CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, the most magical word on a film set is neither "Action!" nor "Cut!", nor even "Light the robot and standby on the napalm!" No, the single most glorious phrase, which brings joy and a sense of deliverance to very nearly everyone present, is, "Martini's up!" This odd saying has a simple explanation: it refers to thefinal set-up of the shooting day, the last shot the director intends to get before wrapping. In the minds of the crew, get this out of the way and we can all pack up and head for the bar. Hence, "martini", though most professional film crew members would likely go for a nice pint.
(TOP) H, on the set of Shine On in Parkchester, Bronx(NEXT) Eliseo, P.A., on location in
the north Bronx
(NEXT) Shine On Unit Production Manager
Isaac stays late
(NEXT) Shine On set, Parkchester,
the Bronx
(NEXT) Sean, P.A.
(BOTTOM) Director of Photography
Mark Schwartzbard coaches actor Flaco Navaja on his death scene
Independent film in New York City is a little like tyring to get through customs in a communist country - after a few hours have passed and you've filled out the apparently necessary seventeen thousand and forty-one pieces of paper identifying yourself, you're not entirely sure what you were trying to enter the country for in the first place. On a film the standard shooting day is meant to run twelve hours, with a ten hour turnaround time for all involved, as per contracts negotiated between the producers and the various unions at play. These contracts, though, tend to occupy more than their fair share of time on set. Despite signatures on pages, perhaps an hour out of every
day seems earmarked by the crew to
be put towards re-negotiations, which the producers are not interested in hearing about. The crew are most interested indeed, and spend much time and energy strategizing and plotting courses of logic designed to show that they have in fact been obliged to do more than what they signed on for, and are thereby entitled to a higher rate, more overtime pay, better selection at the craft service table, or just a quicker turnaround on reimbursement on taxi receipts after a particularly long day's work. Producers of independent films are almost universally strapped for cash, having spent quite a bit of it courting a big (or medium sized) "name" to appear in their film at a rate that far outstrips everyone else's; the idea being that such marquee cred will help them recoup their inevitable loss on the project. And so at day's end the producers are off to a fine restaurant, ready to pick up the tab for, say, Peter Coyote, who's playing a kindly uncle in two scenes, or Vinnie Jones, who they just crushed with a fake cow and who now demands his special brand of imported cigarettes. This last is one of the key duties of the Production Assistant.
Production Assistants occupy a strange netherworld of independent film productions. Generally young and green, they are often neither full professionals nor interns - for at least interns have the ability to do as much or as little as they choose based on the extent to which they wish to impress the powers that be. Production Assistants, on the other hand, arrive first and leave last. Their primary function is to support the production, which is to say make sure everything's where it's supposed to be by the time the bigwigs show up some hours later. Theoretically, the director and actors must walk onto the set fully able to go directly to work. Every department must unload its gear from its truck, organize it in a staging area and create the first set-up - gaffers, electricians, grips, props people, special effects folk, art department artisans, camera and sound crews must perform an elegant, complicated dance so that when the director wanders (as they frequently do) to his chair, he need only say "action." P.A.'s, then, are the grease that allow the components to work smoothly. They give people chairs to sit on, deliver messages from one department to another, watch out for stray pedestrians careening towards the camera's field of vision, guard open trucks of very expensive equipment (despite questions as to what sort of thief would really wish to make off with a forty pound 4K film light), pick up actors from their hotels (this often involves waiting in the lobby for an extended period of time while the actor in question preens/dresses/wakes up from last night's partying, while at the same time fending off frantic calls from the assistant directors wondering where on earth their talent is), fetch and carry, wait, try to work up the nerve to talk to people more famous than them, contemplate the future, cadge off the craft service table, develop fleeting crushes on fellow P.A.'s, make friends with background players, and get some reading done. The walkie-talkie on their belt makes them feel a little like a gunslinger, a foot soldier on the front lines of a rebel army attempting to mount an assault on the fortress of Hollywood.
The most difficult aspect of doing this sort of work, beyond the ridiculous hours, the tedium, and the knowledge that though it's arguably necessary to hold lockup on this far distant street corner out of sight of the camera, is perhaps the uncertainty inherent in any independent film production. One observes the producers, director, screenwriter and actors, bathed in the glow of the lights, creating grand drama in the little arena laid out in front of the camera. arrayed around them in the shadows are all the rest, the dozens of people known only to the dedicated few who watch the film's credits in their entirety. And that's only if the film makes it to a theatre. In order for that to happen, the film must be accepted into festivals and film markets, and be good enough (or at least commercial enough) to attract the attention of a distributor. Given the limited budgets of most independent productions, elements that might help the film to sell to a mass audience (special effects, big name stars, glossy design) are generally out of reach. This leave the film to rest on its laurels as a good story well told. the catch, of course, is that truly great screenplays are few and far between. The vast majority of screenplays independently produced are not worth the money, time and effort - they generally run the line from poorly conceived horror excursions to mumblecore non-dramas to witless comedies replete with bad jokes delivered badly. The people involved are involved because it's a paycheck, but given the small budgets, the money is so poor that it hardly feels worth it when the material doesn't live up to the labor.
This isn't always true, of course. Sometimes the lightning strikes, and you wind up with a Little Miss Sunshine, or a Half Nelson, to name two recent hot independent properties truly worth seeing. But alas, the rest is mostly dreck. And so the erstwhile P.A., if he wishes to make a career out of this sort of work, must have steel nerves and a firm determination. Only then might he work his way onto the sets of movies that one would work on for free. It is true that the job of a P.A. is very often thankless, tiring drudgery. They are the first to arrive, the last to leave, and often take the blame for problems on set. But the feeling of comeraderie that evolves on a set, though those endless days and nights, through the rain and heat and boredom and pettiness and absurdity - there really are few substitutes. To join your fellows in the seats to view the film's premiere, and to hear the reactions of the audience - and the applause after - and to sit with them in a booth at a pub with pints of beer and a cheese pizza, to share stories and jokes and phone numbers, and to know that you were there, just off to the left of the frame, when the magic did happen: such feelings might just make it all okay.
There are two films which capture the essence of what I mean better than almost any other: Tom DiCillo's Living In Oblivon (trailer), and Frank Oz's Bowfinger (trailer). Granted, they do stray a bit from reality, but whatever. It's a movie.
Posts
