Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

I find myself driving a van at seven in the morning transporting crew and equipment up to horse country in West Chester (New York).  Thom has once again sweet-talked me into helping out even after I told him I don’t DO early.  On the drive up I realized that this is the twenty-seventh day of the thirty day shoot.  There are only three more production days left and the whole thing will be over.  I’m not sure I’m ready for that. A kind of melancholy takes over me knowing that the fun-filled days will soon come to an end.  And then I think about real crew people and how they feel when a project is over.  My guess is that they usually (hopefully) hop from one project to another and treat it like a job.  Sometimes the jobs are good and fun and at other times a challenge with conflicting personalities and high tension.  I remember reading in a movie magazine, Moviemaker, I think, that Ang Lee goes into a light depression after each project.  And most definitely after making The Hulk.  He has directed such diverse films as Eat, Drink, Man, Woman, Sense and Sensibility, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Brokeback Mountain for which he won the academy for Best Director.  So I wonder how our director feels about this project transitioning from production to post. I’ll come back to this question in a bit.  We arrive at a friend of a friend’s farm.  It’s not a working farm but a horse farm and Whit has donned his usual black wool suit, top coat and hat.  I ask him if he’s ready to saddle up.

“Sure.  I’ve been riding since I was eight years old.” He says.  I’m a bit stunned.

“You give the impression of a slacker or a surfer.” I say.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t do either.  I’d like to surf.  But the Atlantic is too cold for me.” He adds.  Man up, I’m thinking to myself. But, alas, I have a little padding so the cold doesn’t quite affect me.

“I can tell you think I have robin’s eggs for a change purse.” He says smiling and he gives me his charming ‘stink eye’.  John, the owner of the horse walks this beautiful equine specimen out into the sunlight.  I am told she is a racking horse.  For those people interested in horses a racking horse has a very comfortable singlefoot gate.  They are like riding a Cadillac.  These horses along with their superior version, the Tennessee Walking horse, were bread for the masters on the large plantations down South before the Civil War when cotton was king.  Being in the saddle for eight to twelve hours a day surveying your business can make a body sore!  Most people who take a horse back ride usually get on a quarter horse or a mixed breed of that nature and their gate is very bumpy and extremely uncomfortable.  John tells me her name is ‘Shadow’ and she is an inky velvet black in the sunlight.  Whit mounts and takes her to the far end of the pasture along the treeline.  At the turn around he gives her a click and gentle kick and she is off so fast she’s a blur.  He rides by at a full gallop so fast that I feel like Jack the Ripper has hijacked Sea Biscuit.  Then as I am about to turn and follow I watch as Whit gets Shadow to jump the fence and run up the road.  Okay, I have to admit he has cohones.  Thom tells me the original shot was with a car mount but since the owner did not want tire tracks in his field we had to settle for sticks.  Unfortunate, as riding along side Whit on horseback with the camera would have been incredibly dramatic.  The road had too many anachronisms.

Meanwhile back at the set the art department has dressed the bedroom as Richard’s studio and the lovely Sandra DeLuca reappears in her Victorian finery as Sophie.  She has  become one of Catherine’s ‘playthings’.  Interested in Richard and particularly a portrait by him she has arrived for a sitting that could very well turn into a laying.  The chemistry between the two actors is electric and they play off of each other with great aplomb.  As Richard and Sophie are about to take the sitting to the next level the bell rings.  It is Mrs. Hopkins, Victoria’s head Governess.  She has arrived with a note---the very thing Richard has been waiting and pining for.  Suddenly he shuffles Sophie out with only a few words of consolation.  Thus begins his daylong ride to the English countryside.  As the crew sets up the dolly for the next shot I take advantage of the downtown and see if I can snag the director for a few minutes.

“Only three days left.  How do you feel?” I ask.

“I’m ready to be able to relax, that’s for sure.”  She replies. “But…I know on the last film I did, that after I recovered from the exhausting shooting schedule there is a definite post-partum feeling.”

“I’m already feeling it and I’m just a spectator.” I reply. “So how do you deal with it?”

“You know, I’m not sure.  I think that the older I get the more I have to ease myself from one transition to another.” She explains.

“That sounds mentally healthy.” I say.

“Well it was trial and error for me because on my last film I finished shooting and I was so excited about putting it together that I immediately began the editing process.  I foolishly thought that if I kept busy I wouldn’t feel the sadness that comes when something is over.” She says.

“Sounds pre-meditated to me---like you had an antidote.” I add.

“Naw, I think it exacerbated the emotions, the let down.” She says. “Because as an indie filmmaker you have to wear several hats.  And so sitting in a dark room by myself for days on end watching the footage and cutting it into something made me yearn for the social, physical activity of production. I fervently missed everyone so much---I missed the process.” She says.

“Yeah, but you still had access to those people, right?  They were your friends as well as collaborators.” I say.

“Sure.  I could get any one of them on the phone or have lunch but it’s not the same.  You’re deeply involved in a creative atmosphere---and I say that not to diminish the importance and gratitude I have for the people in my life.  But having lunch is different than creating something together.” She explains. “It’s greater than the sum of the individuals.”

“Point taken.” I reply.

“I was at a party not long ago and I had the opportunity to meet and chat with another director.  It was such an epiphany for me.  I thought I was just super sensitive or even unbalanced because of the rough emotions I went through after the first feature.  But this director, another woman by the way, experienced the exact thing I had experienced and so I didn’t feel alone or ashamed or inadequate as a person anymore.” She adds.

“That’s great.” I say and I’m sure my face betrayed my bewilderment.

“It’s very similar to a break up.  It really is.  My last film took six months to shoot.  I was emotionally involved for six months with all the actors and the creatives and it was such a rush---so much fun and hard work, too.  We met a lot of people and made a lot of new friends along the way.  Then when principal photography was over everything feels like it grinds to a halt.  You don’t see anyone anymore because you are busy in post trying to deliver a finished product in a timely way to pay the people back. Everyone else has scattered to other projects. So here you are watching all the memories of that wonderful six months in time. It’s like looking at old photographs of past boyfriends or ex-husbands or babies that have grown up.  You forget about the pain or the disagreements or the extreme physical fatigue and something in the human brain makes one yearn for something intangible and fleeting.”

“But it isn’t intangible. It’s fixed in the finished film.” I reply.

“True.” She says.  “And that is what makes it all worth while when you can see and share what you’ve accomplished together with the ones you love.”

“I guess what they say is true.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”  I add.

“Living proof.” She says and she is off to work on the scene.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Color of Money

Over the few days off from the Londinium film I promised to take Justin to Coney Island.  Our last hurrah before school starts.  It was a perfectly pleasant day until we were walking out of the park and the kid decided he wanted to ride the Cyclone.  The Cyclone is the most hair-raising ride I have ever been on in my life. The Cyclone rollercoaster is one of the last and oldest wooden coasters in the world, built in 1927 with such stomach turning spins that it is the high water mark for almost every other coaster built. The probability of being ejected from the ride by the thin steel bar is quite high and promotes the forming of phobias far and wide. I try to tell Justin he is not old enough to ride the killing machine.  As a matter of fact I would not let him ride it until he turns 21 for fear of maiming and paralysis. He plops himself down right there on the pavement and proceeds to have an old-fashioned tantrum.  I threaten him by saying, “If you don’t stop with the hissy fit then there will be no cartoons for a looooong time.”  Now, I am not and have never been a proponent of spanking but the kid pushed enough buttons on my anger elevator that I was one red curly hair from corporal punishment.  Even in drunken belligerence I have enough sense to resist fisticuffs.  Exhausted and deeply pissed-off I requested the wife to tend to the offspring for the rest of the night while I tied one on.  I knew the next day would be light.  The schedule was filled with pick-up shots and small scenes with Whit in the artist’s studio.  Most of the scenes are of Richard in the process of painting.  Montage sequences with jib and dolly shots beautifully orchestrated as the paintings of Victoria come to life.  Since the scenes were incredibly technical I felt like I could show up towards the end of the day.  Thom said that in between set-ups the director has to step in and don her painter’s hat to work the painting(s) a bit more to show progress.  There were several canvases in various states of completion to speed up the process but it sounded a little tedious to me without an official duty so I opted for rest.

During Richard’s time the Salon, that is the official art exhibition of the Academie des Beaux-Arts in Paris, was the place to be as an artist of any worth.  Today the new painters are filmmakers and the new Salon is Cannes and Sundance, Toronto and Berlin.  I ask Whit what he thinks about it all.

“I’m an actor playing a painter and so my take on it is that films can be like moving paintings.  I mean, I watch Terence Malick’s work and it is definitely the ilk of the great masters of art.  Days of Heaven is a masterpiece of filmmaking.” He says.

“I agree.  It’s one of my favorite films of all time.” I reply. “What do you think of the films that go unnoticed that might be just as good as Days of Heaven but are not seen because the juries or curators can’t or won’t program them?” I ask.

“It’s a real shame.  People need to see cinema as art.  And art as cinema.  I don’t have a lot of experience with film festivals and I don’t want to grossly generalize because I believe there are still truly indie fests out there wanting to feed their audiences with exceptional material.” He replies.

“But…” I say.

“But we all know that Independent films are in competition with studio films.  What better way to eliminate your competition than buying up all the boutique distributors and making them adhere to Disney or Paramount rules and tastes.” He says.  “It becomes generic especially in hard times.  No one wants to take a risk on something different and it shows with the movies the studios are churning out now.”

“That only partially answers my question.” I say.  He thinks for a minute.

“When Sundance started it was exciting and it made an unknown filmmaker’s career---“

“Steven Soderbergh, Sex, Lies and Videotape!” I excitedly interject.

“Sure. It made unknown actors bankable talent.” Whit continues.

“Andy McDowell and James Spader!” I yell. 

“It was great and Redford had the vision and passion to give artists a chance.” He says. 

“Then something went really wrong---” I say.

“Yeah! I mean Sundance became a corporation---it became the very thing it was reacting against.  The studios used the festival to introduce their art films that weren’t really art because they were financed by the same machine that backs the studios and the publicists and the ad agencies and the big name talent.” Whit says. “I do want to clarify that just because big money is behind a project does not mean it is not art.  It can certainly be artistic and visionary.  I mean, I enjoy Tim Burton’s stuff.  I just feel that where there is big money there are too many cooks, i.e. producers interfering with the health of an artistic creation…and the director’s control.” Whit adds.  Well stated and I am duly impressed.  The guy can think and verbalize.

“Do you think Sundance should just come out and be a market like Berlin’s (EFM) and MIPCOM at Cannes?” I ask.

“I think that is exactly what it is and because it started as a festival with vision it has lost its luster because it has become more about buying and selling.  Don’t call a dog a cat or a goat a horse, ya know?”

“I agree.  I think Sundance is really trying to retrace its steps and recover its original mission, though.” I say.

“Yeah?  I hope you’re right.  What came out of Park City this year that was not studio backed---and I mean international studios as well.  Channel4 and the BBC and Canal+ are studios so they don’t count.” He says. 

“The Runaways.” I answer meekly and I know I am dead wrong.

“They produced Brokeback Mountain and Into the Wild.  Both Oscar contenders so they don’t count.” He says.  How does he know all this shit AND memorize lines.

“I think that Redford and his advisors and backers are really honing in on issues that they feel deeply about.  I mean, they’re producing shows about going green and how people like you and I can be custodians of the earth rather than consumers.  I think he has a program specifically to introduce native peoples and their talents to a larger audience and to enhance their visibility and opportunity.” Whit says.

“Yes, I’ve seen the show.” I respond.

“It takes money to change the habits of a generation or even generations living in a throw-away world.  We can’t do that anymore.  We have to have a conscience about what we use, what we eat, what we grow, what we wear, where and how we live and to live by what we honestly need and not feed the monster of what we ‘want’.  Instant gratification is a luxury that we cannot afford any longer.” So sayeth the reverend Whit.

“I think we got off point.” I say.

“Not really.  We’re all connected.” He says. Okay…I hear that phrased tossed around a lot these days.  Philosophically I get it.

“If you think about it storytelling is as old as humanity.  What we really want as an audience---what I want as an actor is to be taken out of myself.  The trick is how to tell a good story sans the bells and whistles.  Capitalism is great.  Don’t get me wrong.  It is the great motivating factor for invention and innovation.  Less is more.  Subtlety.  We have to pare down to the basics to get to the heart of what we’re trying to say.  Cinema and by that I mean computers, iphones, ipads, you tube, digital theatres and digital streaming are the campfire that illuminates the storytellers who enthrall an audience with ideas and emotions.” He says succinctly.

I’ll drink to that!

A Parade of Human Oddities

Inside the Londinium set that is Jules’ tinker workshop I spy small tintypes called memento mori, hundreds of them hanging on the wall.  Memento mori or more appropriately, memorial portraiture were in fact Victorian post-mortem photographs.  With the advent of photography originating in the daguerreotype in 1839, portraiture was made available to the middle class.  People of all walks of life could have an image of their beloved. Sometimes families had only one image of their endearing relative.  And sometimes that image was made after they died.  Because the infant mortality rate was so high in those times a lot of these memento mori are of dead children.  Some are ghoulishly propped up with irises painted on their closed lifeless eyes and a favorite toy placed in hand.  Others have been arranged to look as though they are in ‘eternal slumber’.  These glass plates and tintypes are morbid and reflect the socio-cultural mourning attitudes of the time. And yet, like a car accident you can’t help but look.  In the later Victorian era corpses were photographed and memorialized in their coffins. Some of the most famous daguerreotypes are the field photography of Matthew Brady and the infamous images of dead civil war soldiers on the fields of Gettysburg and Antietam. A bit less infamous are the post-mortem photographs of the five slain prostitutes that Jack the Ripper murdered.

This is Jules’ livelihood and an important clue to his character.  The invention of photography also ushered in an odd version of voyeurism as previously discussed in an earlier entry.  It is believed by many American Indians that cameras steal a part of the soul and incarcerate it in the processed image.  Could there be something to that?  The mere fact that these one-of-a-kind photographs are hanging by the hundreds in Jules’ workshop leads me to believe that he is collecting souls, if you will.  Not actual numinous spirits but the captured tokens held so dear by loved ones. Perhaps he is trying to feel close to something thru the collecting of these images. The first time I was made aware of memorial portraiture was in the movie The Others with Nicole Kidman.  About halfway to two thirds thru the film she discovers a photo album in one of the rooms filled with post-mortem portraits.  This is when she realizes that the servants she hired are really dead people.  Brilliant!  Jules’ real talent seems to lie in his skillful capturing of moving images…of people dying.  Violently. 

Three different rooms, three different sets.  The only room not in use today is the bathroom and the hallway.  The first set is in the parlor and has been built and designed to look like a part of the outside of a sideshow complete with hand painted sideshow banners advertising not only Jules Whitby and his Magic Lantern Show but also the Elephant Man (who, by the way was on display in 1888 in the slums across the street from the London Royal Hospital and for a brief moment in time considered a possible suspect in the murders.)  David Lynch’s brilliant film, The Elephant Man is one of my absolute favorite movies of all time and truly seems to capture the attitudes and grim reality of London without all the saturated color of the Merchant Ivory ventures. 

This exquisite set is really only a pick-up shot as we watch Richard move from the dinner scene thru Hyde Park and stumble into the sideshow tents.  Further inside the Fort Greene Brooklyn brownstone the furniture in the bedroom has been moved into storage for the day and the walls draped in canvas with fly doors and flaps.  There are five extras hired for the day, patrons of the magic lantern show and a hand picked rabble of ne-erdowells.  Jules stands behind his podium cranking his zoopraxiscope and presenting his collection of images to a paying audience.  For a penny or two people could wander into alleyways and watch what was called ‘actualities’. With Edison and his Kinetiscope these actualities turned into nickelodeons.  For a nickel patrons could watch a fictional story like The Great Train Robbery in a theatre setting.  So began the world of cinema.

In Londinium this early actuality, however, is of Richard wounded as he stumbles into the street on that first snowy night as Victoria comes to his aid.  The grainy black and white images glide across the blank canvas as Jules narrates a fictional story eerily similar to the East End killings.  He implies that the young woman (Victoria) is a victim and that the dark man (Richard) is about to do ‘unspeakable’ things to her.  “Did she take her own life…or did he.” Jules poses to the entranced audience of ruffians.  It gives me pause.  Is he foretelling the future or spinning a dramatic yarn. One of the ruffians is Dr. Stephens.  In the opening scene of the movie Dr. Stephens approaches Jules, “I think you can contribute a great deal to the field of medicine.” He says. Almost immediately I wonder if Jules will be supplying the good doctor with cadavers.  However the good doctor’s desires are more sinister and include the capturing of images of dying bodies. I watch Whit playing Richard and the dots he seems to connect via emotional streams.  I wonder how I would feel to have an intensely intimate moment captured on a device and then displayed for all to see.  I would feel violated in a way and quite vulnerable.  I can see this progression in Richard as he watches the cold faces of the strangers taking in the moving pictures of he and Victoria connecting on a soul level.  He can go one of two ways:  Overcome the obstacles before him and take action or harden himself to cover his insecurities.  I am torn, I am fascinated by the villain in him but I want him to be the hero.  I want him to do the right thing but I’m not sure what the ‘right’ thing is yet.

 I am momentarily distracted as the other sideshow begins.  Ed, our last minute extra is dressed in a morning suit and bowler and wanders in and out of the show tent in take after take.  Thom is assistant directing and after each take Ed asks, “How was that Thom?  Did that look okay?”

“It looked fine, Ed.  Don’t over think it.” Thom replies.

“Good note.”  Ed says smirking and moving to his first mark.  The director calls action, the extras are choreographed and move as planned.  Ed looks natural.  Once the director yells CUT!  Ed feigns nervous anxiety. “Thom?  Was that a one good?”

“Yeah, Ed. It was fine.  You’re just walking in and out of the tent with purpose.  Ask yourself where are you going and where are you coming from.” Thom says growing exasperated.

“Isn’t it ‘where I’m coming from’ first, then ‘where I’m going’?” Ed replies.

“Whatever you’re doing it’s working, Ed.  Everybody first mark.” Thom orders.

“He puts me at ease.” I hear Ed say to another extra trying to stifle a giggle.  Murray just nods and takes his place.

Richard must know that he is being set-up or used in some clandestine scheme and he plans to unravel the mysterious machinations that put him and Victoria in peril.  The next set is located in part of the kitchen.  Jules’ Tinker shop had to be temporarily moved in order to create the other sets.  Richard tails Jules and finds him in an alley yard with a prostitute.  Whit, looking sinister and lethal approaches Jules as the hooker skitters away frightened.  Richard pays Jules to show him how his invention works.  Once inside Richard discovers a plethora of substances in Jules’ workshop:  Cyanide, Arsenic, Nicotine, all lethal poisons, by the way, as well as proper chemicals for film developing.  Jules claims the poisons are for ‘killing the rats’.  But Richard knows better.  They end up drinking quite a bit.  A little liquor creates a braggart and show-off I always say.  And Jules is no different.  When plied with alcohol and flattery Jules is happy to reveal his ‘actualities’.  Richard holds the celluloid images in his hand and marvels at the technology involved.  He tries to buy the image of he and Victoria on that snowy night and when Jules refuses Richard decides he will figure out another way to possess the film.

The Actor Whisperer

I wake to find Justin jumping on the end of our bed.  It is Saturday and the weekend has begun for him.  My wife is oblivious.  She went out with ‘the girls’ the night before and the hangover that is due to arrive in an hour or two is still dormant. I bribe my son with fruit roll-ups and a bag of skittles to stop the infernal wave motion.  “We don’t want mommy to throw up in the bed.  Because that means daddy will HAVE to do laundry and he doesn’t have time.” I say.  Wrong!  The kid jumps higher and faster making me have to pull a sumo move on the squirt.  Once on the floor and during the morning cartoons he devours the sugar remuneration and I plan my escape back to the film set.  This could be grounds for divorce since I am not making any money for being there.  I know my wife is thinking that she gets a ‘get outta jail free’ card meaning she doesn’t have to baby-sit after a bender, but this isn’t Kansas, my friends, and Glenda is NOT coming.  She’ll have to wait for the rainbow to show up on Monday.  I’m gonna catch holy hell for it, I know.

I arrive to find Whit decked out in Ripper guise looking dapper and a bit dangerous.  It is the first scene of the day and the set looks amazing.  Once again the art department has outdone itself.  They have created a tinker’s workshop with bare brick walls in the center of their brownstone parlor.  It is outfitted complete with wood burning stove, crappy cot and reels and reels of celluloid, tins, cores, camera equipment, glass plates, camera obscuras, cogs, wheels, metal thingamajiggies and whatchamadoodles.  Things you might find in Edison’s Black Maria or Henry Ford’s garage.  In the scene Richard has just killed Jules and returns to Jules’ workshop to confiscate any and all film content that might be incriminating.  Since he is on the run he does not take the time to look at anything and begins to cram the reels of celluloid into this leather satchel.  Thom slates.  Pat is behind the camera; Ed is on sound holding the boom.  The director sits behind the set walls and watches the monitor.  ACTION!  I watch as the first take unfolds.  Richards enters quickly.  He puts down his knife and begins packing his bag with all the film reels he can find.  He goes to another pie safe and begins cramming the tins and film into his case.  It’s taking a while, I think to myself.  It’s taking too long.  I notice the director’s shoulders are moving and realize she is laughing uncontrollably.  CUT! She says.  I hear Thom burst out in laughter.  Whit stands there blankly with tentacles of film poking and flowing out of his bag onto the floor.  He looks like a stoned Sigmund the Sea monster. Thom and Ed cannot straighten up.  “What are you?  Ursula the Sea Witch”. Thom chides.  That is exactly what he looks like.  “Let’s get rid of some of these tins and rolls of film.”  Thom says in between breaths.  “It’s not too incriminating---waltzing out of Jules’ workshop with evidence trailing behind,” Ed demurs. The art department gets rid of over half the detritus Whit has to gather.  Thankfully this speeds up the scene.  As we begin our second take Stewart Walker arrives and moves quietly into wardrobe.  When we break Whit says, “I thought I was going to lose my ever-lovin’ mind!  It seemed like the film tins were multiplying like a virus as I was collecting them.  Then I thought ‘keep going until cut’.  I knew there was no way in hell I was going to fit all those tins into this bag AND the celluloid.”   

“Maybe if you smoke another doob you might get it all crammed in there.”  Ed says laughing.

“I’m not high or post-high…today.”  Whit confirms.  “I don’t do that anymore.  I gotta work, man.” 

We set up for the next scene.  Richard has come upon Jules in the park with a corpse.  They hear footsteps and make a run for Jules’ studio.  Once inside, Richard is determined to see what Jules has been shooting.  Jules accommodates and threads up his zoopraxiscope.  The film footage is of Charles in a not very platonic embrace with Vincent in a back alley. This confirms the arranged marriage between Charles and Victoria for the audience. This does not bode well for anyone involved except Jules.  Richard is curious as to why Jules has the evidence.  Jules explains that he will hold the celluloid for ransom and if the Thorntons won’t pay then he will exhibit the scandalous scene at the World’s Fair.  Richard has been known to have sticky fingers and it is referred to in various scenes.  He puts them to good use and pinches the priceless footage.  Then the sepia toned images of Victoria move across the canvas screen.  Richard is moved by her likeness and Jules notices that the sometime dodger he has befriended has a ‘thing’ for her.  He uses that information to his advantage.  Stewart is the epitome of a professional actor.  He has great questions and works toward solving problems on the set in terms of character issues with the director.  They have a wonderful rapport and he gives his all in a performance.  Because of sound issues the actors must react to non-existent film footage.  There is a question about eye-line and the director moves in to adjust.  Thom suggests a point of reference whereupon Ed declares.

“Ya know Thom is great for those kinds of recommendations.  I call him the actor whisperer because he has great tips.”  Ed says.  I truly think I am about to pee my pants.

“If I could get you to shut the frig up then I really would be an actor---boom pole man whisperer.” Thom replies a bit miffed.

“You know I’m just joking with you.” Ed says smiling.

“Keep it up.” Thom says growing more ruffled.

“Watch this.”  Ed says.  “I bet I can make him stomp out to the stoop.”  This is what my grandmother would call throwing a turd in the punchbowl.

“Leave him alone.” I say. “We have to go outside later and it is hotter than the hinges of hell outside.”  It is true.  The humidity is unbearable and Fort Greene Park yawns before us.

“Ya know, Thom.  You make sandwiches a lot like you give acting tips.  You think you could make me a double decker when we break?” Ed says trying not to laugh.  Thom stares at him with seething anger.  The murmur of the set diminishes and Thom slowly and dramatically saunters off a la Bette Davis. “I’m going out for a smoke.” He says and sure enough he stomps outside to our wonder and glee.

The newbie of the day arrives.  It is Tristan O’connor.  She is playing Rose, one of the prostitutes in the film.  Stephanie takes her in to make-up and by the time she exits wardrobe it is dark enough outside for us to make our way to the local park.  We have a couple of extra crew people to handle the makeshift light boxes courtesy of Patrick.  The dew point is so high even at 9Pm that we are all mostly drenched in sweat.  We rig up out mechanical SFX apparatus to Tristan.  She accepts a pull from an unseen (off camera) stranger.  And as she tips it back the knife slides effortlessly across her throat.  I’m not sure if I wrote about this is a prior entry but our crew rigged an exterminator can with ever smaller clear plastic hoses affixed behind the latex wound glued to the actress’s throat.  Once the knife pulls away the pressure of the can is released creating a spray of fake blood and the subsequent ‘bleeding out’.  It looks so real that I find my stomach beginning to turn.  That is a direct compliment to Tristan who performed the death throes with great acumen.  She falls to the ground and bleeds out.  It is gruesome and almost too real.  Richard is in the park at the same time.  I can’t figure out if he is the killer or just in the vicinity.  When he comes upon Jules arranging the corpse for his camera I wonder if HE is the killer, the first snuff film director.  I also question why Richard doesn’t go straight to the police with the information and eyewitness account if he is not the killer.  Why would he be protecting Jules?  I know why Jules would be protecting Richard. Money. It is all so seedy and unsettling and truly makes me wonder what stratagems go on in the mind of a psychopath.  I find myself trying to walk in those guys shoes to figure out who dunnit.  I know one thing for sure. I don’t like their shoes…