As the crew wrapped up filming, a twinge of worry crept into Ben's mind. The task ahead wasn't easy: from over 200 minutes of raw footage, he would need to carve out a tight 90-minute film.
Of course, there was a silver lining. Compared to many Hollywood productions, which generate upwards of a thousand minutes of footage—and sometimes twice that for auteur-driven art films—his relatively lean 200 minutes was modest. Still, it posed a unique challenge.
Unlike traditional shoots, the entire film had been shot using a handheld camera. Despite every effort to keep the footage steady, there were inevitable moments of jarring movement—some unintentional, others deliberately employed to enhance realism.
Even without watching the final cut, Ben knew what the outcome might be: a film that could leave audiences dizzy.
The next step would be a technical one—sifting through the footage to assemble a coherent, engaging narrative that maintained tension without making viewers sick. The film had to feel raw and real—but not nauseating. Striking that balance was critical.
Fortunately, Ben didn't have to wait long. The very next day, Helen introduced an editor.
"Chris Paul," she said, as if presenting a solution she had been sitting on. "He used to be an assistant editor on Star Wars. He's also served as the lead editor on several niche films."
"Niche videos?" Ben raised an eyebrow.
Helen didn't flinch. She knew what he meant. "Could it be that—aside from Star Wars—the rest of his work went straight to video release?"
Ben wasn't far off. Hollywood was teeming with small distribution companies—many of which had no real theatrical access. They bought up low-budget films from around the world, re-edited them, and dumped them straight to VHS. These films never saw the inside of a theater.
It was a corner of the industry that existed in the shadows—profitable in volume, but creatively thankless. Editors in this world became invisible technicians. Few knew their names, but their fingerprints were on dozens—if not hundreds—of re-edited tapes.
Still, there was money in it. Editing each film might only pay a few hundred dollars, but over time, the income added up.
"Exactly," Helen confirmed, scribbling down an address and phone number on a piece of paper. "But his editing skills are solid. Weekly rate is $800. If you're interested, go see him."
Eight hundred dollars a week wasn't exactly cheap, but not outrageous either. Reasonable.
"All right," Ben nodded, pocketing the slip of paper. "But I need to know which films he's edited. A good editor isn't a universal fit. Some are better with commercial fare, others with indie work, or horror. I need to see if his rhythm matches what we need."
"No problem," Helen said smoothly, listing a handful of film titles. Not a single one rang a bell.
Later that day, Ben stopped by a Blockbuster rental store in search of the tapes.
It was an exercise in frustration.
After an hour of browsing disorganized shelves and getting indifferent responses from the staff, he managed to find only two of the films. A few were rented out. Others weren't in stock at all.
The service was abysmal. The clerk seemed annoyed by his questions, and there were no working computer terminals to make searches easier.
No wonder Blockbuster went under, Ben thought, lips curled in irritation as he headed back home. Even without Netflix or streaming, this kind of laziness would've killed them eventually.
Back home, he popped in the two tapes and sat down to watch, barely noticing when the sun set or that he'd skipped dinner.
Both films—one a British indie drama, the other a French art piece—had been competently re-edited. Despite their humble production values, the pacing was tight, and a few continuity issues had clearly been corrected in post.
Ben was impressed. "Not bad. We can work together."
The price made it even more attractive. Many low-budget productions couldn't afford a full-time editor. Often, the director doubled as editor, which led to rushed cuts and amateur mistakes.
That's where Hollywood's micro-distributors stepped in. They would re-edit the material to make it palatable for home video sales.
In Ben's mind, he knew that The Blair Witch Project's success had owed as much to its editing as its marketing. A clumsily cut film—no matter how brilliant the concept—would have tanked, dizzying viewers out of theaters before word-of-mouth had a chance to spread.
The next morning, Ben hailed a taxi and followed the address Helen had given him. It led to the southern part of downtown Los Angeles—Nadu, an area steeped in poverty and danger.
Slums in America were different from the rural villages he remembered from his past life. Here, crime was overt—robbery, petty theft, and drug deals happened in plain sight.
It was generally safe during daylight hours—as long as you avoided alleyways—but still, no local wandered here unless absolutely necessary.
The cab eventually stopped in front of a weathered apartment building. No cameras. No security. No intercom. Anyone could walk in.
Ben checked the address again before climbing the narrow, dim stairwell to the third floor. He knocked on the door at the end of the hall.
"Excuse me, is Mr. Chris Paul home?" he called. "I'm Ben Gosling, referred by Miss Helen."
He heard slow, dragging footsteps from inside. Ten seconds later, the door creaked open to reveal a slouching, middle-aged Black man with a salt-and-pepper beard and tired eyes.
"You the guy Helen mentioned on the phone?" the man rasped.
"Yes," Ben replied, momentarily surprised. "You're Chris Paul?"
The man nodded. "That's me."
Ben blinked. Not because he hadn't expected a man named Chris Paul—but because he hadn't expected him to be Black.
It reminded him of the brutal truth in pre-9/11 Hollywood: race still defined careers in ways no one openly admitted.
White editors who fumbled a big studio job could recover after a cooling-off period. They got second chances—new agents, new studios, new opportunities.
But Black editors? They were often cast out, consigned to the margins, never trusted again with high-profile work. One misstep could mean a lifetime of obscurity.
In the eyes of the industry, white failure was forgivable. Black failure was fatal.
No wonder someone with Star Wars credits was now editing niche tapes in a dilapidated apartment.
"If I'm not wrong," the man added with a tired smile, "I'm still Chris Paul."
"Right. Sorry." Ben tried not to let his thoughts show. "Miss Helen said to just call you Paul."
Paul stepped aside. "Come in. Sit wherever you can find space."
The apartment was more workshop than home. Editing equipment lined every wall. Spools of tape, monitors, cables—half the living room looked like a post-production bay.
Ben carefully perched on a creaky chair, silently praying it wouldn't collapse.
Paul cut straight to business. "Helen briefed me. Eight hundred a week, flat rate. Doesn't matter how many days it takes. Of course, if we use a proper editing studio, I can give you a discount."
Ben shook his head. "No need. It's all handheld camera footage. Doesn't warrant a full editing suite. Your setup is more than enough."
"Handheld?" Paul raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know anyone was still doing that."
"Well... I am."
Paul leaned back. "All right. I'll need to watch the raw footage before we talk cuts. Also—will this be going straight to tape, or screened in theaters?"
He didn't even bother asking about wide release. No one shot handheld and expected a multiplex premiere.
"Helen's working on distribution," Ben replied. "We're aiming for limited screenings—on demand."
Paul nodded. "If it's Helen's deal, no problem."
They wrapped up their conversation, and soon after, drove together to Star Talent Brokerage to sign the editing contract.
Ben had a good feeling. For a film like The Blair Witch Project, editing wasn't just post-production—it was the final layer of storytelling. And Paul, sidelined though he was by a deeply unfair system, might be just the craftsman they needed to pull it off.