Canon
“So we’ll dothirty-five-millimeters for the day exteriors,” I say, tapping my pencil for emphasis and looking from Jill to Kenneth. “And digital for night exterior shots, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jill nods. “And I’m thinking the anamorphic for those huge outdoor shots. Like the sweeping ones.”
Kenneth tilts his head, eyes the storyboard and our shot list. “We still using the drone for those aerial shots on day three?”
“Yup.” Jill grins, her eyes alight with excitement. “Santa Barbara is gonna be our French Riviera, boys.”
I toss the pencil onto the table and lean back to link my fingers behind my head. “The one advantage of Galaxy is they’re paying for all this shit.”
We laugh because shooting on film is expensive, and in the age of digital, a luxury most filmmakers don’t experience often anymore. Guys like Scorsese, Tarantino, Christopher Nolan—standard bearers for the format who vehemently resist digital—they have the budgets and the clout to insist. We lose a lot of flexibility going with film and can’t review it in real-time like we can with digital. Our dailies have to be sent off to a lab and come back later. It’s slower and less precise. You’re basically shooting onto dollar bills. More rehearsal. Fewer takes. A lot less room for error. Shooting parts of this movie on film will lend it the look I want and add layers of nostalgia, but it’s costly, labor-intensive, and generally a pain in the ass.
And yet the three of us are like kids in a candy store at the prospect. We have the expertise, especially with Jill as our cinematographer, to vary our formats and really create something special, though it will require a different approach to shooting.
“We need to make sure the cast is ready for this shift,” I say, directing the comment to Kenneth. “Everyone, of course, but especially Neevah and Trey. A lot of these scenes are just them and a whole bunch of background actors. We good on the extras?”
“I’ll handle the extras.” Kenneth hesitates and clears his throat. “But with so many of them to wrangle, I’ll be less available for Neevah, and Trey, of course, so I guess you’ll manage them on set.”
Kenneth flips his phone in his hand, looking down at the screen instead of at me. Jill scribbles on her pad, pointedly fixing her eyes on the words as the silence stretches awkwardly between the three of us.
They know.
They can’t know for sure that Neevah and I are together, but based on this shifty-eyed behavior, they know something is up. Obviously, based on our conversations, Jill has her suspicions and did her part to help things along, but I haven’t even told her how things have developed. I grit my teeth, annoyed with myself for showing that much of my hand, but determined to make it clear it won’t affect my work or this story.
“Sure.” I stand and walk over to the model of the Lafayette Theatre for something to do. “That’s no problem. I’ll have to be out there more anyway since we can’t watch the shots in real-time from the tent.”
“Right.” Kenneth pounces on this reasoning. “Works out perfectly. And I’ll make sure all those extras are in place and ready.”
“Sounds good.” I split a look between them, my brows lifted. “Anything else?”
“Nope.” Kenneth stands. “I’m meeting with the cast to go over logistics since tomorrow’s our first day filming on location.”
I grip his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
“You know it.” Kenneth heads for the door, passing an unsmiling Evan as my production partner enters the tent.
“What is it?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the table. “Something with the permits? The housing in Santa Barbara?”
“The permits are fine,” Evan says, his dark frown not lightening. “And we have cottages for the cast and crew at that resort Galaxy practically bought out for us.”
“Good. Then why you look like somebody pissed in your cornflakes?”
“Jill, could you excuse us?” Evan asks, not acknowledging my joke.
“Uh, sure.” Jill flashes a look that says what have you done now, but I have no clue.
Once it’s just the two of us, I shrug. “Dude, what’s up?”
“What’s up is Camille Hensley telling the whole world on a podcast twenty minutes ago that you’re fucking another one of your actresses.”
He hurls the accusation—because it clearly is one—at me with narrowed eyes and hands shoved into his jeans.
Damn you, Sylvia Miller.
It was too much to hope Camille’s publicist wouldn’t recount seeing Neevah and me together, but why is Camille in my business? And so publicly?
“Nothing to say?” Evan asks, his voice tight. “I distinctly remember us agreeing you wouldn’t do this again.”