2005-11-08 - 12:41 a.m.

The director is perpetually shouting. Not constantly, since that would defeat the whole purpose of the order. Just when I stumble over a line, or the lighting's off, or he doesn't like how a piece of dialogue sounds.

The writer fucking hates it when it's about the dialogue.

CUT

Makeup. Cameras set. Lighting change. Like they can't just fix it in post. I didn't sign on for this. Fucking hack.

CUT

What now? We didn't even start the damn tape. The stupid black and white clacker thing hadn't even snapped. How long is this scene going to take?

It feels like we've been shooting forever. I can't even remember the last movie I was in this late in the day. How sad is that?

We filmed this one part a while ago that must have been a ten minute continuous shot. No cuts. No repositioning the cameras. Just me and the stage and the others, for ten minutes, speaking, doing. Acting. Like magic. One take. Even when Brian dropped the envelop, the director didn't yell cut.

The drop just became part of the scene. But that was then, and this is now.

CUT

He's gone nuts. This isn't even the same film we were working on before. The words are all yibberish on every even numbered page, and the producers have changed. They all smell like Rye when they show up on the set. The writer looks anemic, and my trailer is bolted to the asfault.

I saw the director, one time, crying to himself. He was just sitting behind camera 2, holding a roll of celuloid. Was it blank? I couldn't tell, and I didn't want him to see me.

CUT

For the love of God, why doesn't someone say something? Why don't any of us leave?

CUT
ROLL
PRINT

-fader