Film School (29 page)

She's friendly and upbeat. I can't believe my good luck.

I've never heard of Vasquez Rocks. USC has a rule that 508 films must be shot within a fifty-mile radius of campus. Vasquez Rocks is within that radius. It's perfect.

The next day, I drive to the park and tromp through the wilderness and onto the fantastic rock outcroppings in my Red Wing boots. I'm glad to have them because this is snake country. Yet it's a mystical place where it's possible to lose perspective. I see why Hollywood has loved shooting here since the 1930s. It's sunny and gorgeous, and I can't imagine a better place to film.

T
he next things I need are costumes and props. The big film studios will rent an amazing variety of equipment to film students—if you're willing to pay the price. I can't afford to spend much, so I try to rent some dated equipment from survey supply stories. I can't. Then I call a half-dozen surveyors. Nothing. Call another handful. Zip.

Then I get a call back from a surveyor in Glendale, Robert Hennon. At first, he's wary, but he becomes friendly the longer we talk on the phone. He invites me to meet him at his office later in the week.

When I walk into Hennon's office, I find he's made his decision already. There's a stack of surveying equipment in the corner. Poles, surveying telescope, backpacks, orange safety vests . . . the whole nine yards. He says he and his wife thought it was a pretty cool idea for a film. “Surveyors are never in films. And if they are, they're always bad guys,” Hennon says. He entertains me with surveyor lore and shares a tremendous amount of information about his profession. “Do you know that a licensed surveyor is the only person who can legally trespass through private property without a warrant?”

“No, I did not,” I answer.

“What do you think is the first man-made thing on earth a visitor from space sees?” Hennon asks.

“Um, the Great Wall of China?” I answer.

“No!” he explains, triumphant. “It's the original survey grid of America!” He points to a photo of the earth taken from space. Sure enough, there's a patchwork of squares of farmland in the Midwest. The entire American West is defined by one perfectly straight snap-line, an idea thought up, he says, by Thomas Jefferson, a surveyor by training.

We talk more and discover I live just a few blocks from his house. That seals it. Now I'm really a good guy.

I ask him how much he wants to charge for his equipment. “Ah, nothing. Just don't lose it. The equipment's still useable and it would cost me a lot to replace it.”

I gulp. “Thanks. You sure?”

He's sure.

We load the equipment into my truck and shake hands. “Bring it back whenever you're done,” he says. “Maybe I'll come out and give you a hand when you shoot, if you want.”

I drive away, having ticked another item off my list. I'm feeling really lucky. Dan is still toiling day after day on the sound for THE ORPHAN, and I've got a location, costumes, and props.

An hour later, my phone rings. It's Hennon. “Hey, Steve, I was just talking to my wife about you. We both thought it would be great if you wanted to use our old surveying vehicle. I'm buying a new pickup truck, and we won't need our old truck when you're making your movie.”

I'm wondering if he's pulling my leg. He's not.

“It's a really great-looking truck,” he goes on. “I mean, it's old and battered and it's full of surveying gear. My guys beat the crap out of it. It's really great.”

I remind him I'd need a vehicle for three long weekends, and I'd be putting hundreds of miles on it. “Oh, I don't care,” he says. “We've had that truck for twenty years, and it means a lot to us. My wife and I would love to have it be in a movie. Then we can watch it and remember it. We started our business with that truck.”

Okaaay
, I say.

I've now got a free vehicle.

I
'm still missing the most important thing I need for my 508 film. I check NowCasting.com. I posted for three roles on the site: Boss, who needs to be physically imposing; Matt, who needs to be medium-sized; and Lil' John.

The list of those who responded to my posting and submitted their information is a bit short.

So I call and email everyone who submitted and invite them to an audition on the USC campus. I'm aware from conversations with classmates that only a fraction of actors will respond. The audition serves two purposes. One, it obviously gives me a chance to meet actors face-to-face. Two, and perhaps the most important thing, it makes actors jump through some hoops. If they really want a role, they'll fight through traffic and make a pilgrimage to the intersection of Hoover and Jefferson.

I get a call back from a dozen actors who say they'll come to my audition. I set it up for a Saturday. I reserve a classroom. Make signs giving directions. Buy lots of donuts.

USC asks that all students holding auditions do so in pairs at a minimum. It's to protect the actors and avoid casting-couch temptations—or the allegations thereof—and to protect the students because they are inviting strangers into a closed room. Because I'm producing this by myself, I don't have the luxury. I'll be doing the audition solo. I'm not worried. I'm casting men. I can take care of myself.

The day of the audition, I've got my afternoon blocked off from 1
P.M.
to 3
P.M.
It's an open call—show up when you can. At 1
P.M.
, a neatly dressed man named Robert enters. We talk, he gives me his headshot. He's a likable guy, we talk, he leaves. For the next hour, no one else comes. I'm bored, so I move out into the hallway and take a seat on some of the chairs I've lined up. I grab a donut and eat it. I eat another one. There are a lot of donuts left. I eat another one.

As I'm eating, a guy walks down the hall and sees the number on my audition room door. He's an outdoorsy looking guy, hiking boots and a thick stubble.

“Here for the audition?” I ask.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yup,” I say. I pause a moment, and continue: “I don't really know if I wanna go through this. I've been listening through the door. The director sounds like a king-sized ass.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. A few minutes ago, another guy left. The director was yelling at him.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It's really too bad. We come all the way down here to USC and get treated like this.”

The guy doesn't want to agree with me. He just shrugs.

I keep piling it on: “These film school directors suck.”

He's silent.

I stick my hand out. “I'm the director.”

He breaks into a big smile. “I'm Jeffrey Miles.” We shake.

We spend a few minutes talking about the role and his acting background. We never leave the hallway. I like this Jeffrey Miles. He leaves.

Fifteen minutes later, I get a call on my cell. Another actor. He wants to know if I'm going to be there. I am, I assure him. He'll be there in ten, he says.

Fifteen minutes later, a small, fine-featured man runs down the hallway. He apologizes for being late. I've made sure to write down a long list of names on my legal pad. When he gives me his headshot, I add it to a folder that I'd prestacked with other headshots. I want to give the impression that all of Los Angeles is vying for a spot in my film. The actor says his name is Dream. He's bubbling with energy. He says he really wants to work on this film.

He leaves, and I'm left with a half box of uneaten donuts. Three hours. Three actors.

They don't know it, but they all have a role in my film.

Lots of people in Los Angeles say they want to act. But when the rubber meets the road, few seem willing to spend the time and effort to get a role. For me, what starts with thirty-eight applicants ends up with three willing actors.

I wait a day to call the three back. And this being the training ground for Hollywood, I feed them some bullcrap.

Me: “Hey Robert/Jeffrey/Dream: I really liked you. I think you'd be awesome for the part.”

Robert/Jeffrey/Dream: “That's great!”

Me: “Now, there's a lot of interest for this part. I think you're the best, but I need to know for certain that you can make it every single weekend. This is six days of shooting. I simply can't have anyone dropping out. If you have any doubts, let me know and I'll go with someone else.”

Robert/Jeffery/Dream all insist they will be there, every single weekend.

E
verything is turning up roses for my 508 film. Location, props, costumes, actors, script. I call up my nephew Mikey and ask him if he's game to be an assistant during the shoot. We'll be in the desert, and I need as many hands as possible. He's excited. He's got more energy than a Lab puppy. He'll drive his motorcycle up from San Pedro, a ninety-minute haul.

Robert the surveyor says he will indeed come out to the set, if I don't mind. He'll show me the ropes, he says, and stay out of the way. He gives me the keys to his old truck.

Irene tells me she's going to cater every meal for the cast and crew. She refuses to be talked out of it. “I can make some really nice roast beef sandwiches and a coleslaw salad and some fruit. Do you think they would like that? I'll put some cookies in there, too.”

She and Carl want to come and watch, too. Is that a problem? they ask. Of course not, I tell them.

I've had a sign maker create a pair of metallic door signs for the truck: ARIZONA SURVEYING

The only thing I can't find is a pair of Arizona license plates. I spend a morning at auto salvage yards in the far reaches of the San Fernando Valley looking for an old Arizona plate. It is time badly spent: a junkman tells me California law prohibits selling old license plates.

We have eight vehicles between cast and crew and an hour drive. It's becoming a real production.

The week before shooting I'm watching two films over and over before I go to bed: THE SEVENTH SEAL, directed by Ingmar Bergman, and LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, directed by David Lean. I use them both as inspiration.

The day before the shoot, I walk the desert. I've got a list of shots I want sketched out on storyboards. I spend the day tramping around, running up rock faces, standing atop the huge outcroppings that make Vasquez so unique. In the still desert air, I feel my blood pump in my ears. It's so quiet. It's so beautiful. I just hope everyone shows up.

I
've now preproduced the entire film. I've never so much as texted Dan asking him for help.

The first day of the shoot is scheduled for Vasquez Rocks, 8
A.M.
Saturday. The park gates open then, and close precisely at 5
P.M.
We have our work cut out for us.

On Saturday, I leave before 7
A.M.
in the old surveying truck. It creaks and groans like an old ship, and the leaky windows create a roar inside that makes the radio pretty useless. The surveyor had warned me about the brakes—they were bad, he said—and he was right. I push the brake pedal on the Highway 14 off-ramp and the truck slows slightly. I grunt down with both feet, and the truck loses speed with only a little more alacrity. The truck has character, however, and it looks perfect.

I've long felt that the right props and the right location don't make a movie, but they sure can kill it. When I watch a film, I obsess over the little things, and I look and listen for errors. If I find them, they take me out of the film. Good films and television shows are good for a reason, and attention to detail is a big part of it. On this film, I feel I've got all the details right . . . except the darn license plates.

I'm at the entrance to the park by 7:30
A.M.
Today will be the acid test. Will the actors be on time? Will they find the park? Will they show up at all?

By 7:50
A.M.
, I have my answer. Everyone has arrived. We're lined up on the road outside the park gate, and I'm grinning like a fool and high-fiving the actors. It's an auspicious start.

We start shooting the first scene by 9
A.M.
, and I find something strange with my relationship with Dan. I'm not irritated at him. The first order of business is to load the camera. Dan disappears into his car and covers himself with a blanket to block light from getting onto the film. He's gone a
lonnnnng
time. He comes back, looking a bit sheepish. He was impatient with my loading skills during his shoot. Now he seems chastened. I don't rub it in. “Loading a camera in the dark is fun,” I say in commiseration.

As we set up shots, Dan is helpful and enthusiastic. He knows more than I do about camera work, and I'm very happy to have him on the set. From hour one, the relationship is much more cohesive and upbeat. I think it has to do with security and insecurity. I'm twenty years older than Dan. I'm old enough to know that I know very few things in this world, and I'm not ashamed to admit this to Dan. Dan has the cocky assurance of youth, someone who knows everything and is loath to admit ignorance. I was the same way when I was twenty-three. When Dan was director, he seemed uptight and nervous. Now that I'm the director, he's loose and relaxed.

We have a great deal of back and forth. I'm happy to have his input.

Dan also seems impressed that the shoot is running like clockwork. The producing duties are largely done, and we've got a great cast, nice props, and an awesome location. He's had a nice break to focus on his other classes. Any doubts he had about my organizing skills are put to rest.

We shoot that morning and dine on a feast for lunch on a shade-covered picnic table. Irene's spread is delicious. Surveyor Robert Hennon has indeed come to give technical advice, and he's a gent. He shows the actors how to use the surveying gear.

The next day we meet again and shoot again. It goes swimmingly well. Mikey is there to be a gofer—we cover a lot of ground and he gladly hauls camera equipment and props.