Chapter 58: Hard-Won Normalcy in Filming
Back in his previous life across the Pacific, Wayne had only heard bits and pieces about how movies and TV series were made—at that time, he was still just a projectionist.
A 30-to-50-episode web drama or series could be wrapped up in two to three months. A 90-minute domestic film? Usually finished in just over a month.
But once he began seriously studying filmmaking in Hollywood, he realized—that pace was absolutely impossible here. In Hollywood, filming time is extremely precious.
Even at his current speed, Wayne already considered himself a "quick-draw" filmmaker. Three months for principal photography, two to three more for post-production—he could manage this only because he deliberately chose a small-budget project and cleverly optimized the production.
Even someone as prolific as Spielberg couldn't guarantee a film a year.
For popular American TV series, production that stretched across years—even decades—was normal. And for commercial films, a full year or two from pre-production to release was completely standard.
So the fact that Wayne's shoot ran into a scandal on day one—a full-blown controversy involving the director—yet still managed to stay on schedule was, frankly, a miracle.
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There were reasons why filming in North America progressed slowly—foremost among them being the iron grip of the unions.
Every actor, every behind-the-scenes crew member had their own union. North American labor laws weren't about to let anyone get away with double or triple shifts. Overtime filming? Almost unheard of.
If a single person reported overwork to a union, production could be shut down for inspection immediately. The time and cost of such a shutdown would far outweigh any gains made from working a few extra hours.
That's why Wayne's meticulous pre-production planning was so important. As long as they stuck to the schedule, they'd be moving at maximum efficiency. Every scene's props and sets were prepped ahead of time, ready the moment the previous shot wrapped.
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"Hey, Will, Naomi—pay attention to your emotions here. This is the film's opening—make it feel like you're truly in love."
Will Smith and Naomi were chatting casually. Their characters were a couple in love, so easing into familiarity helped make the chemistry look natural on screen.
"No problem."
"Got it."
The slate clapped. Will Smith opened the front door, smiled, embraced Naomi, and kissed her like a man smitten. They entered the room together.
"Cut, good. Moving on."
It was a simple shot but a crucial one, laying the foundation for the film's emotional arc. Everything was smooth—until they got to the bedroom scene.
That's when things screeched to a halt.
"Damn it! You're a couple! Lovers in the heat of passion! Loosen up! Show some professional spirit!"
Wayne was growing frustrated as he stood by the bed, watching Will and Naomi freeze up like amateur actors. Surrounded by crew, the two of them were clearly nervous and self-conscious.
"Sorry, Wayne. Let's try again."
Naomi sounded annoyed at herself. Just thinking about being watched by dozens of people while getting intimate with a stranger made her mind go blank.
"Luke, give them a ten-minute break. Naomi, Will—don't overthink it. You've both done great so far. It's just a love scene."
The two sat awkwardly on the bed, unsure what to say. This short scene—just a few seconds long—had already taken over a dozen takes, and they still hadn't nailed it.
Wayne didn't scold them too harshly. Nearly every new actor struggled with their first love scene, especially under the gaze of an entire crew.
What mattered now was helping them get into character. The final cut would probably only include a few seconds of footage, but those seconds were important.
Will looked at Wayne, hesitating a bit.
"Director Garfield, would it be possible to clear the set? Leave just the essential crew? I think that would really help."
"Talk it through with each other for a moment," Wayne replied, crossing his arms and stroking his chin. "If you still can't get into character, I'll consider it."
He didn't particularly want to clear the set. For such a basic scene, it shouldn't have been necessary.
After all, most Hollywood actresses weren't shy about on-screen intimacy. If someone couldn't handle undressing in front of the crew, how would they survive the film's release?
But this wasn't about veteran actors. These were newcomers. Throw two strangers together and tell them to strip down and act in love in front of dozens? Numbness and discomfort were completely normal reactions.
Once they got past this mental hurdle, future scenes would go much smoother.
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"How are they doing?" Luke asked as he plopped down beside Wayne.
"They just need a little more practice," Wayne replied. "Actors are emotional creatures. Once they're in the right mindset, none of this will be an issue."
Wayne was flipping through a stack of photos. Suddenly, he stopped.
"Who prepped these props? Tell them to redo it."
He slammed the stack of photos on the table.
Luke picked them up and frowned.
The photos were supposed to show Naomi's character with her ex-boyfriends—important visual props that would be given a close-up on camera. But all the Black actors posing with Naomi looked dead serious, stiff, no intimacy whatsoever.
"Jason! Jason!" Luke called out loudly.
Jason jogged over, still draped in costume accessories.
"What's up, Luke?"
"There's a problem with these photos."
"Go get those guys back and reshoot the pictures," Wayne cut in. "These are supposed to be her exes. Think! Would you take a photo with your girlfriend standing like a stranger, no smiles, no contact?"
"Got it, sorry! I'll take care of it right away!"
Some directors never bothered with details like these. Others were obsessive. Wayne clearly belonged to the latter camp.
"And set up a shot with Mace and Naomi," Wayne added. "She's not in here, and she plays the housekeeper who's secretly the grandmother, remember?"
"On it!"
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Break time ended. The crew returned to their positions, and the camera was refocused on the bed.
Wayne walked over and asked:
"You two good now? Had a proper talk?"
Seeing the two actors nod to signal they were ready, Wayne finally returned behind the monitor and fixed his eyes on the screen.
"Scene 10, Take 2 — action!"
On the monitor, the close-up of the kiss appeared—slowly building into something more intimate.
"Cut! That was good. Really good. Steve, dim the lights—we'll go again."
Once filming resumed in full swing, it was hard to stop. Wayne completely tuned out the noise from the outside world. After wrap each day, he refused all interview requests. He had no interest in media buzz.
Even follow-up discussions with Warner Bros. about the racial discrimination allegations were handled entirely by Jimmy.
Wayne poured his full energy into the shoot, ignoring anything unrelated to the production. But inside the set? Nothing moved without his say-so.
Because of his personality, he would never delegate the crew's management to the assistant director or the production manager—most successful directors wouldn't.
Every day's shooting schedule was something he discussed in advance with the key staff. From props and set design to lighting setups and camera placements—he had to sign off on it all. He might not be involved in every technical detail, but nothing began shooting until he gave the final approval.
Meanwhile, parts of the script were still being polished. After all, this wasn't your typical realistic movie—many absurd, surreal plot twists would appear in the latter half. Wayne needed to ensure the logic of these scenes held up enough to avoid glaring plot holes that audiences would tear apart.
Take the scene where the protagonist is captured and tied up, for example. He specifically added extra lines of dialogue so the "mother" character could explain things more clearly to the audience.
A lot of exposition could be smoothly delivered through dialogue to preempt questions and disbelief.
Let's be honest—this wasn't a normal story. With twist upon twist built on an absurd body-swap premise, the only way to keep the audience engaged was to sell the illusion that this bizarre situation was grounded in some kind of reality.
Wayne carefully refined many of the film's key dialogues. Sometimes, he even gathered the cast to help him workshop potential flaws or improvements.
This was, after all, a film set three decades in the future—and a lot of outdated jokes or dialogue clearly wouldn't fly anymore.
Wayne understood well: dialogue is one of the most transparent and scrutinized elements of a movie. When a character speaks, the viewer's attention locks in. Dialogue pushes the plot, reveals motivation—it's the narrative's nervous system.
Bringing the cast together had another major benefit: Wayne had a notoriously weak sense of humor. Coming from an era of information overload and meme-saturated culture, he struggled to grasp the comedy beats that resonated with modern audiences.
Letting the actors—especially those with comedic instincts—contribute to improving the jokes made perfect sense.
This was a strategic way to play to his strengths and avoid his blind spots. Rather than force comedy, he would focus the film's impact on the area he excelled in: the climax—bloody, brutal, and unforgettable.
For the final sequences, Wayne had prepared loads of fake blood and ketchup. The final cut would undoubtedly be drenched in violence and gore.
From day one, this movie had been designed as a hard R-rated feature. So Wayne figured—why hold back? Lean into it. Let the finale offer audiences a cathartic, visceral payoff.
Sure, an R rating meant a smaller audience. But that restriction was also a marketing angle. In North America, rebellious teenagers often flocked to theaters specifically because of an R rating.
In fact, R-rated films were always top choices in the VHS rental market among younger viewers.
Being a director was never a simple job. It was like being a glorified general contractor—except the building was a film. And the final structure? It depended entirely on how well he could balance all the trades and talents involved.