Six Weeks Unscripted

1. 1

“Poppy, this isn’t working out. I’m letting you go.”

When my boss said those words, I thought he was kidding.

I thought Frank Reed, darling of the film world and the direct source of the headache that had lived above my right eyebrow for the past month, suddenly, in the seconds since I handed him his morning cup of coffee, developed a sense of humor and was joking.

Which is why I laughed. It was more of a surprised breath expelled from my mouth, really, but it was a laugh all the same.

The subtle twitch of Frank’s jaw made it clear that he was, in fact, not kidding.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, trying to regain the footing I had somehow lost in those last thirty seconds.

“I’m letting you go,” he repeated. “If you can’t make a cup of coffee the way I like, the way I specifically ask for, then how can I trust you on set? How can I be sure that you’ll get me the correct draft of the script or the right call sheet?”

The coffee. This was about his cup of coffee: Black, two sugars, as hot as possible. The way he had taken it since I started working for him weeks before; the same exact way I had just made it.

This sudden upending of my career, all because of the steaming cup of liquid in his hand.

If I were being honest, nothing about the current moment should have come as a surprise.

When I moved from New York to London to work for Frank, I thought, Here it is, my big shot.

He had made a buzzy splash onto the film scene a year earlier when his directorial debut premiered at the Sundance Film Festival to rave reviews.

The critical success, along with an impressive word-of-mouth press campaign from a slew of podcasting film bros, catapulted Frank into his very own first-look deal with a big studio.

Production was underway on his highly anticipated second film, and I had been hired as his assistant.

I had been working as a production assistant ever since I graduated college, with dreams of eventually becoming a producer.

My plan had been to accrue enough hours of experience to join the Director’s Guild’s Assistant Directors Training Program, build out my resume, and eventually parlay it into a role as a line producer.

Then, in the final “boss” level, an actual creative producer.

But now, with this job, I could skip a few steps on that journey.

It was a dream come true and the exact career move I had been trying to make ever since I first stepped foot on a sound stage six years ago.

I loved every aspect of production: the buzz of the crew, each day's anticipation of what kind of performance the camera would find, even the grueling, long hours and the “hurry up and wait” moments.

It was thrilling and exhausting, and I knew, from the very first time I heard a director call out “Action,” it was exactly where I was meant to be.

So, when the call came with the job offer to work for Frank, I eagerly accepted, got myself on the first plane out to London, and geared up for the incredible experience ahead of me.

And then I met the man.

It took only five seconds to know he would be a frustrating piece of work.

As I stood in his production office at Pinewood Studios on my first day, he didn’t say anything to me for ten minutes.

Completely silent, weighted minutes in which I stood in front of his desk and simply watched as he typed on his computer.

When he finally deigned to acknowledge my presence, he merely looked up and said, “I need the latest draft printed and each scene color coded by emotional arc.”

That was it. No “Welcome to the team” or “How was your flight in?” Just a directive and the underlying inference to get on with it and get out of his office.

So, I did. I color coded and printed and did whatever other menial tasks he asked of me, working long days and even longer nights during prep and into the start of principle photography.

The only relief was that once we started shooting, Frank’s “particularness” shifted its focus from me onto the rest of the crew.

Every day was a new issue. The cast wasn’t delivering lines the right way.

Lighting at one location wasn’t good enough.

When we moved from shooting on location in East London to a soundstage for interior scenes, Frank stormed off set after finding that the shade of paint used on one set was not what he had chosen.

(It was; I was there when he selected it.)

Through it all I kept my head down and powered on—nodding and smiling and mediating what I could—because this was the dream, and I would do whatever it took to succeed.

Of course, Frank.

You’re right, Frank.

I’ll handle it, Frank.

I thought we had a good thing going, too. I thought that, despite the demanding shooting schedule, we would make it through to the end.

Now, standing in front of Frank while he held the coffee that was apparently so poorly made it was a fireable offense, it was laughable to have thought I would ever be free from his finicky nature. Of course his whims would eventually turn on me; they had with everybody else working on the film.

I knew I needed to reply to what he had said, to say something clever to salvage the moment and make him realize it was all a big mistake.

That this was a simple misunderstanding; that his coffee actually was made correctly.

And yet I couldn’t think of one single word.

My mind was blank, frozen by the shock of what was happening.

Frank, oblivious to my spiraling self, was already moving on, focusing his attention back on his laptop, typing notes on the shooting schedule or making rewrites to the next day’s sides or corresponding with his pen pal, the Devil. I was thinking it was likely the latter.

It was clear there was nothing left to discuss.

He had made up his mind. How many times in the last few weeks had I seen this exact thing happen?

Once he made a decision, it was set in stone.

Standing around waiting for him to realize the error of his ways was futile; changing his mind was never going to happen.

I turned and walked out of his trailer, feeling detached from my body, as though I was a ghost floating above myself.

Did I need to tell someone? Was it on me to sort out the logistics of my own termination?

Moving on autopilot, I went to the production trailer and climbed the three metal steps to the line producer’s tiny, makeshift office. I knocked on the door once before letting myself in.

Kevin took one look at me, saw the disassociation on my face, and let out a frustrated huff.

“What’d he do now?” he said in his thick, Irish brogue.

The office was so small there was nowhere for me to sit, so I just stood, half leaning against the wall.

“How long will my visa last in the case of unemployment?”

“Damn it,” he grunted. “I’m sorry, Poppy. You’re a great assistant, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. It’s not your fault he’s a little prick.”

All I could manage was a shrug. He was right: I was good at my job; I worked too hard to make sure I was. I knew my termination had more to do with the whims of a man-child than with my performance.

My primary concern now, other than not crying until I got back to my hotel room, was the possibility of being forced to leave England.

There was a reason why I clung so tightly to this job, why I had put up with so much from Frank, why I had been so eager to move thousands of miles away from everything I knew. A reason other than my career goals.

The root cause of that reason was something I was happy to continue to ignore, shoving it down and pretending everything was fine, but what it boiled down to was this: I could not go back to the United States.

I needed to stay in the UK, far away from the problems I left behind. From the person I had been trying not to think about ever since I landed in London.

“Your work visa is valid for a period of sixty days after your employment ends,” Kevin continued, “but if you aren’t on the shoot anymore, production’s not going to be able to cover your housing or per diem.”

Of course. If I didn’t find a place to live, a new job, and an income, it wouldn’t matter how long I could legally stay in the UK. I had some savings, but it definitely wasn’t enough to bankroll a sixty-day hiatus.

“Great. Got it. Understood,” I rambled, my brain still processing my new reality.

“I’ll call around, see what’s shooting right now. Try and get you a day-playing gig,” Kevin said.

“Thank you, I appreciate that.” Any job, even one that paid me a day at a time, could help.

And then that was it. What more could I say? What else could I do? It wasn’t fair, but that was the job. Long hours, quick turnovers. I loved every second when I was in it and now loathed it just as much from my new position on the outside.

A walkie-talkie on Kevin’s desk squawked, letting the crew know that rehearsal would start in ten minutes. I took that as my cue to leave, giving Kevin a quick wave before exiting the trailer.

A very nice transportation assistant drove me back to the hotel that housed the crew.

Arriving at my room, I looked around at the barely unpacked suitcase strewn open on the floor.

I had been so busy catering to Frank’s every need that putting away my own clothes had seemed like a luxury I didn’t have time to afford.

Sitting on the bed, I didn’t immediately cry like I thought I would.

I knew a breakdown was on the horizon; those tears would have to come eventually.

But for now, I tucked all that low simmering panic away and focused on the facts at hand: I was out of a job, in a foreign country, with a sudden lack of disposable income. Those things were all true.

But I wasn’t totally alone. There was one person I knew on this side of the world that did not work on the film crew.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling down to a number I had been meaning to call for weeks but hadn’t had the time.

I let out a breath—trying to release the emotions of the day—and hit "call."