As HAL 9000 fondly points out at a crucial moment in 2001, most problems can be “attributable to human error.” That wasn’t the case with our production, but that’s not to say we didn’t experience our fair share of miscues and mistakes. One of the most significant human errors occurred about halfway through the shoot. An actor in a prominent supporting role as a pastor became gravely ill. At first, her illness was characterized as dehydration; later, it was rumored she had Crohn’s disease, which compromises the immune system and is associated with a painful inflammation of the gastrointestinal tract.
Whatever the cause, the actor neglected to inform me or anyone else in the production department that she was seriously ill. So I was shocked and dismayed when she showed for a planned 12-hour night shoot so weak she couldn’t stand for more than three consecutive minutes. This was a big scene involving a specially-designed set that took weeks to construct; a cast of over two-dozen extras, including a small choir; about a dozen vintage cars; our three-person stunt team; and substantial fire and makeup effects. The actor apparently thought willpower alone would take her through the scene. Unfortunately, that theory didn’t prove out. The scene required her to deliver a sermon that timed out at over four uninterrupted minutes. Frail and unfocused, she could scarcely recite more than two lines at a time, much less perform the blocking I’d envisioned. As much as she wanted to play the part, it just wasn’t happening. Watching her (non-) performance on the monitor, I started to shrink into myself. The footage was completely useless.
While I felt badly for her condition, I couldn’t help being angry at her for putting me in an untenable position. She hadn’t given me any warning. There was no immediate recourse. The scene was pivotal to the rest of the film. My heart sank as I realized the only option was to recast the part and reshoot the scene another night—at considerable expense. Thankfully, we’d shot only one other, much shorter scene with her. (She’d appeared shaky then, but plausibly attributed her condition to the unusually hot weather.) To keep on schedule, we had to reshoot that short scene the next day (well, technically, later the same day as it was after midnight when I came to that decision). With no time to find a replacement through the usual casting channels, I made the bold (some would say foolhardy) decision to play the role myself.
Although I hadn’t done any acting since college, I was comfortable with delivering the lengthy sermon because: 1) I’d written it and accordingly, knew how I wanted it to come across; and 2) as a former elected official, I’m accustomed to speech-making. I figured I could bluff my way through the quieter moments, in part, by affecting a soft Louisiana accent. (One of my college roommates was Karey Kirkpatrick, the screenwriter for Chicken Run and a variety of other Hollywood successes. He hails from Louisiana and—at least at the time—talked with a slight regional twang. I just kept his vocal inflections in mind as best I could.) Besides, I knew for certain I’d always be on time and ready to perform.
I have to say, the experience increased my respect for Clint Eastwood and other actor-directors who routinely star in their own films. It was awfully challenging to act and direct at the same time. I had to cede a lot of the decision-making to the first assistant director and the director of photography. Sure, I could view the shots on the monitor, but in order to stay on schedule, it became impractical for me to do so every time. At one point, choked by bloody tentacles, I just had to trust my team had nailed the shots as we’d discussed them. Once I worked up the courage to watch the dailies, I confirmed that they had. (Not that I ever doubted it.) The scene cut together nicely and we even salvaged a few shots from the previous attempt. Though the circumstances around the scene weren’t ideal, what matters is what’s onscreen. And as we've made adjustments in post, it’s gone from merely good to potentially great.
<< Return to Part 1
Whatever the cause, the actor neglected to inform me or anyone else in the production department that she was seriously ill. So I was shocked and dismayed when she showed for a planned 12-hour night shoot so weak she couldn’t stand for more than three consecutive minutes. This was a big scene involving a specially-designed set that took weeks to construct; a cast of over two-dozen extras, including a small choir; about a dozen vintage cars; our three-person stunt team; and substantial fire and makeup effects. The actor apparently thought willpower alone would take her through the scene. Unfortunately, that theory didn’t prove out. The scene required her to deliver a sermon that timed out at over four uninterrupted minutes. Frail and unfocused, she could scarcely recite more than two lines at a time, much less perform the blocking I’d envisioned. As much as she wanted to play the part, it just wasn’t happening. Watching her (non-) performance on the monitor, I started to shrink into myself. The footage was completely useless.
While I felt badly for her condition, I couldn’t help being angry at her for putting me in an untenable position. She hadn’t given me any warning. There was no immediate recourse. The scene was pivotal to the rest of the film. My heart sank as I realized the only option was to recast the part and reshoot the scene another night—at considerable expense. Thankfully, we’d shot only one other, much shorter scene with her. (She’d appeared shaky then, but plausibly attributed her condition to the unusually hot weather.) To keep on schedule, we had to reshoot that short scene the next day (well, technically, later the same day as it was after midnight when I came to that decision). With no time to find a replacement through the usual casting channels, I made the bold (some would say foolhardy) decision to play the role myself.
Although I hadn’t done any acting since college, I was comfortable with delivering the lengthy sermon because: 1) I’d written it and accordingly, knew how I wanted it to come across; and 2) as a former elected official, I’m accustomed to speech-making. I figured I could bluff my way through the quieter moments, in part, by affecting a soft Louisiana accent. (One of my college roommates was Karey Kirkpatrick, the screenwriter for Chicken Run and a variety of other Hollywood successes. He hails from Louisiana and—at least at the time—talked with a slight regional twang. I just kept his vocal inflections in mind as best I could.) Besides, I knew for certain I’d always be on time and ready to perform.
I have to say, the experience increased my respect for Clint Eastwood and other actor-directors who routinely star in their own films. It was awfully challenging to act and direct at the same time. I had to cede a lot of the decision-making to the first assistant director and the director of photography. Sure, I could view the shots on the monitor, but in order to stay on schedule, it became impractical for me to do so every time. At one point, choked by bloody tentacles, I just had to trust my team had nailed the shots as we’d discussed them. Once I worked up the courage to watch the dailies, I confirmed that they had. (Not that I ever doubted it.) The scene cut together nicely and we even salvaged a few shots from the previous attempt. Though the circumstances around the scene weren’t ideal, what matters is what’s onscreen. And as we've made adjustments in post, it’s gone from merely good to potentially great.
<< Return to Part 1
