Rain fell heavily throughout the backlot street—a silvery sheet from towering HMI lights. The drops of water shimmered in the atmospheric haze, falling from a distance as the rain machines hissed overhead.
A flickering effect, from the 1/4 CTO gelled streetlamp bulb, cast dancing shadows across Javier Bardem's rain-soaked face. He was solo'd in the shot, wearing a priest's cassock fitted tightly against his wet skin, and mouthing silent prayers with his eyes tilted skyward like someone between salvation and damnation.
Harry Jackson stood behind the Sony BVW-300P monitor, humped down over the chunky CRT that glowed a cold blue light onto his face. He watched the playback video for the eighth time, but he was still not happy.
The crew around him continued to wait. They were tired. They were soaked to the skin. They were silent.
The sound of the rain machine mingled with the quiet whirring of the variable-speed 35mm Arriflex camera being reloaded. Most of the crew stopped expecting a wrap call hours ago.
"Again," Harry said distraught, while rubbing at the shadows under his eyes.
Wally Pfister nodded, but adjusted the Panavision lens to the next focal length without argument. But Harry could see his shoulders were stiff and his voice was dry. They had been working fourteen-hour days for weeks.
You could feel their exhaustion-not in the actual work, but in the way they moved so slowly, in the eerie silence that replaced their usual banter.
Javier nodded from his mark with breath fogging into the evening's cool air. "One more," he said. His Spanish accent, heavy with fatigue, softened the edge of his diction.
To one side under the production tent, Daniel Hayes leaned against a C-stand, already out of costume and all wrapped for the night's filming. His agent, a contained woman in a sharply tailored black pantsuit, had a quiet hand on his arm just as he began to rise. "Don't," she whispered, "You'll need him for the press tour."
Take nine.
The slate clapped shut, the film rolled. Rain fell steadily, catching in Javier's hair; beading along the brow. The camera pushed slowly in.
The flicker of the streetlamp shadowed his eyes, and for one beautiful moment, he luxuriously looked haunted - lost and found simultaneously. His lips looked to have begun to move - forming a sentence, perhaps a prayer, and in the moment, no one would hear them, but everyone would feel them as it flickered past.
Harry, from the monitor, didn't blink.
"Cut!" came the call of Gregory Lang, holding the production megaphone, "That's a wrap on Providence!"
Cheers and applause filled the air. Crew members high-fived each other, the 2nd AC broke down the film magazines and labeled the remaining rolls of Kodak Vision 500T, Javier took a faux bow to the nearest camera and walked off into the blackness, with his towel draped over his shoulders.
Harry did not celebrate. He stayed at the monitor watching playback on the Sony Betacam deck, his expression impassive.
Wally walked over with the tape in hand. "Happy?"
Harry ran a hand through his greasy rain-drenched hair. "We will know soon enough in the edit room."
Two hours later, the aluminum door to Harry's trailer slammed open so hard that it rattled the blinds. Daniel Hayes marched in, hands shaped like claws.
"Fourteen takes!?" he shouted. "Fourteen fucking takes on my last scene?"
Harry did not look up. He was looking through a pile of continuity Polaroids, mouth thin.
"You were over working it," Harry said calmly.
Daniel's jaw clenched. "I was tired. Everybody was. Do you know what an eighty-eight hour work week does to a person?"
"For a film, I know what a weak showing can do. And you're in every single frame," Harry replied, now meeting Daniel's gaze.
Daniel's manager interjected, cool and steady. "Daniel, let's get going. Your flight to LAX leaves in three hours." She turned to Harry with a tight, professional smile. "We'll see you at ADR next month, Mr. Jackson."
The trailer door slammed for a second time.
Harry looked at the table for a moment, then picked up his Nokia 6310i. One missed call from his mother. He held the phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the call button. Then pressed off.
____
At the wrap party that night at The Hot Club—an dive off the pier that smelled like stale beer and fried clams—most of the crew was about three beers in on Narragansett. High above, the walls rattled with laughter and music, but Harry was still hanging at the back of the room.
Dan Aloni from WMA found him sitting cross-legged in a booth. He lit a Marlboro with care and sat across from Harry without asking.
"You didn't completely screw it up," Dan said, sounding rough around the edges. "That's more than most first- timers can say."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's high praise."
Dan blew smoke toward the dartboard at the far end of the bar. "Fox is on the fence about the dailies. They're saying it's too dark. Not jumpy enough for the teens in the audience, and not arthouse enough for the critics."
"It's a horror film."
"It's an art film with jump scares," he corrected, raising his drink. They clinked glasses and drank.
Later, Harry found Wally at the dart board, losing to one of the gaffers. He approached him and handed him a cold Sam Adams.
"Still hate me?" Harry said.
Wally took a long sip. "Don't get me wrong, I'm billing you every minute of the overtime."
He gestured back to the bar, where Javier was holding court with a group of PAs. He had a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. "But what about that last shot? Total fucking gold."