An ostrich in our midst

We’re on our third last day of the shoot and by now are such a well oiled machine, that our ship is galloping along at a steady three hundred and fifty knots. The crew and cast all know each other’s foibles and everyone is working well together. I don’t think anyone has slept with anyone else so far although there is still the wrap party on Saturday night to look forward to and even if they had all been humping each other like rabbits, I wouldn’t know about it because nobody tells me anything.

As we cruise along getting our shots all hell is breaking loose in the production office. For the last two days of the shoot we will be filming in the frighteningly capacious ballroom of the Burlington hotel in Dublin where rather than pack it with drunken wedding revellers, which are the usual clientele, we will be using it as a venue for a ‘MASSIVE’ recruitment fair. The word ‘massive’ is important here because when you have a budget like ours you want no requirements to be referred to as ‘MASSIVE’ apart from perhaps ‘the crack’ you were hoping to have at the wrap party with that ‘young one’ from the art department.

The problem with ‘massive’ is that in reality that means shed loads of people i.e. hundreds of jobseekers milling around the place as opposed to the eight that our remaining budget can just about afford. I have in my typical courageous way, left the problem of making a cast of thousands out of a couple of loaves and a few haddock to the production office to solve. I have totally blanked out the last two days of the shoot as though it is not happening and anytime someone mentions it to me I am like the child who sticks her fingers in her ears and repeats loudly “I’m not listening, I’m not listening” whilst her sibling taunts her about having fat thighs or being exactly like her mother or in my case, both. I’m only praying that the production office is not behaving in the same way but I have no way of knowing because of my refusal to face the whole potentially horrid mess.

Normally the job of getting extras falls to the second assistant director. She picks up the phone and calls an extras agency and says “ Hello there. I would like three hundred and fifty people who should dress in smart clothes as they will be jobseekers at a massive recruitment fair next Friday morning at eight o’clock at the Burlington Hotel please” The person at the end of the phone says “No Problem.” The whole thing is over in about 30 seconds and in another two weeks or so the extras agency receives a walloping cheque for all the extras it has provided. In this instance the similarity ends as soon as the second assistant director picks up the phone because in this instance she calls the production office and says “WHERE the F**K ARE WE GOING TO GET 350 PEOPLE FOR FRIDAY?” The production office promptly shouts back similar sorts of expletives and slams down the phone. I don’t know that these are the exact details of what is happening but by the ashen faces of the producer and the production manager I figure I’m in the right ballpark.

We don’t have the money to pay extras and even if we did we don’t have the money to feed them which is the least you can do for people when they give you twelve hours of their time pretending to be someone they’re not.

I suddenly feel deeply sorry for AnneMarie the producer and sidle up to her and suggest that I could ask a couple of distant relatives to appear on the day. She tries not to throttle me and assures me that it will all be fine. Even though it is clearly obvious that she has never told such a big fat lie in her life and I am tempted to ask her to show me the black line that has certainly appeared down the middle of her tongue, I don’t because we’re all adults here and if she has it all sorted well, that’s fine by me.

So I slink away back to our soon to be teetering ship and put my fingers back in my ears just in case AnneMarie changes her mind and decides that I should after all be involved in solving this seemingly impossible task.

In another world

Editors are a funny lot. Some are quite weird and most are very weird. They’re a bit like sound engineers but with shorter hair and better hygiene habits. They spend their lives staring at a computer screen in windowless or blacked out rooms so it’s not surprising that their minds wander to places us normal people cannot reach. Editors like their space. They also like only Mac computers, all gadgets, chocolate biscuits ideally with a toffee filling, takeaways and talking loudly to themselves. Editors don’t like football or any sort of sport. They don’t like starting work before 10 am and they hate directors who yak away incessantly about nothing and who sit too close. This  invasion of personal space is something that directors generally have no clue about so constantly infringe the editor’s “if you insist on being here, you must be sitting at least ten-feet behind me where I can’t see you” rule.

It’s lunchtime on day 15 and I make my daily call to Paul, our editor. For the purpose of this exercise you must imagine me brimming with boundless enthusiasm like a child on Christmas morning or a seal clapping it’s flippers waiting to be thrown a dead fish.

Now imagine Paul as the polar opposite. 

The call goes something like this -

Phone rings for an age but is finally answered.

            ME

            ‘Hi! Paul! It’s Lisa!”

           PAUL

            ‘Hi’

  (Subtext – ‘Oh, it’s you again’)

            ME

            ‘Great! So, how are you? How are you getting on?’

            PAUL

            ‘Fine’

 (Subtext – ‘what? what time is it? where am I?’)

Silence…

            ME           

 “ Great!…eh…so..did you see yesterday’s stuff? What’s it like? Is it okay?”

Silence…

           PAUL

            ‘Yep’

            (Subtext – ‘what day was yesterday?’)

Longer silence as I wait for him to elaborate a bit.

Eventually.

            ME

“Great! Eh so did you see the scene where Tom smears the walls with Mud? …how did that work out?... Is it funny? Is it?”

            PAUL

            ‘Yeah’

            (Subtext – ‘which scene?’)

Really long silence

            ME

“Great! And ..eh..the one where he’s in his pants on the stairs?....that one….is that one funny?"

            PAUL

‘Yeah’

(Subtext – ‘oh yeah, I remember those pants. I have pants like them’) 

Unbearably long silence during which I begin to sweat.

            ME

            ‘GREAT!…so…eh…so …eh,  I suppose, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?’

            PAUL

            ‘Yeah’

            (Subtext – ‘shit, I’m working tomorrow’)

 Phone goes dead.

            ME

            ‘Great!’

Now don’t get me wrong. Paul is an extremely nice chap; a very good editor and we get on swimmingly. That is to say that he has learned to tolerate me, never shouts abuse at me or when I am in the room and I have even seen him smile on several occasions not to mention the one time he actually laughed whilst cutting a scene, which is the ultimate compliment from an editor particularly if you’re making a comedy. Both of us were so taken aback by that spontanious burst of mirth that we had to take a half-day to get over the shock.

I have been very lucky in that I have never worked with an editor that I didn’t get on with. It is vital to get on with your editor – you will be spending weeks if not months together in the same dark room with only each other for company where everyday seems like eternal night and the only respite from the increasing madness that ensues is when the runner arrives with Kit Kats and tea.

There was the one occasion when I was working on a TV drama and we needed to get a second editor to cut a football sequence that was in one of the episodes. I had never worked with this editor and on the night before our first day together I went out and got horribly drunk. So drunk that I was still plastered but also violently hung over when I arrived in work the next day. We made our introductions and I knew immediately that if I did not lie down RIGHT NOW I was going to vomit all over her. Now, normally, editing suites provide at least one couch for clients. I suppose post production houses realised pretty quickly that the new style of director that emerged in the eighties was going to spend most of their time sleeping off drink and drug infused binges so began to provide nice comfy couches for them to recover on. Editors like sleeping directors. These couches are normally leather or some other similar fabric, which is easy to wipe clean with always-at-hand industrial strength disinfectant.

But on this day in this edit suite there was no couch so there was nothing for it but to lie on the floor and that is where I stayed for the entire day drifting in and out of consciousness, dribbling on the carpet and occasionally grunting incoherent instructions at this poor unfortunate girl who made the whole thing brilliant without me and I imagine has thanked her lucky stars that she has never met me since.

See what I mean? Editors are just weird.

Stand tall.

And so the final week of shooting dawns and I have banjaxed my back. If I stand in a natural pose I am bent from the waist at a 45-degree angle. I cannot straighten my knees, my bottom is sticking out in a most unsightly fashion and as my main view is the ground I now see how horribly filthy my kitchen floor is. I have to be on set at 11.00am so need a very quick fix.

AnneMarie the producer organises for me to see an osteopath. I arrive at his rooms at 8am and drag my way hunched like your man from Notre Dame up two flights of stairs. The osteopath is Australian and very chirpy. I am always amazed at how people who move here from the southern hemisphere can ever be happy but he assures me that the constant rain does not bother him. I conclude that he is either in the first flushes of a love affair or on heavy doses of mind-altering drugs. I shake his hand and try not to appear that I am staring at his crotch but as that is the level my head is currently pitched at, it’s hard not to. For the next hour he gently pokes and prods me and soothes me with his silvery voice. I emerge cured yet feeling slightly odd – the sort of odd I imagine you might feel if you ate a load of those ‘funny’ mushrooms that students enthusiastically forage for in forests across the land during weekends in September. 

I manage to drive myself to the set and arrive in a state of what can only be described as - stoned out of my bin. The Osteopath did mention that after all the manipulation and whatever else he did to me I might feel a little woozy. So that’s what they call it down there in Melbourne or Katoomba or wherever the good drugs come from. Everyone is very concerned when they see me and ply me with sympathy and offers of comfy chairs. I respond with a dreamy grin and a couple of peace signs.

Thank Goodness I am working with Mary Murray (Rachel) and Sam Corry (Tom) today as they are veterans of the screen and know exactly what they are doing as I am no use whatsoever and spend the next four hours either staring at the ceiling, humming nursery rhymes or smiling benignly at all who pass and wondering if anyone notices that I am acting strange. Nobody mentions it if they do and before I know it we’re half way through the day and lunch is called.

By the time our work resumes I have somewhat been restored to my old self and even begin to say clever things like ‘Action’ and ‘Cut.’ We are doing several scenes where Sam Corry is wearing nothing but his underpants. I have, with the enthusiastic blessing of the costume designer, chosen the most hideous pair of y-fronts and Clodagh has dyed them a lovely grey colour – the sort of colour that all sparkly white underwear goes after it has been washed with that elusive black sock that is never apparent when you put the wash in the machine but is top of the pile when you take it out. Socks can snigger – I’ve heard it myself.

Sam has offered up his own ideas for the underwear in a vague hope that our minds will be changed but his stuff looks too trendy – boxer shorts and the like and as I ignore his notions completely and shove him and the y-fronts into the loo to change I suggest that he should regard himself very lucky that I have not insisted he wear a leopard skin thong.

The authority I exert is so empowering and makes me feel so good that once again I reach my full and impressive stature of five foot three.

Suit your Sir

Tom O'Sullivan (Jeremy) and Will O'Connell (Trevor)

It’s Saturday and the last day of our second week of shooting. 11 days in and only 5 days left. We are at last free from the mayhem of filming in town and will be spending all day in an open plan office which we have to ourselves.  It’s very spacious and as we’re filming in only one section the crew immediately bag various free areas where they start spreading out all their stuff. Film crews get very territorial very quickly so boundaries are carefully respected although our lot are very congenial so a standoff is unlikely even if Paddy Sound does invade Ron Camera’s space.

The mood is good and there is even a kitchen from which apparently, real coffee will be served. I wish I drank coffee – it’s seems to deliver such pleasure to so many and a double espresso has far more street cred than a cup of watery black tea which is my brew of choice. I’ve often wondered why I have yet to be courted by Hollywood and rather than it being something to do with talent, perhaps it is more my taste in hot drinks? Americans love their coffee and I can’t see George Lucas or any La La producery types courting me as we sip insipid tea with a nice digestive biscuit on the side.

The three actors today are Sam Corry (Tom) Tom O’Sullivan (Jeremy) and Will O’Connell (Trevor.) We also have three extras who are ‘real’ people from this office who have given up their Saturday to see how things on a film set work (or maybe it was a way of avoiding bringing children to swimming, football and then piano which is the sort of thing a lot of adults seem to have to do these Saturdays.) Whatever, their reason, I’m extremely grateful to have them at our disposal and they rally through the day picking up phones, miming animated conversations to no-one, putting down phones, standing up, sitting down, walking over here then back over there, all in a trojan effort to make their three selves appear like twenty very busy people. It kinda works.

Clodagh our costume designer has a spring in her step today. At last she has been given an actor whose dress code is not ill-fitting polyester suit with grotesque tie. Jeremy, Tom’s boss although a total jerk, has nice taste in suits as does the actor who used to be a ‘suit’ in his previous career and has brought a selection of his finery along. Some actors don’t like to wear their own clothes as they find it weird and difficult to distinguish between themselves and the character they’re playing but Tom who plays Jeremy is happy to help out which is a blessed relief as if we had to hire in his clobber well, that would have been the entire costume budget gone and there wouldn’t have been a penny left to buy our previously mentioned g-strings. Also without getting too personal, Tom is tall and very nicely built and as Clodagh says herself would look fantastic in anything you’d choose to put him including a black plastic bin bag. However, although he has a lot of costume changes today, a bin bag is not one of them.

We have ten scenes to do with the three lads. Jeremy is lazy, arrogant, opinionated and a bully (although I don’t like to openly judge a character too negatively but as this is comedy it’s okay.)  I’m sure Jeremy does have a secret nice side (collects cuddly animals or loves his mother) and valid reasons for why he’s such an asshole – it’s just we don’t get to see them and anyway the actor is revelling in being a complete tosser. Trevor, his sidekick is aspiring to be all of these things and the main focus of their wrath is Tom who does all the real work – theirs and his. The ten scenes track Tom’s journey from subordination to realising that his life needs to change to eventually getting revenge and triumphing over his oppressors.  He does slightly descend into madness along the way but it’s funny and very satisfying and the lads all put in excellent performances.

We end the day and the week on a high and even a bottle of bubbly plonk is produced so we slurp like kings from plastic cups as we wonder what joys the next two days of freedom will bring – probably lots of hangovers.

Film Premiers - the do's and don'ts

I am going to fly in the face of my traditional blog and jump forward a year. Loath as I am to give advice to others on how to deal with certain scenarios, today I am going to offer a few crucial pointers on what to do/what not to do at the World Premier of your first feature film.

1. Do not be five months pregnant with twins in the week running up to the premier. If you are, may I suggest that you STRONGLY CONSIDER not attending said premier and instead lie on your couch at home with you fire lit, having your hideously swollen logs massaged by one of those kowtowing slave fellas you so often see depicted in Cleopatra movies.

2. If you are stupid enough or just too bloody stubborn to NEVER LISTEN TO A WORD ANYONE ALSE SAYS and feel you must attend then read on.

3. Do not bolt down the biggest BLT sandwich you have ever seen with a portion of fries on the side as well as half your partners deep fried fish just before you are about to get dressed for your big night.

4. Do not allow only ten minutes to get dressed and put on your make up.

5. DO spend a lot of your teenage years with your girlfriends experimenting with make-up even if by doing so you means you end up missing a lot of your schooling, sleeping with unsuitable boys and drinking nagans of vodka on park benches. DO NOT under any circumstances instead spend those years doing jig saws of Old Master paintings, listening to phone-in soppy radio shows that make you wonder will you ever be kissed and collecting stamps. Those activities will have NO VALUE whatsoever when it comes to the biggest night of your career.

6. DO NOT buy new high-heeled shoes the day before the event particularly when you have never ever in your life worn anything higher than a Doc Martin boot. (If you can’t imagine what this is like think of that bit in Cinderella when the fat sister shoves her grossly inflated foot into the delicate slipper)

7. DO NOT stand naked in front of the mirror marvelling at how huge your bump is whilst also pondering that you still have another four months to go and what in the name of Jesus will you be able to wear when it comes to that stage?

8. DO punch you partner in the jaw when he likens you to Pavarotti and suggests getting a hoist to swing you into the lift so you can get back downstairs again.

9. DO allow at least an hour to squeeze into those special maternity tights that you have chosen to wear. Half of this time will be spent wondering which bit is in the front and which bit is the back. The other half will be spent crying with frustration and pain as you eek them on millimetre by millimetre. You should perhaps allow another hour on top of that for your now red and swollen eyes and nose to subside after the tears.

10. When you eventually get to the venue DO NOT be insulted when the camera crew and presenters of the glossy TV show that attend these sorts of events ignore you and concentrate all their efforts on any celebrities who have appeared and who have clearly not had to squeeze into tiny cheap shoes that will deform their feet forever. (I saw Stephen Rea’s shoes – sensible and comfy)

11. DO NOT invite your sister, your sister-in-law and your dearest girlfriends as whilst hanging around the now-packed foyer they will suddenly become bored and then notice how badly you have applied the bit of make-up you discovered at the bottom of your wash bag. They will then huddle around you penning you in so that there is no escape, take out their lipstick, lip gloss, huge fluffy brushes with matching blusher and do a quick fix job on you IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE gathering whilst you gag your protestations and plead for mercy.

12. If you feel you must ask them DO make sure that they are collected from their homes by an armed guard, their bags searched for any alcohol, breathalysed and then escorted directly to the venue just in time for the film to start so that they are given absolutely no opportunity to go for a few pints beforehand otherwise well, just read number 11 again.

13. DO not invite the actress who has two-year-old twins who then proceeds to give you graphic details of how you are likely to fare over the next four months.

14. DO (and I know this one is quite contentious given your current condition,) drink alcohol. It is THE ONLY WAY you will get through the evening intact. There will be no dignity involved but at least if you’re drunk you won’t care.

15. But most importantly, do as I say in point number 1. Then you will have a great night.