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Upstairs, most of the crew has heard about the delay, and some of the grips and production assistants are openly wondering whether they're going to even need all the equipment they've piled throughout the house. Cigarette smoke clogs the air, drifting in from rear bedrooms. In the editing room -- a nook between the kitchen and living room that's been curtained off -- members of the postproduction crew kill time by watching the contest entries from last year. They are unimpressed. We meet JESSE FILIPKO, a lanky stoic with a camcorder, who will be filming a behind-the-scenes documentary for inclusion on the DVD. "Nobody else wanted the job," he says. With the crew growing ever more restless in the living room, PETE tries to raise morale by telling the story of getting hit by a cab last weekend as he crossed Haight Street.
PETE: I remember talking to a paramedic, fuzzy images of talking to my mom on the phone from the hospital. I got hit in the right side, I think, and then I hit my head. Today's really the first day I've been able to think clearly. Perfect way to gear up for the 48-hour challenge, huh?
We learn that PETE, who hails from Connecticut, is a veteran hockey player who has sustained 12 concussions, six that he terms "major." But he has never had problems with his memory until the past week, when he has occasionally "spaced out" for upward of four hours at a time. "I didn't want to miss this project for anything, though," he says. Then an actress -- one of the dozen or so middle-aged locals who have come out to audition for roles -- stomps in and asks, "Do we have a script yet?" IAN, in his first visible sign of stress, snaps at her to go back downstairs. Eye-rolls abound. Someone mutters: "I don't want to hear any actor bullshit." CUT TO:
A clock on the wall. It says 11 a.m.
Down in the basement, the writers have hammered out the first three pages of a script. It's tough to tell, exactly, what the point of the story is, but it's about a sleepwalker named Pookie-Wookie (after the phrase he mutters in his sleep) who wanders through a party full of yuppies. IAN sits beneath the Godfather poster and peruses the draft, such as it is. "I like the first three pages," he tells the writers without conviction. "I laughed out loud twice." This pleases JOSH, a clownish type with a mop of curly hair. He dons his "lucky coat" -- a battered green blazer -- to gain inspiration for the final two pages. MARIO DeJESUS, the first assistant director, races in and hassles them to finish. It's 11:30 a.m., and they've already fallen 30 minutes behind schedule. The question on everyone's lips: Where's the damn log line? CUT TO:
IAN, clicking off his cell phone, his head thrown back in relief. "He forgot it in his office!" The producer looks at the phone again. 11:58 a.m. IAN races downstairs and gives the writers the log line the faculty member has just, finally, called in: A young man tries to discover why he's at a train station. RUSTY and JOSH stare, stumped. A train station? The casting director pokes her head into an adjacent bedroom, looking for a quiet place to hold auditions. The room looks like a frat house the morning after a wild Friday-night party. Empty beer cans are pyramided everywhere and Britney Spears posters line the walls. "We can't have them read in there," she sniffs, and slams the door.
We follow IAN back upstairs. He grabs PETE in a hallway: "Find me a train station." PETE zooms out of the house. IAN runs a hand through his hair. Even with a three-hour extension of its deadline, the crew has lost valuable light on its day reserved for shooting. "I feel like I'm two years older, and it's only been three hours," IAN says to no one in particular. He pauses near the main bathroom, the setting of the first scene in the script. Gaffers are already setting up lights, and a sign on the door says "Do not use."
An hour later, the brain trust huddles with the writers, who are polishing off yet another ending to the script, to set the production schedule for the next two days. Watch alarms go off, signaling 1 p.m. Sunset is six hours away. They are really behind schedule, and every face in the room is drawn and tense. Head shots are scattered across the couch, the torn ones belonging to actors who didn't show up. MATTHIAS KOENIGSWIESER, the very focused director of photography, has already storyboarded what he's seen of the script. He's thinking of an Edward Scissorhands-type look, a "real simple suburban feel." He tells the costume designers to avoid bright colors -- better for contrast. Clumps of sweaty hair stick out of his black-billed cap; he tugs on the tuft of hair on his chin. He asks about a makeup artist for the actors. "I can do gothic," one crew member volunteers, "but I can't make them look pretty." MATTHIAS hurries out to film the first scene: a middle-aged woman plunging a toilet. Not exactly Patton, but it serves to get the crew moving.
Outside, on what's now a bright, gorgeous afternoon, DAVID and his roommates serve up burgers and hot dogs from their brand-new barbecue. They've been looking for an excuse to buy it, and the film needs a party scene. Crew members who aren't occupied gather in the front yard for some grub, and it's a friendly, lazy contrast to the craziness inside. The middle-aged actors -- some of whom look as if they've already been awake for 48 hours -- swap apartment-finding horror stories.
A cheer erupts from upstairs. "They must have gotten the good script," someone at the barbecue mutters. CUT TO:
