Crucial Misdirection

‘Get the grips to park in the street, but we’re not paying if they’re towed. That’s on them. No, no - the camera stays with him, he picked it up yesterday. The DP’s gotta be in charge - yes, 7:00 am sharp. Not a moment later. If I can be early, so can they. And -’

‘Dear, your bag is absolutely filthy. And your bed! Lord, it’s been a year at least since you started using those sheets, I’ll pop them off…’

‘Mum! My AD’s on the phone!’

‘…along with this one, I’ve got some things in the machine anyway -‘

‘Can you leave? I can’t remember anything if you distract me!’

‘Well, I was just -‘

‘MUM!’

‘All right!’

‘Okay, where was I? Production Design first, then we’ll get Grip and Electric to work while I discuss the scene with Camera. No, you take care of the rest, pick another freshman from your year to help, if you have to. Actors need to talk to me first before make-up and hair - what’s that? They’re with me. Yes, they’re safe. Who’re you asking? Anyway…’

*

A dry breeze blew down the street. Lined with cars, drooping trees and students who were making it their lives’ mission to beat the trees, it whistled away around the corner as though frightened by the deadness. The sun had risen at 6:15 am, and albeit weak, to the students, it burned their sagging necks as easily as at noontime.

A new car drew up. The doors slammed. A slick pair of sneakers sparkled as they hit the pavement.

‘Here we go,’ a tired camera assistant muttered. And the set was live.

The Director navigated lines of people marching towards the rented location, carrying carts stacked with a number of heavy lights, neatly-aligned flags and diffusion boards; scores of apple-boxes and a small wagon filled with 25-foot ‘stinger' cords. Production Design scuppered by, dressing the set - a geriatric dollmaker’s bedroom - and darting around the incoming loads like mice. Somewhere in the chaos, her Assistant Director shouted commands that nobody could hear over all the noise, and then ran to where the Director stood impatiently.

‘Sound’s not here yet, they had some trouble with their tires on the way; actors will be coming in at nine, and - what? What is it?’ The harried AD had been on the edge since the previous night’s call, and a sudden step forward of the Director’s In-Charge sneakers made her jump.

‘Crafty.’ The AD shrank back as the Director, noting her obvious inability to recall what had happened to snacks for the crew, stormed off to a corner of the room with her phone. She wiped her forehead, which was already streaming with sweat despite the time of the day. 

Meanwhile, the Director made several Important Phone Calls. She snapped at the poor sophomore who was so nervous about being assigned the role of Unit Production Manager (which on student sets, mainly involved carting food for everyone) that he’d slept in out of sheer anxiety. With crafty on its way soon, she rang the Sound department and determined that they’d overcome their tire troubles as well. Wardrobe and Make-up had arrived on set; the Producer would make an appearance later that day. 

The Director strode out onto the set, where the camera assistants had begun building the monitors for video village. ‘Where is he?’ They shrugged, not looking too pleased at the mention of their DP. On the other hand, the Director only heaved a small, anxious sigh and went over the massive mental to-do list in her head. When the Assistant Director hurried over with news about the sound team, she didn’t let her finish. ‘I called them myself. Did your job,’ she added cuttingly, not breaking her stride.

She decided to check her own car, to make sure that no stone had been left unturned. It would be mortifying if she’d missed something herself. She would be laughed out of the film school. No one understood: a solid thesis film made a career, and eventually, a legend in the business. You got asked for all kinds of spectacular projects. Look at Ryan Coogler now with Black Panther. The Director knew she would shatter the glass ceiling, too; she deserved the same glittering stardom. It was up to the rest of the world to see it.

Her car was empty, of course, save for a stray coffee cup. She’d taken what she needed…hadn’t she? The Director patted herself down: phone, keys, a pair of leather gloves in case the grips needed an extra hand, pen, notepad, her…wallet? That was in the bag. In fact, she really ought to have stashed half of this stuff in her b - her bag? Where was her bag?!

‘Fucking fuck, fuck -‘ she threw the boot open. It was cleaned out, the interior still faintly smelling like new car. No blue canvas backpack here, with its beautifully dignified grey zipper. The Director slammed both front seats down, checked the footwells in the back - nothing. No, this couldn’t be happening, this was not happening. ‘No!’ She cried to herself. There was only one thing to do, one last option. If this failed, she could tell everyone the set was wrapped and that she’d be walking off the nearest cliff.

‘Mum?’

‘Oh hello, darling! I missed you this morning. How’s the film-take going?’

‘Mum, it’s a shoot, it’s - I don’t have time for this right now. Do you know where my bag is?’

‘Did you lose something again? You know, I keep telling you -‘

‘MUM!’ The Director’s hand pressed hard against her heart, going into overdrive now. This was no time for a panic attack.

‘All I know is that I left it on your chair after washing it.’

 ‘You took…on my chair? I -’ and that was when the Director realized where the bag was. Inside, with everyone else’s, stashed in a small alcove in the hallway. She could feel her body sagging against the car. ‘Okay, thanks, Mum.’ She hung up before her mother could suck her into one more tangent.

Back home, Mum stared at her phone quizzically, before shrugging. She returned to her acrylics, selecting a deep ochre for wobbly sun rays peeking over a purple horizon on her easel. After all, she reasoned to herself, it couldn’t be important if her baby hadn’t asked for it. Meanwhile, the little hard-case from the dryer lay on the kitchen counter, glinting in the morning light.

*

The Director of Photography arrived an hour late, just in time to grab some coffee, chat with the actors and lazily re-direct the Grip and Electric department into switching every major light-and-frame position they had labored over for an hour earlier. He was a good-looking fellow, with shiny light-brown hair swept over his forehead and hazel eyes that charmed freshmen and kept him in business with experienced (and therefore more cynical) students. There was talk of him being talented, too - though it was no mystery to anyone on set why the Director, usually such a stickler for professionalism, had chosen him for her project.

‘Mmm, no,’ the DP drawled, chin in hand while the Gaffer passed an exasperated palm over her chin, and the grips waited, their arms trembling with the weight of the combo-stands. ‘The light leak is too obvious in that corner. Switch the pizza box here, please, and raise the polysilk higher in front of our HMI outside. No, wait,’ he added. His camera assistants, in contrast to poor Grip and Electric, nodded off against the weighed-down tripod, having assembled the camera already. ‘Bring this flag around to cut the light. Then move the pizza box.’

The AD glanced frantically at the time. They were already half an hour over schedule; the actors were prepped and waiting to shoot. She watched the Director for a second as the latter viewed the moving set with presumed vigilance, while not-so-surreptitiously eyeing the DP’s defined muscles under his T-shirt. Then she timidly stepped forward towards him. 

‘Um. We’re ready to shoot, so.’

‘So?’

‘We should move them into position now.’

‘Get her to rehearse with them. I’m going for a very specific look here.’

‘She’s already done that.’

The DP didn’t reply, he merely flicked his eyes over to the Director, who immediately stalked over with a territorial look on her face. The AD gulped. 

‘What’s going on?’

‘Half an hour over schedule. We should start now or you won’t be able to film the last scene.’

Please start. I just want to go home, the AD silently added, watching the DP throw the Director a goofy smirk that made his eyes sparkle. The Director softened - only for him. ‘Five more minutes. Or I’ll have to fire you,’ she mock-threatened, melting more as a dimple showed on his smooth cheek. He nodded.

Five minutes passed quickly: the Director rehearsed the scene twice more with the actors, Grip and Electric sweated over rigging a piece of equipment to get the lighting exactly right; the DP drank yet another cup of coffee while the AD was ready to combust from all the stress. 

Chaos now reigned. Sound had misplaced a tiny lavalier mic, of all things, and were literally on their hands and knees looking for it. Production Design quietly came up to inform that they’d found a dead mouse near the cup-and-saucer set an actor was to drink from, and would this be considered a health-code violation? Every time the AD looked at the clock, a million more seconds seemed to have passed.

She felt faint. This was her first time on set. People were going to hate her. Nobody would ever want to be friends with someone so hapless, let alone hire her again for their projects.

Desperately, the AD caught the Director’s eye. Please, she begged soundlessly. Help me. And for once, the Director took pity on her, the exact moment Sound yelled, ‘Found it!’ As the AD whispered to Production Design about cleaning the cups with Clorox - and never telling the actors what they’d found - the Director tapped the DP on the shoulder. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Let’s go, this is fine.’

His answering smile was as charming as ever, but laced with the slightest frustration. ‘I’m just following your vision, I -’ ‘I’d like to film that vision, please,’ the Director interrupted, her tone now stern and firm.

The DP looked miffed. ‘Fine,’ he said, walking away to his assistants, who immediately jumped up refreshed from their nap. The AD heaved a long sigh of relief. She knew the Director could be quick; all they needed to do now was fix minute blocking issues. With a little maneuvering, maybe she could get them to wrap by the very last second of their mandated twelve hours.

Just as the Director settled in video village, however - ‘Hey, we have a problem,’ the DP called out in his ever-easygoing drawl, making the AD want to weep. ‘Where are the memory cards?’

Someone gasped softly. The other department heads and their teams looked up like meerkats in the wild. This was a ticking time-bomb; a gigantic mushroom cloud in the distance. The Director, however, merely rolled her eyes in annoyance. ‘I’ll get them.’ She left the room.

Five minutes passed, then ten. The tension in the air hung like a quivering string. People either sat down where they’d previously stood, or busied themselves with re-assembling whatever they’d been working on. The room seemed full of relatives of a terminally-ill patient, waiting for bad news.

The AD couldn’t lift her head from her palms. Typically, memory cards were maintained by the Camera team in the same box as the camera itself; it was the one thing she’d found herself arguing repeatedly for, on call the previous night. But the Director had ultimately won. The cards, dear as they were to the very core of the production, would be maintained by the person who had the most to lose.

Another ten minutes passed, and the AD could take it no longer. She stormed towards the hallway alcove. But what greeted her instead was completely unexpected. 

The Director sat on top of the bags, mirroring her own position only minutes ago. She was crying.

‘I - just -‘ she let out a snotty cough. ‘They were in here! I-I put them m-myself. I think they were in the w-washing m-machine!’ She sobbed, drawing breath with a horribly wet squelch. The AD didn’t understand a word the Director had just said. Instead, she tuned out in a buzz of white noise.

The other girl wiped her nose, staring at the ground. To the AD, she looked quite pathetic. It was a shock to see the prideful leader brought down to this weeping mess; she half-expected the Director to stand up and tersely demand why she hadn’t laughed at this hilarious, side-splitting prank. 

She glanced at her watch. ‘We won’t be able to do the last scene,’ she said. ‘We won’t be able to shoot at all!’ The Director wailed, dissolving once more. The AD fervently hoped that no one had heard that.

‘Do you have spares at home?’ The Director’s blotchy face made an expression in the affirmative. The AD closed her eyes. 

‘Blame me.’ 

It was the Director’s turn to stare. ‘Huh?’

‘You don’t live far, right? I’ll drive and get the cards. Just tell me where they are. And you can…let these guys know it was my fault. That you left them with me at the last minute and I forgot. They’ll still be pissed but not at you. And he can adjust whatever you want till then.’

There was silence. The Director had finally stopped crying.

‘Just…use this well. We have two more days left. Make people want to work for you. We already know what you can do.’

The Director scratched the back of her neck. She stood up straight. ‘What you’re suggesting is stupid,’ she said imperiously. Then she smiled - a bizarre curl of the lips, as though she was unused to it. ‘Take my keys. The spares are in my desk drawer, and don’t talk to my mum. We can't afford to lose more time. What I have to do now -‘ and here she paused ‘- is…apologize.’ She swallowed the last word down like a particularly sour lemon.

The AD nodded. As she turned to leave, the Director stopped her. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you didn’t tell everyone to go home. I would have.’

She grinned. ‘It’s not like I wasn’t thinking about it,’ she said. ‘Strange things happen on a film set. And I’m just starting out.’