If The Blair Witch Project had been a typical Hollywood feature, the shooting might have stretched for months. But this wasn't a studio-backed blockbuster—it was a shoestring pseudo-documentary, a guerrilla-style operation held together by duct tape, coffee, and cold resolve.
Ben knew what he was doing. He always shot fast—that was one of the defining traits of his past life. He brought that efficiency into this world like muscle memory.
In total, the entire film was wrapped in six days.
Two days of footage from the forest. Two more in a sleepy little town. Another two at a wind-bitten beach.
There were no off days, no indulgences, no overblown artistic tantrums. It was shoot, sleep, reset, repeat.
But the speed didn't come without its hardships.
Early December in Los Angeles was colder than expected. Mornings were bitter. You could see your breath fog the air. Ben had to time shoots for when the sun was up, just warm enough to avoid colds or worse.
Shooting paused often. Actors huddled in coats or blankets when not on camera, sipping from mugs of hot chocolate or lukewarm coffee Donna prepared with almost military precision. She never missed a beat.
Jessica Chastain had it worse than most. As the sole female lead, her costume was… minimal. While the men could get away with layers, Jessica had to "look good" on camera. More than once, Ben caught her shivering violently between takes, lips turning faintly blue. She never complained aloud, but Amanda did.
"Next time you write a horror script, make sure the girl gets a jacket," she snapped, wrapping a shawl around Jessica's shoulders.
Ben nodded. "Duly noted." though he inwardly thought, 'What the hell! This is absolutely impossible. She should be explaining to Jessica that it's all about art and not complaining to me.'
They built small fires where possible. The glow brought some comfort, but didn't change the fact that this was an indie film set in survival mode.
Still, if the weather was cold, the food was decent. Hollywood crews—even indie ones—don't starve. And thanks to Helen and Amanda's insistence, they had real meals. Ben would've been fine with pizza and Coke, but he was overruled.
"This isn't a dorm party," Amanda reminded him. "These people need nutrients."
Ben had grumbled—those meals were burning his wallet—but in the end, it was hard to argue with warm stew or baked lasagna when the night winds picked up.
But when actors were resting, Ben wasn't. His mind churned.
A film needed at least four soundtracks—either composed or licensed. He had to start selecting options. And while the soundtrack in his past life version of the film was long forgotten, he knew the importance of the right audio. If all else failed, he'd ask the distribution company to take over that side.
Editing was another beast.
Back then, he remembered the amateur mistake in the original cut—when the lost students were deep in the forest but you could still see a road in the background. He wasn't going to let that happen again.
By Day Six, they were down to the final shots—interviews with fake locals in a nearby town. Amanda handled the extras and sprinkled in real townspeople to add realism. None of them were told it was for a film. The cast didn't know either.
It worked. Reactions were natural. Unscripted. Messy. Real.
The final slate clicked. The project was done. Six days, give or take. Faster than Ben predicted.
That evening, the crew was in good spirits. A small celebration was planned—nothing fancy, just dinner and drinks. Helen footed the bill, naturally. Star Talent Brokerage had a reputation to uphold.
Jessica found Ben standing near a fire pit, alone. "Ben," she said.
"Yeah?"
She hesitated. "If you're short on actresses for your next film... send me an audition invite. I mean, if."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "Thinking of going full-time?"
Jessica looked down. "I haven't decided yet. But if you call, I'll come."
He smiled. "Alright. But don't drop your studies. A good school can do more for your image than a dozen roles."
She lit up, kissed him on the cheek, and ran off before he could reply.
Helen arrived a moment later with a fresh cup of coffee. She pointed at the lipstick mark.
"If I were you," she said, deadpan, "I'd wait until the movie hits theaters before letting her flirt with you. She'll want to kill you after that."
Ben laughed. "Don't worry. I'm more focused on the unresolved issues of soundtracks and editing rather than flirting with young kids."
"You should be," Helen said, handing him the drink.
"Shooting is one thing," he said to Helen, "but post-production not done properly can ruin everything. We need to find a good editor," he mentioned. "And fast."
Easier said than done. Good editors were in short supply. Most were already on studio contracts. And with less than $10,000 left in the budget, hiring a professional wasn't looking feasible.
Having stated his requirements, Ben stared at Helen, while Amanda—who had been listening in—watched the silent exchange between them.
Seeing Ben's gaze fixed on Helen, and Helen acting smug as if she held the solution but wanted to milk the moment, Amanda finally interrupted their little contest.
"Dear Helen, please tell Ben if you have a solution for the soundtracks and editing," she said.
Lucasfilm had a branch dedicated to soundtracks—Skywalker Sound—and Helen promised to make a call, though she recommended that Ben allow the publishing company to handle the soundtrack instead.
After all, George also had a vested interest in the film. So, appropriate fees could be charged from Fox.
"As for film editors," Helen added, "Uncle George recommended one to me. No guarantees on pricing," she warned. "You'll have to negotiate the specifics with him."
"Wasn't counting on it," Ben said.
Ben looked out over the darkening set. It's coming together, he thought.