I think I’ve written about directing before, so I’m not sure this will resonate or echo. I’d prefer the former, given echoes’ nature of repetition, versus resonance, which just sounds austere and scientifically grand. As in, his gracious, timbrous voice resonated within the venerated hall of Weapons. Sounds a lot better than, She flung her voice over the canyon, bouncing it in a myriad stream of echoes down to the bottom, where the cadence thinned into the whispers of the slow-moving stream.
Okay, so that doesn’t necessarily illustrate my point, which was merely to say that I may repeat myself. Forgive me.
Directing a short film is just as stressful as directing a feature–it’s far less quantitative, but the levels are equal. The first day is always the worst. We began filming Saturday morning, and naturally all the little things that went right were seemingly outweighed by the things that didn’t. Like my boom mic operator not showing up–
–now here’s where my love of film meets my ignorance of film language. What’s a boom mic operator called? They have a name. I just don’t know what it is. I barely know what a camera is–I just say I’m going to point this black electronic gadget at you, and press this red, what is it called? Button. Yes. And then you’re going to act and I’m going to yell CUT. That’s movie making to me. I constantly abuse the terms “dolly” and “track” and “tilt” and “pan.” To me they all are interchangeable. If I want to move the camera, I take the term next in queue, and then it’s on to the next, and so forth, until I’m recycling and creating mashups of cinematic terms on the fly. “Pan this apple box, you grip electric!” “Frame the boom so the camera dolly tilts on skyward moments of auteur theory!” “Oscar pancake crafty MOS, second best boy after wintry sprites fondle light meters.” And so on. It becomes its own poetry after a while–poetry only you can understand or gain appreciation for, but in that sense, it’s very similar to high school angst.
And that’s how you feel, after about an hour and a half of preparation. You’ve got your makeup and your actors have been rehearsing, and you’ve been wondering how the hell you’re going to record sound and use the reflector board for minimal lighting manipulation whilst manning the camera and choosing angles and shots. Oh yes, then there’s the little question of actually “directing” the actors. This one-man-crew thing, while engaging, isn’t good for your health. My back killed me by the end of the first day.
So you’re there, and your actors are ready. You set them up, and you tell them some bollocks about how you think of this scene as a Western, because it’s a showdown, and so you’re going to shoot it like a Sergio Leone picture, and you set them up, take one. CUT! Here’s how I talk between takes.
Okay! Okay, that was great. Uhhhh, could I have you be more…less, no. Could I see…What I’d like to see from you is something like compassion, but less sophisticated. Bring out your inner strength, utilize it here because your character…see, for me, your character is the heart of the story, the sympathetic one. You’re here because you feel…blah blah blah…
Two minutes later, I cut to the chase. ACTION, I say it gently, not yelling, because one doesn’t usually need to yell it or even raise one’s voice. ACTION, I say, and I am instantly inside the camera, trying to manipulate the focus. FOCUS!! Why can’t I get this thing to focus! I always turn the ring the wrong way, and meanwhile the camera’s moving, it’s rolling all over the place. I have no idea what the actors said, how they said it, why I can’t get the focus to work. CUT.
And I go into my spiel again. I’d like to see you do this and this and when you fall here, can you sink down? Float down, don’t fall.
ACTION.
This is exhausting. I am battling everything now, and to add to the mix, my emotions and natural talent for self-doubt is beginning to rear up. I’m busting my butt, and all I’m seeing is my own incompetence. But the more important question is, do the actors see it? Do they sense it? They’re all about imagination and fooling the camera. They understand deception and guile. Do they see me trying to hide behind the camera, with all my fancy words and appropriate turns of phrase? I keep them moving with requests, but I have to move myself, or I will fall to the ground in exhaustion and despair. I can’t do it.
But I don’t. I keep going, and slowly slog through it. I know I’m failing the actors because I’m still trying to manage the camera. I’ve conscripted my makeup girl to hold the boom, and she’s working so hard, and she’s the only one I have, and she’s never done it before. Is this what directing is supposed to be? The camera batteries are going out on me, faster than I anticipated. I thought the bastards were fully charged!! I’m chagrined, but I smile and mention I have to change batteries. I curse to myself silently as I turn my back on my actors who have no idea–or perhaps know everything!–and wish this day could go better for me. Because I want nothing more than perfection. Rigorous, unattainable, and utterly heartbreaking.
The sun moves inexorably, pushing the shadows beyond the point of usefulness. Still, I’m making up for it by keeping the end goal in sight. We’re nearing the end and I’m frightened. My fear shows when high volume pedestrian traffic seems to flow in a never-ending stream near the next scene on the schedule to be filmed. My battery is low, so I’ve got a legitimate excuse, but I compromise so quickly. I announce that we’ll film the other scenes the following week, and I think everyone’s a little grateful. I am, but I’m disappointed and feel slightly sick at my weakness. But still I don’t show it, and I’m optimistic in my responses.
And I go home, and I fall into my bed, my back burning and my face scarlet from sun. I admit internal defeat, but remembering that it’s one scene, I bolster myself, and rest for the following day.
It’s been one tough first day.
And this is what it’s like every new film. So why do I do it?
Because the second day is glorious. Read about it tomorrow.