Scrappy Little Nobody(15)
I’ve come to love film sets and see the low-key environment as an asset, but it’s still unnerving that you can finish a scene and not know how it went. Things that crack you up while you’re filming can go over like a lead balloon in the movie, and things that feel stilted and boring on set can be tense and exciting for a viewer. While you’re shooting, you rely on the director to tell you if it’s going well, and you have to trust that they’re right. With my favorite directors, at least four times per shoot I’ll think, That is a f*cking terrible idea, let’s do it.
I went back to my room and wondered what we’d done. I couldn’t ask anyone for advice because none of us had ever been in a movie before. My next scene involved six actors and was my first lesson in what it feels like when a scene is not going well.
The scene had a fair bit of exposition, a few jokes, and some good old-fashioned bitchy teen drama. In a practical sense, though, it had six first-time film actors slogging their way through two pages of dialogue.
Everyone was making a meal out of their bits, fumbling punch lines, adding overdramatic inflection to minor lines. Todd was getting frustrated. At one point I heard him say, “I forgot that I’m not working with actors.” He didn’t mean it as a dig—we were just making mistakes that experienced film actors would not. I thought, Yeah, guys, come on, we don’t need to take these long pauses before every little line. I then proceeded to take a long pause before my one line.
Once I recognized that I was a total hypocrite, I started jumping in at warp speed in every subsequent take. It was a little weird, but it was an improvement.
Shooting the musical numbers helped bridge the gap between theater and film. We shot them in the various tiny theaters at the camp and performed them exactly like we would have onstage. Okay, this we knew how to do. We happily did them over and over as the cameras were repositioned around the theater.
Fritzi’s solo number was “The Ladies Who Lunch” from the musical Company. It’s a wildly inappropriate song for a teenage girl and was even more bizarre coming from one with the body of a twelve-year-old. This peculiar situation arises in the film because Fritzi has poisoned Jill after being rejected by her and steals the role mid-performance. She then sings a song about the ennui of middle-aged womanhood and her disillusionment with the bourgeoisie who surround her privileged 1970s Manhattan life. Sure.
When we finished shooting the number, we were supposed to get a shot of Jill watching me from backstage, furious and still throwing up, but Todd said he was going to scrap it. He whispered to me, “You don’t cut away from lightning in a bottle.” I’d never heard the expression before—in fact, for years I thought it was his personal invention—but I knew it meant I’d done well. He was the whole audience, so I had to trust him.
My mom came to pick me up on the last day of filming. I wept so hard and for so long that she pulled the car over, thinking I was going to need medical attention.
I haven’t cried at the wrap of a film since. At the time, I couldn’t reconcile the fact that no matter what we told each other, I would never go back there, never be with those people ever again. Now, I see catch-and-release as part of the beauty of what I get to do. Then again, I haven’t been stuck on a campground with twenty people and no technology for two months since, so maybe it was just the only time I’ve experienced Stockholm syndrome.
After filming wrapped, I went back to Maine and started the school year. Each time I described it to friends it felt less and less real. There were no famous actors in it. The plot sounded ludicrous. I had no point of reference to give. If High School Musical had already been made I could have described it as “like High School Musical, but with songs you’ll probably hate.” I kept my expectations low.
Six months later, I found out the movie had been selected for the Sundance Film Festival. I was over the moon. I couldn’t wait to tell people. But I held off—I had to find the right time to announce that the coolest thing that could possibly happen was happening.
Before winter vacation our French teacher had us go around the room and say what we were doing over the break “en Fran?ais, s’il vous plait.” Well, thank you very much, Madame Cadot, for this perfect opportunity. I reported my news. No one in the room even blinked. This was French Six. These motherf*ckers understood me. Did they really not know what I was talking about? Maine is small, but we’re not devoid of culture. What the hell? Why are you not impressed with me?!
Killer Films booked three hotel rooms at the festival, meant for the three lead actors only, but everyone else in the movie flew themselves out with the unspoken understanding that we’d all be crashing with them. Three to a bed, everyone else on the floor. It was glorious.
We were gleefully aware of our status as the ragtag nonunion group in a sea of real, SAG card–carrying actors. We went to gifting suites that refused to give us anything, reveled in the bright cold, holding fancy coffees we had no intention of drinking, and took advantage of the parties by sending one of our legal cast members to the open bar for seven drinks at a time.
I saw Oliver Platt going into his hotel and executed my first—and last—celebrity approach.
“Oh my god, you’re Oliver Platt! I loved you so much in Dangerous Beauty!”
He smiled and thanked me. I smiled expectantly at him for too long and eventually he told me to have a nice afternoon and went on his way. It was a strange interaction, and I left it feeling dissatisfied but not knowing what I’d hoped would happen. I’m terrible in every social situation; I don’t know why I thought it would go better with a famous person. I vowed to never approach a celebrity again.