After the Wrap

Talk about an anti-climax.  I thought the film I was on was wrapped, at least for me, with only some pick-up shots happening on Monday of this week.  But at the last minute I ended up joining a small remnant of the crew for a night’s worth of shooting, and that’s how we find ourselves, at close to midnight, just outside a neon-lit tiki bar called The Alibi in an “interesting” part of town.

We had a new DP for the evening, who introduced himself to me and asked if I could dirty up a motel window for him.  Said window was being suspended on a scissor-lift as we talked, the roar of the engine making us shout our conversation. “I want it to look like they never clean up the rooms at this place!” the DP yelled.  “Okay!” I screamed back.

I brought my truck right over to the scissor lift, a luxury to get that close to a set during filming when normally there would be a long line of huge trucks vying for every parking spot up and down and around the block.  I had already retrieved most of my kit from out of the prop truck and transferred it to the camper shell of my own personal vehicle earlier that day, but it was hard to get what I needed out of the extremely compact packing job I had finished before I knew I would be working one more day (actually night) on the show.

However, after a few minutes of rummaging around I came up with a small air canister with an attached bottle I would fill with more rubbing alcohol to replace that which had evaporated over the course of the last three weeks.  The bottle had dry tint in it to mimic dust or dirt, and I would use alcohol as a fast-evaporating carrier for the color, leaving behind a mist of “never cleaned up” color on surface of the window.  Just in case that wasn’t enough, I also dug out a hand pump with some Fuller’s earth in it, so I could mist out real dust.  I also grabbed a length of plastic to cover the camera, so it wouldn’t get uglified by the window treatment.

The scissor lift was re-positioned several times before they settled on a good spot, across the parking lot from the tiki bar.  We were in front of a little coffee and ice cream place, and the regular customers had started to gather and watch the show.  Our producers sat at the only table and chairs the coffee place had out on the sidewalk, and talked about the next shows they were hoping to do, and various other subjects.  All of us, including some of the civilians now standing around with us, engaged in conversation, as if we were enjoying a low-key cocktail party.

Lighting took an awfully long time, it seemed, or perhaps it was just that we were all so tired and ready to go home.  We asked each other about home and travel plans, and listened, realizing we might not meet again for years or maybe never.

When she asked, I told our location manager what I did to make money in between shows: dabble in real estate (I know, what a great time to be doing that), and writing.  She only does locations, and can do that for a living because she’s from LA.  We talk about the Oregon film incentive bill (which increases the incentive package from 5 million to 7 and 1/2 million) that we hope will pass here in Oregon, which will bring films into the state for all twelve months, and not just the six months that it does now.  It will keep hundreds of us employed, and bring money to many businesses in Oregon.

“Then you can do film and only film for a living, right?” the location manager says.  I say I hope so, but really I secretly like to think there’s a chance that I’ll be making money in other ways as well—no matter what happens with the film incentive.  I like to think I have options.  Silly rabbit.

The on set dresser, standby carpenter and I take a ladder and some black fabric borrowed from the grips called duveteen over to an offending “Oregon Lottery” sign hanging above the sidewalk next to the tiki bar and climb up to cover it.  We’re supposed to be at a tiki bar in Nebraska, in the film’s reality.  But the film reality is slipping away almost by the minute, and we are all coming back to our own realities: the next job, the next paycheck, the next adventure, where will we be traveling to next…  We’re forgetting about the world that we have made from the script, and leaving it for the editors and the director, if he remains involved in the editing (he might not—it depends on the director and the deal for each film).

This was based on a true story, and the real people have their own story right now, a continuation of the scripted one we have so briefly been a part of.  We said good bye to them last weekend, admiring their bravery, their hearts, and their family.  But still, this is just a movie for most of us, and it’s time to let go.

The lighting is finally ready, and Andrew, our original DP makes a surprise appearance.  He’s been off to Mt. Hood for the earlier part of this long day, shooting Brendan Fraser driving a convertible into the sunset for the happy ending of the script.  The DP climbs up a tall ladder to get into the scissor lift with the camera guys, and now they’re all looking through the blinds of a little piece of a motel room set window that we saved from the big set we built back on stage several weeks ago.  We cue the extras to come out into the parking lot as if they’re drunks banished at last call, and they’re pretty good actors, reeling and talking too loud, being stupid.  The producers laugh after each of the takes.  The actual filming is finished in less than forty minutes.  We gather up our lights, our tools, our ladders, and everything is stowed away in another hour.

I hand off my radio to the second AD, we hug, and then I make my farewells to the people left in the crew. Walking down the dark street and getting into my truck, I feel the usual suspects—the line up of emotions coursing through my awareness as I punch in my home address on my GPS unit.  I might be going to Spokane, next, or maybe I won’t get on that feature, in which case I’ll be writing and trying to sell my first flip house for a small profit.  I have met and grown to know and really like many people on this show, as always.  And as always, I feel enriched by the relationships we’ve formed, as fleeting and final as they might be.

The night is clear and warm as I drive home, and it’s so late there’s no traffic.  The stars sparkle in the deep arch of the sky, and I recognize this going-home feeling: bittersweet. After all the films I’ve done, it’s still hard to let everybody go, but in truth, they’ve already gone.  The locals have dispersed to their towns across this state and Washington or Montana; a few of the crew went to Europe, for a film shooting in Germany, I believe, and the rest are heading back to LA, to Texas, Louisiana, Washington DC, Australia, or other parts unknown.  After the wrap, we’ll all go wherever the carnival takes us.