Thursday, June 2, 2011

I Attempt 4am French Improvisation in an Action/Thriller

Some of you are wondering what happened to the independent film I claimed to be portraying the leading lady in about a week ago. As I've been licking my physical and emotional wounds from that ordeal for the past several days, I've needed some serious down time and herbal tea to face this story of tragedy a second time.

While I was expecting to give Saturday DAY to the film crew, (and perhaps a lovely French dinner out with E.D in the evening,) I was dumped off in front of my door step a tired, cold, and abused little creature at 8AM THE NEXT DAY.

When we hadn't started filming by midnight I was getting a little worried, so I asked one of the light crew who matter-of-factly told me he suspected we could be done by 7 if "all went well." Had I only known. I may have brought a toothbrush. A tampon. A bag of chips. Perhaps a coat or a blanket. But alas. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere in the city outskirts in this empty, under-construction apartment that had no furniture save for a stinky dog bed (and one stinky dog) that I climbed dejectedly into at various hours throughout the morning seeking shelter form the cold and the harsh reality of my situation. Which was this, btw:

The film had no script. I was expected to improvise in French. So it's 5 am, I'm tired, ugly, and cold, 4 cameras get stuck in my face and someone yells "Action!" So I stand there looking victimised while the French guy playing the detective takes off in French at me about monkeys and murder suspects and who the hell knows what until suddenly there's an awkward silence. Right. Time to say something! If only I could have understood what the detective was saying. I give a pathetic look to the camera and we have to start all over again.

The worst part was the imposed objects. Each film had to at one point or another have a pot of mustard seen somewhere on camera, and, the phrase "vas y, fais moi plaisir" Which is like, "go ahead, make my day." Any rational film crew would of course think I should be responsible for both of these. The result is me awkwardly smearing mustard on to a slice of white bread while I fervently try to decipher the detective's French in time for me to pick the plausible place to tell him to make my pleasure.


And, after my day of recovery, which I will say was pleasant and snugly and consisted of yogurt cups and Sex and the City, I get a message that says the film was not created in time to meet the festival deadline, so it wouldn't be shown anyway. A waste, but all n' all probably better for my reputation around town.

The film crew + 1 blissfully unaware American, the morning before.

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