We officially wrapped the shooting of our short film earlier this week. It took one amazing crew, 4 days, and countless gallons of coffee to get it all done. It was really fun, we had a great cast and crew who made all the hiccups we encountered along the way seem less like the end of the world. This whole experience made me appreciate how much goes into making a movie and how lucky Hollywood is to have millions of dollars to make it work.
Every shoot has its obstacles and ours was no different. Whether we were kicked out of our first location for going over time, forced to “cheat” a kitchen scene in a backyard, kicked out of the backyard for not being allowed to shoot there, securing a location just hours before we were set to shoot or having to film in a crowded café and deal with the sound of barking Chihuahuas and dominos being played in the background, we overcame it all. I may sound calm about all of these issues, but in reality I think I had several minor heart attacks over the weekend.
Because I am the writer behind this beautiful project and have no film school experience I spent the majority of the days sitting by the actors, eating pretzels and wondering why the crew was referring to clothespins as “ C47s”. I think those who did not know that I wrote the script were wondering why I was there. Some thought I might be an assistant of sorts, but that was quickly revealed to be false when I didn’t know the answer to basic questions like, “what are we doing next?”, “are we shooting the forest scene today?” and “when is dinner?” It seemed the questions transitioned in importance as people tried to pin point my role on the set. I was first thought to be important enough to know what was immediately happening next, to possibly knowing if a huge scene was on the day’s agenda, to the caterer.
I learned a ton working on this shoot, but it also showed me how much I would rather work in television. I was lucky that my brother was directing this film because most film writers are tossed to the side after their script is picked up, whereas in television, the writer runs the show. We had to search for weeks to find locations whereas TV shows have their permanent set and do not move much from there. In movies you work with your cast and crew for weeks but then go your separate ways when you wrap, in TV you can get much more attached because everyone will be back the next episode or next season.
Eli and I enjoyed this project so much that we are already planning our next one. In other aspects of my life, I picked up a nanny job that PAYS, I’m working a different internship and trying to write my hands off. Hollywood will be mine soon.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
PSA brought to you by ANNA
I have a strong feeling that people who jog around at night, with nothing but a small flickering light clenched in their hand, have a death wish. Those tiny shining lights that these joggers carry with them give them a false sense of safety and an even falser sense of visibility. If your light is so small and so faint it can easily be mistaken for a firefly until a car is 2 feet away from you but still going 30 mph, you need to invest in neon reflective clothing and a Chilean miner headlamp. That is if you got to this blog post in time.
If your favorite time to jog is between 5 and 6:30pm, I would advise you to consider a gym membership. It’s dangerous to jog at night at any point but especially when all the weary eyed working professionals are driving home after a long day. When I drive home from work the only things on my mind are: What am I going to have for dinner? And when did I get in my car? Sometimes I get home and have to think of an exact moment that I was driving myself home to convince myself it really did happen. Rush hour drivers are too distracted already to have the energy to avoid hitting anything other than traffic.
Nighttime joggers, you have been warned.
If your favorite time to jog is between 5 and 6:30pm, I would advise you to consider a gym membership. It’s dangerous to jog at night at any point but especially when all the weary eyed working professionals are driving home after a long day. When I drive home from work the only things on my mind are: What am I going to have for dinner? And when did I get in my car? Sometimes I get home and have to think of an exact moment that I was driving myself home to convince myself it really did happen. Rush hour drivers are too distracted already to have the energy to avoid hitting anything other than traffic.
Nighttime joggers, you have been warned.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Going a Different Kind of Green
I recently had the opportunity to see a California medical marijuana card up close. This should not be taken as me sneakily telling you I got a medical marijuana card because that is just not true. Weed and I do not get along. Never have, and I refuse to find out if we ever will. With that being said, I’m fairly confident that I have found the solution to this ridiculous debate of legalizing marijuana.
Medical marijuana advocates need to start taking their cause more seriously. This starts with making the actual card look a little bit more legitimate. Right now the California medical marijuana card is a piece of paper no bigger than an index card and can be easily confused as a loyalty card at your local laundry mat. A little lamination goes a long way.
The most alarmingly casual aspect of the medical marijuana card is the following statement written on the card: “this is to certify that ‘blah blah’ would probably benefit from the use of medical marijuana”. This is not verbatim, but this does include one crucial word: Probably. Call me a stickler for proper medical care, but I don’t find the word ‘probably’ on a prescription to inspire much confidence in the diagnosis. You would never go to a hospital and happily volunteer your limbs if a doctor said, “you would probably benefit from an amputation of the left leg.” You would never gladly accept a doctor’s nonchalant ‘dunno’ shrug when you ask if the medicine they are prescribing will cure your migraines. That is unless the medicine can be taken in delicious edible chocolate forms.
I believe that marijuana has medicinal qualities, but I do feel that it needs to take some steps in a serious direction if it wants to get the attention it deserves as a viable medical option. It is just so silly right now, no wonder it’s losing in elections. It would be like putting something ridiculous like Arnold Schwarzenegger for the governor on a ballot.
In other news, we are filming our movie (based on the short story I wrote) this weekend! I'm PUMPED because we have an awesome cast and since I will be working behind the camera I can eat non stop. I will hopefully have a link for you all in the next few months or so. Possibly a wonderful Christmas present for us all...
Medical marijuana advocates need to start taking their cause more seriously. This starts with making the actual card look a little bit more legitimate. Right now the California medical marijuana card is a piece of paper no bigger than an index card and can be easily confused as a loyalty card at your local laundry mat. A little lamination goes a long way.
The most alarmingly casual aspect of the medical marijuana card is the following statement written on the card: “this is to certify that ‘blah blah’ would probably benefit from the use of medical marijuana”. This is not verbatim, but this does include one crucial word: Probably. Call me a stickler for proper medical care, but I don’t find the word ‘probably’ on a prescription to inspire much confidence in the diagnosis. You would never go to a hospital and happily volunteer your limbs if a doctor said, “you would probably benefit from an amputation of the left leg.” You would never gladly accept a doctor’s nonchalant ‘dunno’ shrug when you ask if the medicine they are prescribing will cure your migraines. That is unless the medicine can be taken in delicious edible chocolate forms.
I believe that marijuana has medicinal qualities, but I do feel that it needs to take some steps in a serious direction if it wants to get the attention it deserves as a viable medical option. It is just so silly right now, no wonder it’s losing in elections. It would be like putting something ridiculous like Arnold Schwarzenegger for the governor on a ballot.
In other news, we are filming our movie (based on the short story I wrote) this weekend! I'm PUMPED because we have an awesome cast and since I will be working behind the camera I can eat non stop. I will hopefully have a link for you all in the next few months or so. Possibly a wonderful Christmas present for us all...
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Twilight Zone
Today I put in my notice that I would be leaving my internship. I am moving on to bigger and better things… another unpaid internship. Before you ask, I can answer you. Yes, I always imagined not getting paid for the work I do. Some may see this as a lateral move as opposed to a step up, but I can assure you that I also have no idea whether it is a lateral move or a step up. But what I do know is that I am making moves, and that is important no matter where you are. I was dangerously close to developing career blood clots at my old internship so I had to shake my career legs out.
With my new internship comes a new driving route. And with that comes several new grey hairs and an unimaginable amount of U-turns. I was asked to drive a script out to a woman’s apartment and after roughly 15 U-turns within two blocks of my destination (the numbers on buildings are so small these days) I parked, thinking I had survived all the annoying, time wasting obstacles I would encounter on this trip. I was wrong. The woman I was to give the script to was not home, and after circling the building three times (on foot) to make sure all exits were sealed, I was finally let into the main office. Where I found myself in the middle of a drama between two elderly female tenants of the complex. They both wanted to help me. I was so thankful, until I realized their help was the annoying, time wasting obstacle I had hoped to avoid.
While one tried to open each individually locked mailbox with her own mail key, the other whispered to me about her fellow tenant’s rude husband. And the fact that the office was never open. I told her she was preaching to the choir, that I also needed that office to be open so that I could leave this script in good hands, hoping to hint that I had places to be and speed up this process a bit. But she had already abandoned that topic of conversation and was on to telling me about how her toilet didn’t work. I smiled politely and said things like, “well that’s never good” and just as I had almost completely turned my body around to make my escape, the other tenant had made her way down the line of mailboxes and was standing in front of me. She looked at me, confused, and said, "what just happened?" I told her my predicament again and she responded by trying to open each locked mailbox with her own mailbox key. Again.
I felt like I was in an episode of the twilight zone. I looked back at the woman with the broken toilet and she took my eye contact as time to tell me about her days in the beauty salon business. I began to wonder if all exits were sealed because this was a retirement community, was I allowed to be here? Finally when 'tenant with a broken toilet' told me that 'tenant with the mailbox key' took to flashing strangers I walked swiftly to the doors. I was, after all, faster than these women so my exit was much smoother than I expected it to be.
I have already learned something crucial through this internship that I had always wondered about. Mailbox keys do actually only open your mailbox. No cutting corners there.
With my new internship comes a new driving route. And with that comes several new grey hairs and an unimaginable amount of U-turns. I was asked to drive a script out to a woman’s apartment and after roughly 15 U-turns within two blocks of my destination (the numbers on buildings are so small these days) I parked, thinking I had survived all the annoying, time wasting obstacles I would encounter on this trip. I was wrong. The woman I was to give the script to was not home, and after circling the building three times (on foot) to make sure all exits were sealed, I was finally let into the main office. Where I found myself in the middle of a drama between two elderly female tenants of the complex. They both wanted to help me. I was so thankful, until I realized their help was the annoying, time wasting obstacle I had hoped to avoid.
While one tried to open each individually locked mailbox with her own mail key, the other whispered to me about her fellow tenant’s rude husband. And the fact that the office was never open. I told her she was preaching to the choir, that I also needed that office to be open so that I could leave this script in good hands, hoping to hint that I had places to be and speed up this process a bit. But she had already abandoned that topic of conversation and was on to telling me about how her toilet didn’t work. I smiled politely and said things like, “well that’s never good” and just as I had almost completely turned my body around to make my escape, the other tenant had made her way down the line of mailboxes and was standing in front of me. She looked at me, confused, and said, "what just happened?" I told her my predicament again and she responded by trying to open each locked mailbox with her own mailbox key. Again.
I felt like I was in an episode of the twilight zone. I looked back at the woman with the broken toilet and she took my eye contact as time to tell me about her days in the beauty salon business. I began to wonder if all exits were sealed because this was a retirement community, was I allowed to be here? Finally when 'tenant with a broken toilet' told me that 'tenant with the mailbox key' took to flashing strangers I walked swiftly to the doors. I was, after all, faster than these women so my exit was much smoother than I expected it to be.
I have already learned something crucial through this internship that I had always wondered about. Mailbox keys do actually only open your mailbox. No cutting corners there.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Trick or Treating with Bigfoot
We are just creeping past the recovery period of Halloween, and with the haze of the past weekend fading and the brightness of a new weekend approaching, this is as good a time as any to reflect on the recent holiday. I’m sure this will come as a relief to my parents that the only thing I dislike about Halloween is the unwritten acceptability of dressing like a, for lack of a better word, prostitute.
My friend recently let out a sigh of relief when she said that now that we were no longer in college we didn’t have to alter (usually already slutty) costumes to be slutty(ier). This is true, with that diploma came the strength to wear full pants. To be honest, my inability to dress like my peers is not completely by choice. I have very large feet, feet that have trouble finding heels. It’s really hard to dress slutty when you are trying to find men’s shoes that can pass as unisex. If you think you have a problem finding white knee high boots for your go-go dancer costume, try finding them in “huge ass”, as that is my shoe size.
One of the trickiest parts of Halloween is the inevitable misplacement of parts of your costume throughout the night. One minute you’re dressed as a Lumber Jill then, after losing your hunting hat and fake ax, all of a sudden you’re Melissa Etheridge. You have to have a backup costume idea that is closely tied to what you are wearing in case the above scenario happens to you. I always have a backup explanation in my head, and this year was no different. I went as Emma Stone from Easy A, I wore a black top, black leggings, black sunglasses and a red sticky-backed A on my chest. I knew that should I lose my red sticky-backed A, (which I did, only to later find it stuck to my friend's purse) I could easily tell people I was dressed as nighttime. Or stage help.
While I thought losing my red A (the only real hint to my costume) would be the biggest challenge of the night, I was wrong. Both explaining that my costume was Easy A and not ETA, (how does one even dress as Estimated Time of Arrival?) and telling people that my name is not Hanna, Manna or Monica were both equally harder than keeping track of my red A. It is SO hard to correct people in a loud club. And wracking my brain for hand gestures to explain the correct pronunciation of my name, which usually becomes me making circles in the air like a wind turbine to suggest that one more turn of the mental mouse wheel in their brain and they've got it, is exhausting. Then having to come up with hand gestures for Easy A, not ETA, is down right impossible. It did not take long before I gave up and accepted whatever muffled name anyone heard during our introduction. Yes, yes my name is Paula. And I'm dressed as a measurement of time.
While I am a strong believer in Halloween being the perfect opportunity for psychopaths to hit the town, innocently dressed as Billy Mays, I do love this holiday. And despite my feet’s efforts to change my mind, I will not yield! Happy Halloween (four days late…)
My friend recently let out a sigh of relief when she said that now that we were no longer in college we didn’t have to alter (usually already slutty) costumes to be slutty(ier). This is true, with that diploma came the strength to wear full pants. To be honest, my inability to dress like my peers is not completely by choice. I have very large feet, feet that have trouble finding heels. It’s really hard to dress slutty when you are trying to find men’s shoes that can pass as unisex. If you think you have a problem finding white knee high boots for your go-go dancer costume, try finding them in “huge ass”, as that is my shoe size.
One of the trickiest parts of Halloween is the inevitable misplacement of parts of your costume throughout the night. One minute you’re dressed as a Lumber Jill then, after losing your hunting hat and fake ax, all of a sudden you’re Melissa Etheridge. You have to have a backup costume idea that is closely tied to what you are wearing in case the above scenario happens to you. I always have a backup explanation in my head, and this year was no different. I went as Emma Stone from Easy A, I wore a black top, black leggings, black sunglasses and a red sticky-backed A on my chest. I knew that should I lose my red sticky-backed A, (which I did, only to later find it stuck to my friend's purse) I could easily tell people I was dressed as nighttime. Or stage help.
While I thought losing my red A (the only real hint to my costume) would be the biggest challenge of the night, I was wrong. Both explaining that my costume was Easy A and not ETA, (how does one even dress as Estimated Time of Arrival?) and telling people that my name is not Hanna, Manna or Monica were both equally harder than keeping track of my red A. It is SO hard to correct people in a loud club. And wracking my brain for hand gestures to explain the correct pronunciation of my name, which usually becomes me making circles in the air like a wind turbine to suggest that one more turn of the mental mouse wheel in their brain and they've got it, is exhausting. Then having to come up with hand gestures for Easy A, not ETA, is down right impossible. It did not take long before I gave up and accepted whatever muffled name anyone heard during our introduction. Yes, yes my name is Paula. And I'm dressed as a measurement of time.
While I am a strong believer in Halloween being the perfect opportunity for psychopaths to hit the town, innocently dressed as Billy Mays, I do love this holiday. And despite my feet’s efforts to change my mind, I will not yield! Happy Halloween (four days late…)
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