

We take our places and Hill and I realize we’re shooting the wrong way. We don’t plan these scenes, we feel them, improvising like jazz. It’s in this space that I notice the scene’s reflected in the TV. There’s our master.

“In the television?” Gary says. “That’s your master?” Yessir.

Of course, Stack does have to move his sound blankets.

Since we’re in the room, we decide to shoot Eddie on the phone, calling Flodie. It’s not on the schedule but we’re here and we’re lit. Gary sticks around to do his off-camera lines. We shoot it to shit, Adam rocks it.

This is starting to feel really, really good.

Night falls and we move outside to the soda machine. We’ve rigged Kino tubes inside and behind them. The ugly stone facade of the motel office gets a beautiful texture from the light. It’s all very Crewdson, one of mine and Hill’s visual references for the film. It’s cold and Adam and Jeff have to be in their boxers for the scene. I go behind the van and take off my pants in solidarity.

Jeff yells, “Yeah but you still got your goddamn hoodie on!”

Adam improvs this scene, Jeff sticks to the script. They’re both so damn good.

This is feeling so damn good.

Please join us for a special screening of our feature-film The Aristocrat on Wednesday September 16th, 2009 at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge, MA.

The screening’s at 7PM, tickets are $8 and can be purchased at the Brattle website.

Just because an independent film is finished does not mean the expenses end. Film festival submissions, posters, postcards, etc. all add up very quickly. All proceeds from this screening will go towards offsetting those costs and allow us to get what we consider a very special independent film out there.

Here’s the trailer…

The Aristocrat Trailer No. 1 from thearistocratmovie on Vimeo.

Stack comes up to me as we’re shooting the Courier Scene. He tells me I need to change my attitude. ‘Everyone else’s is effected by yours,’ he says. ‘This is not how you usually are.’

He’s right. But I can’t fake it. I’m afraid. Not that I can’t do this job but that I can’t do it perfectly. That the movie won’t be as good as I want it to be. But still, Stack’s right. Everyone is looking to me and if they’re doing their jobs, I need to do mine. I turn it on, the enthusiasm that pours out of me when I’m on-set. I remember that I just love to be here.

We wrap the scene and I feel good about it.

We move inside Marc’s motel room, for Eddie coming to his door to tell him he’s going out with Flodie. We get some beautiful stuff. When Eddie comes to the door– his wardrobe, the light and his performance… it looks and feels like a movie shot in the 80’s.

Then we get down on the filthy, stained motel floor for Marc making the stained-glass. I tell Hillary to put the 85 on and just roam. I watch the monitor and ask Jeff to try different things. ‘Hold that piece up to the light, take your glasses off…’ Hillary finds the moments, pulling focus herself. Jeff is in it, you’d think he’d been cutting stained-glass his whole life instead of just learning how twenty minutes ago.

Another end of the day meeting of department heads. This felt better. We’re not gelled yet but let’s see what tomorrow brings. On a bright note, O’Coin’s friend Moussa wants to invest in the movie. This’ll get us another full-time grip and some breathing room in other areas.

GAC