Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
While we took the elevator down, I explained the routine to Perkins.
Each day, the shot film was returned to the Holiday Inn and then taken by limousine to the airport.
It was put on a ten-thirty plane to Los Angeles and transferred to the studio, where it sat until the lab opened at six a.m. the following morning.
The lab processed the Bloodrock footage first, and whisked it over to an assistant cutter, who synced up the picture and dialogue tracks.
The studio executives ran the film before lunch so it could be returned to us by plane at four p.m. We got our dailies back at six and ran them in the banquet hall at seven, or whenever the company got in from location.
“What do your footage figures look like?” Perkins asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “All I know is that we’re under in that category.”
When we got to the lobby, I spotted Bobby Venn, the second assistant cameraman. He would be able to answer Perkins’s questions, so I introduced him.
A movie camera has four men running it. The director of photography—a.k.a.
the DP—positions it and arranges the lighting of the scene.
Then, during a shot, the actual framing is done by the operator.
Focus and exposure are controlled by the assistant.
And the second assistant works the slate, loads the magazines, changes the lenses, and keeps all the records.
Bobby Venn did all that, so he knew what the footage counts were. His records were shipped back to the lab every day with the exposed film. They told the lab what to develop and what to print.
“We’re running around four thousand feet a day,” Venn said. “Printing about two thousand feet. The director is being very careful.”
“Probably doesn’t want his film recut,” Perkins said.
“Maybe,” Venn said. He didn’t seem happy.
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, we lost a magazine from yesterday’s shoot.”
“Lost, you say?”
“Apparently, it got lost in transit. We show we sent it, and the lab doesn’t show receiving it. We’re checking with the airlines now, having them run a trace on it.”
I could see that Perkins was still mulling that over as we went into the banquet room.
A makeshift double-system projector was set up in a corner, and a small screen against the far wall.
Normally, a company on location will look at dailies silent—since film and sound are initially on two tracks, it’s hard to arrange for a double system—or else they’ll look at them on a Moviola or KEM table.
But we were going to be in one place for forty days, so the studio got us a double system.
There were about fifteen people in the room, and the producer, Charles Mann, was talking to the group. I noticed that Tom Franklin was holding his head.
“Checking the airlines, but for the moment, we have to assume the footage is lost?”
“Which sequences?” somebody asked.
“We’ll know soon enough,” he said, and nodded to the projectionist. The lights went down, and the dailies began. Perkins and I were sitting just behind Mann and Franklin.
The first scene began with the slate, and Bobby Venn saying rapidly, “Two-thirty-two, take four,” and then the click of the slate bar—to allow sync by the editor—and then the scene itself started.
It was between Clete Williams and Brenda Conrad, the scene at the ranch where Clete takes her home and finds the homestead has been destroyed by Black Jed’s gang, the house in ruins, smoking.
This was a two-shot, Clete and Brenda both looking at the house. Actually, the house hadn’t even been built yet, let alone destroyed. We did this shot by putting smoke pots just off camera and having them look mournfully off camera at Tucson itself, about five miles away.
On-screen, Brenda’s lip quivered, and she began to cry.
“Damned bunch of dirty outlaws,” Clete said, frowning at Tucson. The smoke blew in his face. Brenda cried some more, and he looked over at her, put his arm around her, and began to cough. He turned and looked off camera. “Christ, can’t we eighty-six some of this smoke?”
That was the end of the shot. Immediately, a new slate, another voice: “Two-thirty-two, take six,” and we saw Clete and Brenda again—with less smoke—and Brenda began to cry, and Clete said, “Damned bunch of dirty outlaws,” and I lit a cigarette.
Watching dailies always reminds me how boring it is to make movies. People think movies are glamorous and fun, but they are not glamorous and not at all fun to make. It’s very slow and very expensive and it mostly concerns things like whether there’s enough smoke, or too much. Just details.
I glanced over at Perkins. He was watching the screen with absolute attention. In the row ahead of us, I saw Mann lean over to Franklin and whisper, “You gonna do this one again?”
“No,” Franklin said. “Why?”
“Clete’s expression isn’t tough enough.”
“But he’s comforting her.”
“I know he’s comforting her, but I don’t feel his rage. I don’t feel he’s going to go after the outlaws and avenge the family.”
“It’s a tender scene.”
Mann sighed and sat back. “I think we should do it again.”
Franklin also sighed and sat back, but said nothing.
Now we had covering close-ups of Clete and Brenda. The close-up of Brenda had an almost foggy look. That was because they were using diffusion on her to miss the wrinkles on her face.
“That’s too soft,” Mann said.
“Never notice it in the billowing smoke,” Franklin said.
These two continued their running commentary all through dailies. I had heard it before. Generally speaking, Charles Mann wanted to reshoot everything because Clete didn’t look tough enough, and Tom Franklin wanted to reshoot nothing. It had been that way since the picture began.
Again, I looked over at Perkins. He was still watching the screen intently.
We had a switchover to another reel. The color was all different here: The predominant tones were blue and green instead of red and brown, as it should have been.
“Goddamn the lab!” came a voice from the back. That was Ellsworth, the director of photography. You could always count on the DP to curse the lab at least once a day.
Franklin was unruffled. He turned to his editor, who was sitting next to him, on the other side of Mann. “Order a reprint for color on these scenes,” he said.
“The lab can’t correct that,” Mann said.
“Sure they can,” Franklin said.
“It’s in the negative; they can’t correct that much.”
“I think they can, Mr. Mann,” the editor said.
Mann snorted.
These scenes showed Clete and Brenda arriving by horse at the scene of the burning house, and then slowly dismounting. It was done the same way the previous scenes were done—by having smoke pots off camera. The first take, Clete caught his foot in his stirrup dismounting.
The second take, Brenda couldn’t get off her horse.
The third take, she tore her gingham dress getting off.
The fourth take, they both managed to get off their horse okay, but Clete stumbled walking forward to his marks.
Franklin leaned over to the editor. “Use the first part of four and cut early to the two-shot.”
The editor was sitting with a clipboard and a small light. He nodded and made a note.
“It’d be better to do it all in one,” Mann said.
Franklin said, “No, it’s taking too long.”
Franklin was right, I knew. It was another example of Mann knowing nothing about movies. To have them ride up, dismount, walk forward, and have their dialogue in one shot would take much too long.
“Besides, we’ll be intercutting their POV,” Franklin said. “I have a cutting piece.”
Mann sighed.
I glanced once more at Perkins to see if he was making sense of this. I couldn’t tell—he seemed to be paying attention only to the screen.
Now we had a new scene entirely. It was from another part of the film—maybe half an hour in the final picture, from the burning house scene. It showed Clete talking to Brenda, saying goodbye in the sunset. He was telling her that he would come back to her, once he had taken care of things.
Mann sat forward abruptly and said, “What!”
Franklin looked at him. “Something wrong?”
Mann sat back. “No, no, nothing,” he said. But he seemed rattled. “It’s just the light. That sunset is too strong.”
Franklin was getting annoyed. “The sunset,” he said, “is not under our control. You think I should have put a dimmer on the sunset?”
“Don’t get mad,” Mann said. “I just mean the angle.”
On-screen, Clete said, “There’s no use your worrying, ma’am. Things’ll turn out fine. I promise.” And he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. Then he looked at the camera. “How was that?”
“Not bad, Clete,” came Franklin’s off-screen voice, and then the film ran out, and we had another take of the same scene.
Mann fidgeted in his chair. “You print all the takes?”
“No,” Franklin said. “Just two, as I recall.”
The new slate said take eight. “Action,” came the off-screen voice.
Clete began to speak. “There’s no use your worrying, ma’am. Things’ll turn out mighty fine. I mean just fine. I mean—shit.”
Brenda looked irritated. Clete looked flustered.
Take nine.
“There’s no use your worrying, ma’am. Things’ll turn out fine.” There was a long pause this time. Clete and Brenda stared moodily into each other’s eyes. And he kissed her full on the mouth.
“Use that one,” Franklin said to the editor. “I think the big kiss will work better.”
The editor made a note.
Then the lights came up, and the entire company groaned. They all knew what was missing—all the riding shots of Clete. Most of the previous morning had been spent making those shots, using sunrise to act as sunset. These shots were obviously all on the missing magazine of film.