My first day in Paris was no exception to this rule.  Even after having spent a week in London, Paris was still a shock to the system.  I’m lucky enough to have received a solid education in French in high school and to have been one of those who took well to it, but even so, ten years down the road, the language skills get a little rusty.  And since I never reached true fluency, being thrown back into near-full immersion was enough to make me resort to that comfort phrase the French have learned to despise: “Parlez-vous anglais?”

This question, so simple in construction, often goes over in a less than stellar manner.  I imagine too many ugly Americans have passed through Paris to save it from being associated with the arrogant belief that everyone in the entire world should speak English, as opposed to the possibility that the person speaking it simply wishes not to offend a true francophone by completely butchering such a beautiful language.  In my case, my fear was in being able to understand a native Frenchperson’s response.  I do OK with basic speech, and I could likely converse at ease with most six- to eight-year-olds, but the mental speed required to keep up with the thickly accented words flying from the mouth of a hurried owner of a boulangerie (so different in sound than those emitted by even a fluent American) is a skill I admittedly no longer possess.

In London, when we were lost, it was no problem to approach a group of native Britons to ask for directions.  Worst-case scenario, you get basic directions with a smug look.  In most cases, you get amusement at how far off the track you are and then clear, polite instructions to get you headed back in the direction you need to go.  In Paris, you are often met with a scowl.  If you make the mistake of starting with “Parlez-vous anglais?” the scowl deepens and is accompanied with a curt “non!” or a begrudging “un peu” before getting a quick shake of the finger in the general direction you need to go and a slew of quick, often incomprehensible words.  I exaggerate, of course, but not by too much.  The English are burdened by their polite reputation; the French by the imposition of the rest of the world to visit their beloved Paris.

So, between annoying eighty-five percent of the French people I came in contact with, the sardine can of people that was the Eiffel Tower, and my complete inability to decipher the subway map (the description from my journal reads: “The Métro looks like a tangle of Christmas lights after a year jumbled up in a box that’s been moved from one house to a new one and gotten dropped and tossed a few times along the way.”), I was ready to get to the hotel and crawl into bed.

Sadly, as soon as I pulled back the sheets to do exactly that, I discovered that something had beat me to it.  I grabbed a piece of paper, folded it, and smashed the round critter between the leaves.  Upon seeing the red contents of the bug upon the unfolded paper, I knew we were in trouble.  I told my sister to get out of her bed, and I went to the computer.  There I confirmed my fears with a quick Google Image search and then looked up the French word for bedbug.   My poor sister had not had the foresight to look before she collapsed, and thus she’d spent a good five or ten minutes sharing space with the flesh-eating, blood-sucking creatures under the sheets.  I stomped down the stairs and up to the clerk’s desk, along with the piece of paper bearing “la carcasse de la punaise.”  He was sufficiently horrified — so horrified, in fact, that he was adamant about not venturing into our room.  He handed us a key to a new room, and I waited for the accompanying offer to help us move our partially unpacked luggage.  No such offer came.

I’m sure the other occupants of our hall, as well as those on the floor below us, appreciated our midnight trek to the opposite end of the hall, which took several trips to get all of our things transferred.  We checked our beds thoroughly before we got in them.  One of the insects had managed to latch onto my sister’s pajama pants, and so I banished her to the shower, clothes and all.  It was after 1 a.m. by the time we finally slid into our beds, paranoid, exhausted, and afraid to go to sleep.  I, for one, laid a T-shirt over my pillow and covered my torso and shoulders with a cardigan, having decided I was only willing to risk bedbug bites on my legs.

Eventually, I did fall into a quite satisfactory slumber, despite my fear of being eaten alive and/or horribly disfigured in my sleep.  Fatigue wins out over everything in the end.  And the good thing about having a nightmare of a first day is that there’s really nowhere to go but up on the next.  Upon waking, the bedbugs having been content to stay in our original room and spare our lives, we experienced our first French breakfast, which vastly improved our impressions of Paris.

Honestly, I’ve never been a fan of such tricks anyway.  Smaller portions, sure, but if you put something delicious in front of me, I’m going to want to enjoy every last morsel of it.  That being said, the sad truth is, most stateside desserts don’t pass the first bite test.  The first bite really is the best.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s all downhill from there, but, by the time I finish a dessert here, I’m usually ready for it to be done.  We part ways on friendly, perhaps-I’ll-see-you-again-sometime sort of terms.

But Parisian food is magical, and its superpower is making you lick the cardboard box in which you carried home the pain aux pommes.  Or pick up the broken pieces of a raspberry tartlette from the floor of your hotel room and eating it anyway.  Or get caramel au beurre salé ice cream (from Bertholli) followed by spéculoos & yogurt gelato (from Amorino) ten minutes later.  Or stage a breakfast pastry and nutella heist on your last day at your hotel because you can’t bear to leave such delicious and decadent treats behind without one last forbidden tryst.

You see, Parisian food has the power to inspire passion, ardor — even pure, unadulterated lust.  After much study, I believe I’ve grasped the Method of the Parisian Culinary Delight.  While all Parisian food has its charms, this method of seduction can be seen and experienced most intensely, I’ve found, in the Parisian dessert.

When you first encounter it, you’re stricken by its straightforward beauty.  The care taken to ensure it is aesthetically pleasing is a wonder in and of itself.  It’s not fussy or pretentious; it’s not pretending to be something it’s not.  It is, quite simply, well-presented.  The appearance alone makes you want to know more, to see if what’s inside lives up to its exterior.

So you commit to a first bite, forking over the three euros.  If you make a habit of indulging in these little rendezvous, you quickly learn to request them as “take away,” so you can get get to know one another somewhere private, without the pressure of fellow pleasure-seekers or, even worse, the creators of these little delights.  I’m sure there are some folks out there who enjoy indulging their exhibitionist tendencies by sampling in public, but I am not one of them.

Once you’ve settled into a quiet space where you can focus without distraction, you have that first bite, careful to get a little of each component of whatever you’re eating.  If it’s a tartlette, then you insist on some of the filling and some of the crust.  If it’s something layered, like a macaron or a mille-feuille or, God help you, a religieuse, you go for a bit of everything.  You’re not going in depth yet; you’re simply getting a taste of everything your Parisian dessert has to offer.

And this is where the Parisian dessert and the typical American dessert showcase their wildest difference.  The American dessert boldly pulls out all its best moves on the first outing.  The burst of flavor in that first bite may send you reeling, but when you go back for a second bite, your mind is no longer blown.  You’ve seen it all, and there’s really nowhere to go from there.  You enjoy its comfortable company while it lasts, but you both know it’s going nowhere.  This is why the dieters’ dessert method, more or less the equivalent of a one-night stand, works so well in the States.

But the Parisian dessert!  The first bite of the Parisian dessert engages you fully, but it doesn’t overwhelm you.  It makes you think.  The bright flavors and perfect textures come together in unexpected ways: buttery pastry, tart fruit, sweet custard… They all seem fairly straightforward, but somehow, in a Parisian dessert, their synergy elevates them.  And you have to know more.  The first bite is not enough.  You’re hooked.  And so you take a second bite.  And the flavors intensify.  They reveal more to you, which only serves as an irresistible temptation to dig deeper into the elements that make this dessert what it is.  By the third bite, you’re an addict, driven only by the need to feel more.  Logic no longer matters.  Driven only by your desire, you become a full and willing participant in this dangerous liaison.  You’ve crossed a line.

It’s the beginning of a lifelong, torrid love affair, made only more intense by the times spent apart.  Every time you have a non-Parisian dessert, your thoughts will wander back, filling you with so intense a longing that it nearly breaks your heart.  The non-Parisian dessert becomes a cheap substitute, something to get you by until you can, at long last, be reunited with your true gustatory love.  Any moment with a Parisian dessert becomes filled with an intensity reaching desperation, a need to experience as much as you can while you have the opportunity.

And that, my friends, is how you end up ingesting one pain aux raisins topped with nutella and cream cheese, a bowl of granola & whole milk, two cookies, a caramel, a nougat treat, half a cheese panini, half a beef panini, half a préstige (pistachio & chocolate creme layered dessert), half a pecan-apple tartlette, half a baba rhum, a small ice cream, a small gelato, half a small quiche lorraine, half a baguette sandwich, half a chocolate tartlette, and half a rhubarb-apple tartlette all in one day.  It is also how you gain five pounds in one week.  But that’s another secret of the Parisian Culinary Delight — it loves you just the way you are and encourages you to do the same.

I’m back in Kansas City now after having spent a week in London and a week in Paris, and I’m looking forward to finishing up my short film and starting some new projects, too.  London was wonderful for taking in the art other people had produced, and Paris was perfect for creating some of my own.  I wrote this on the plane back from Paris; hope you enjoy.

PIGEONS

Most people have one of two reactions to the pigeons swarming the square in front of Notre Dame (or really any other place in Paris).  Amusement mingled with amazement at their sheer audacity is one of them, and it is usually reserved for tourists.  The other is indignant annoyance, usually combined with a vigorous shooing hand motion or the harsh thwap of a menu or a book or some other flat object.  This is demonstrated in perfect form by waiters in outdoor cafés.

A third category, much smaller in both number and stature, is the fascinated child, who sees the pigeons as an odd sort of temporary pet meant to be chased around whilst giggling.

These are the three largest divisions of pigeon interaction, but there is a fourth, and it is the true rare bird of pigeon-related behavior: the elderly man or woman who insists on feeding these avian creatures, considered by many to be nothing more than rats with wings.  These folks are content to sit amongst hordes of them, in fact encouraging the birds to come closer.  They remain nearly motionless, living statues, save the motion it takes to toss a handful of seed onto the ground.

I saw one such woman as I looked down upon the square from one of the towers of Notre Dame.  Admittedly, I’d never given these eccentrics much thought.  But from the gargoyle’s eye view, I was suddenly stricken with curiosity.  What possesses any given person to adopt such behavior?  I myself fall into the Amused Tourist category when it comes to pigeons, but when more than three approach I start imagining Hitchcock-esque scenes and quickly add space between myself and the feathered creatures.

But this woman had to have been keeping company with at least fifty if not a hundred, in front, behind, and some even sitting on the bench right next to her.  I was a little baffled, and no small part of me was rather frightened for her safety.

I turned to tap my sister’s shoulder to show her the spectacle, and when I turned back, I saw something even more bizarre.  A mass of pigeons was hovering in a column of sorts, only a few paces from the woman.  I peered at the strange pillar, for a second annoyed that I was so high up.  I pitied the gargoyles who surrounded me, always watching from this dead space between heaven and earth.

But then the column began to change before my eyes.  Whether it was some sort of cognitive process catching up to reality or a bit of magic happening on the ground, I cannot say with any certainty, but I know what I choose to believe.  I no longer saw a pillar of pigeons but a man, matched in age to the woman on the bench.  He wore a Bogey-style hat, and a pigeon sat on top of it.  His arms were outstretched, and there were three pigeons on each.  The woman did not run away frightened or jump up with excitement.  She simply remained on the bench, her face turned toward the man.  I could not see her expression from my position, but it must have been welcoming, as the man sat down beside her, displacing some of his avian companions (though they did not seem to mind — they almost seemed to make room for him, as if they accepted him as an equal, just as deserving of the woman’s attention as they were).

At that moment, we were siphoned into another stairwell leading to the very top of the tower.  From there, I could see all of Paris, but the woman, her pigeons, and her mysterious male companion were gone.  The bench was empty, for a moment, and whatever I’d just witnessed (a meeting? a reunion?) remained only in my memory.

© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty

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Considering chucking writing dream & becoming Domestic Goddess instead. Ignoring current state of house as indicator of potential success.

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Was just asked what activities are therapeutic for me (in lieu of shopping, which tends toward destructive for both finances and morale). Came up blank. Perhaps could be part of problem.

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Have found relaxation solution! Need hot tub. No purpose besides relaxation. Perfect.

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Have realized have no money for hot tub & hot tubs are expensive.

Possible solutions:
1) Sell script.
2) Acquire sugar daddy.
3) Sell soul to devil (probably pays better, money being root of all evil, after all).
4) Find nasty info on celeb/politician & blackmail.
5) Convince parents to buy one instead & mooch unapologetically (hot tub will melt away guilt, surely).

Fear all possible solutions are 1) likely to increase stress, at which point will have to find other means of relaxation in transition period between start of plan and acquisition of hot tub, and 2) unlikely.

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Relaxation is too hard & obviously for the birds.

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Reconsidering notion to become Domestic Goddess as have just dumped potently colored lunch ALL OVER SELF.

(Then scooped off chair & shirt & back onto plate and then into mouth as it was rather delicious.)

Perhaps Domestic Goddnessness is still in the cards, with application of apron and/or bib at all times.

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Have just discovered presence of four black beans and one cherry tomato underneath arse.  Make that four smushed black beans and one crushed cherry tomato.  Did not eat them.

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Friend: “You are a creature of grace and wonder today.”  Too true, I know.  Just like every day.

1.) Don’t trust yourself to remember everything in the morning, even if you have made a list, and even if you remember to reference said list.  I’d intended to purchase some food to be used for props during my Starbucks run.  It was on my list.  I had my list with me.  But when it came time to order, I had one and only one focus: needcoffeenow!  Luckily my crew was able to help me out, and we were able to grab some stuff at our location.  However, this also led to using a branded water bottle in many shots, when we’d made grand attempts at covering all other logos.  Things start slipping your mind when you have to think on the fly.

2.) Tell your Right-Hand Man to second-guess everything you say.  In this case, I called my sister, serving as my production designer, and asked if she’d printed the cat photo I’d requested the night before. This sent her into a frenzy, which included waking up our understandably grumpy and put-out mother at a much-too-early-for-Saturday hour — all this because my sister assumed that I wasn’t crazy.  What I’d really meant, instead of “cat photo,” was “dog photo,” which she had indeed printed the night before.

3.) Watch out for glass (and other reflective surfaces).  There are things you can’t see on a little viewfinder, like yourself in the reflection of the glass doors behind your two leads.  This ultimately leads to the weird, potentially-existential-crisis-inducing act of trying to erase yourself.  From video, of course.  But it could be a slippery slope.  (See? Existential crisis. Right there.)

4.) Divorce yourself from the movie in your head (and embrace humiliation).  One of my favorite scenes ended up happening because my lead actor was less than impressed with the aesthetic qualities of the leftover lunch I’d prepared for his character.  Because of his slightly-unwarranted disdain for my lunch-making abilities (the nerve!), we ended up with a scene that was funnier than what I’d written in the script.

5.) Get to know your tripod, camera, and other equipment.  I tried to get to know both of tripods, but we ended up only sharing a warm acquaintance. On set, this quickly turned into a contentious battle of wills, which resulted in my cast waiting around while I waged war with the pair three-legged monsters.  My camera and I got along pretty well, though there are a billion settings I didn’t really have time to explore that might have helped some of the color temperature differences I ran into in post-production.  The biggest disappointment was in my rigged-together dolly, which consisted of a skateboard, Roger Ebert’s “Great Movies” books, and something else I can’t remember.  In the dolly’s defense, it would have worked quite well if I hadn’t needed to dolly out at an upward angle instead of straight back.  Because of this, I missed out on a couple of shots that would have added some visual interest to the film, but hey, that’s life.

6.) Before you have your actors do a wardrobe change, make sure you’ve filmed everything you want/need in Outfits No. 1.  The worst part about this is we’d already filmed what we thought were the last shots (in Outfits No. 2) and settled in for a relaxing lunch.  About two bites into my wrap, I realized I’d never gotten a couple of key shots I needed.  When I informed my leads that they’d need to change back and that we weren’t quite done, my lead actress, who is one of the sweetest and most adorable people I’ve ever known, actually almost scowled at me.  She’d probably deny it, but she did.  And it was deserved.  But them’s the breaks.

7.) Ask for what you need, even if you’re starting to annoy people.  If you’re not getting what you need from a shot, keep doing it and tweaking it until it works.  If you have to ask your actors to change back into their first outfits even though you thought the shoot was over, do it and get those shots.  If you have to ask your actors to crouch awkwardly on the floor of an elevator and deal with you leaning on them in order to get the angle you need, well, get down and get cozy.  If you need your production designer to run back to the room with all the props for the 87th time to grab something you forgot, tell them to get to it and chop-chop.  You can’t be timid when you’re directing.  You’re the boss, and you have to act like it.  That doesn’t mean you should be a jerkface about things; in fact, I’d highly recommend against it.  Be courteous. Be appreciative.  Listen to what your team.  But be firm.  I’d also recommend surrounding yourself with a cast & crew who support you and your vision.  Mine did.  They were a stellar bunch, and I’m super-crazy grateful to them.

That's a wrap!

8.) Do not take home the leftover craft service.  You will be stressed.  You will be exhausted.  This will lead you to eat it all (or at least way too much of it).  Or maybe that’s just me.

That’s it for now.  I’m done with the rough cut without music, though I still have to erase myself from those two reflective-glass shots and do some color correction.  The hardest task, I think, is going to be adding music, and that’s on the agenda this week and into next. 

If anyone has any relatively simple, step-by-step instructions on how to remove or otherwise smudge/sponge myself out from the background using Adobe Premiere/After Effects (I’m working in CS5), I will love you forever and ever.

But I’ll have to carry on as this is week leading up to the shoot.  On the to-do list:
1) Arrange for food for cast/crew, which I will call craft service so I can sound like a real filmmaker.
2) Work with my wardrobe/production designer to gather props and clothes.
3) Procure a scooter or similar low-to-the-ground-with-wheels item to use as a dolly.
4) Check in with cast/crew to make sure everyone’s still on board and comfortable with their roles.
5) Go over shooting draft/shot list/storyboards to make sure I haven’t forgotten something that could in turn derail my entire film shoot and thus filmmaking career before it’s even begun.

I’ve been attempting to document my reactions to the process on twitter with my very own hashtag, #LiaE. 

I’m going to try and keep it up during the shoot itself because I’d appreciate similar documentation from other short filmmakers.  There are so many things you can’t really grasp until you’re in the trenches yourself, but it’s nice to at least have a window, even if it’s dirty and foggy and smudged and only 140 characters at a time.

So, apropos to my middle tweet up there, as a writer of spec scripts, giving myself the opportunity to create a shooting draft was enlightening to say the least.  It forces you think about how words on a page translate to real-life and real-time staging.  Doing storyboards helped with this quite a bit, but it was, in a lot of ways, a macro version.  Plus it turns out I’m a terrible storyboard artist, as more than one of my drawings ended up becoming accidental stick-figure porn.

This is supposed to be two people moving from standing to sitting, not... well... nevermind.

Camera direction is something I’d thought about only vaguely before, so having to do it in a truly concrete manner kind of hurt my brain.  In a good way.  Sort of. 

In short, a shooting script has numbers associated with each scene heading, thus enabling easier reference for the production team.  I didn’t really have much to go off when creating my own shooting draft, so I decided to do what would be easiest and clearest for me and my team.  Because of this, I subdivided my major scenes with letters, e.g., 1A, 1B, 1C, etc.  Normally, you’d only use letters to denote a scene had been inserted in revisions, but, since I’m not dealing with that complex a production, I decided this would work best for me.  I also decided to add headings any time I needed to change camera shots (hence the A, B, & C bits to denote they’re part of the same scene).

Because I hadn’t really thought much about specific camera shots as I was writing it (which you wouldn’t include in a spec script anyway), it inflated the scenes a bit.  Here’s an excerpt from both drafts to compare:

Spec Draft

Shooting Draft

Getting that hammered out allowd me to create a shot list, which includes all scenes/shots in the order they’ll be filmed plus the shot type, any camera movement, props needed, and actors.  This will help us stay organized on Shoot Day.

So, that’s where the short film currently stands.  Saturday, we shoot.  And hopefully I will still be (mostly) sane come Sunday.

A little background: I was never a skinny kid, per se, but I started playing soccer at the age of 5 and was involved in competitive sports until I graduated high school.  I was a bit overweight in elementary school, but then, adolescent metabolism took over, and while I was never anything close to skinny as a rail, I managed a fit, athletic build throughout high school.  I never thought I was thin, but, looking back, I know I was as thin as I should have been.

That all changed when I hit college.  I was no longer involved in sports; I was no longer exercising regularly; and I was certainly not eating anything even close to resembling a healthy diet.  On top of that, and pardon my vagueness here, I was very, very unhappy and trying very hard to look quite the opposite.  All of those things took a huge toll on my physique, and I gained around 100 pounds in about four years.  In short, it sucked.

In 2006, I started making changes.  I started working out and eating better.  With the help of SparkPeople, a social weight loss community, I lost about 40 pounds.  Life intervened, and my efforts took a backseat to other issues (once again, pardon my vagueness).  I kept working out, but I did it less; and diet became about maintenance rather than weight loss.  Twenty or thirty pounds crept back on, though they were thankfully significantly less noticeable thanks to my workout routine.

In 2009, I resolved a lot of those old issues that I’d thought were more important than my own health and well-being (mental, physical, spiritual, etc.).  I started putting myself first in a lot of aspects of my life, and I knocked those pounds off again plus a few more.  This year, as part of my Year of Awesome initiative, I’ve kicked back into health & fitness high gear.  As of May 10, I’m down 34.8 pounds for the year.  From my highest weight ever, I’m down 78.6 pounds — a number that is both impressive and embarrassing.

Today I got my new badge photo, and seeing how different I look from my old one warrants the same emotions for me: I’m impressed and embarrassed.  Weight loss is a mixed emotional bag, folks.  Posting this old photo is a pretty big deal for me, but, as I said, if it can inspire even one person out there to put themselves first and get moving, then it’s worth it.  So, here we go.

As mortifying as that first picture is, I’m really proud of what I’ve accomplished.  I’m happy and healthy now, and the best part is, thanks in large part to Jillian Michaels and Tony Horton, I’m kind of crazy strong — both mentally and physically.

And the truth is, ANYONE can do it, folks. We don’t know what we’re capable of until we try.  And most of the time, we can do WAY more than we originally think is possible.  Check out The Biggest Loser.  Michael, one of this year’s contestants, was thrilled when he jogged one mile on the treadmill.  Bob Harper, co-trainer along with Jillian, told him to keep going.  He was skeptical, but he did.  He got to 3.1 miles (a 5k!) and was ecstatic.  Bob congratulated and told him to keep going again.  He was still skeptical, but he kept moving, all the way to the 5 miles Bob demanded.  Michael, by the way, weighed somewhere upwards of 350 pounds that episode.

So, if you’ve been wanting to eat better and move more, then get to it.  Make that choice, and then make the first step.  And then take the next one, and the next and the next and the next.  Saying it’s a difficult journey is an understatement, and there are more layers of emotion than you’d probably expect, but I cannot put into words how worth it that journey is.  As Tony Horton says in one of his P90X workouts, “We tumble, we fall, but we move!”  That’s the key, folks — you keep moving.  And that’s with any goal you set, whether it’s weight loss or writing or whatever.

So, that’s a tiny slice of my story.  Health and fitness is something near and dear to my heart these days, and what I’ve learned on this journey has transferred into every other aspect of my life, as promised by Jillian at the end of one of her DVD workouts (which are all completely fabulous, as is her book, Master Your Metabolism).  I’m happy to talk details of my journey via e-mail (izzi dot ditty at gmail dot com) or facebook if you’re curious or need a little motivation and inspiration to start your own adventure.

Stuntmen (3 stars): an amusing look / at the stuntman industry / mockumentary style

Orange County (3½ stars): the transition from / high school to college is hard / but also funny

The Princess Bride (5 stars): truly a classic / epic comedic romance / with awesome swordfights

Singles (3½ stars): from Cameron Crowe / a film about single life / and finding the one

Shades of Ray (3½ stars): a sweet indie film / an identity crisis / both funny and real

Iron Man (3½ stars): excellent relaunch / to a franchise and career / more RDJ please

Iron Man 2 (3½ stars): the sequel lives up / to my expectations and / perhaps exceeds them

Starring Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable, it follows the story of Ellie Andrews, a young, spoiled woman who, in a fit of rebellion, marries fortune hunter Westley King.  Her father collects her before the marriage can be consummated only to have her run away once again.  On board a bus to New York City, she happens upon one Mr. Peter Warne.  Turns out he’s a down-on-his-luck reporter in need of a good story, so he blackmails her: either she gives him an exclusive, or he’ll rat her out to her father (and collect a handsome reward for it, too).  Not a complete cad, he does offer to help reunite her with her beloved quasi-husband (readers love a happy ending).

Now, because the story arc of 90 percent of romantic comedies to follow used this one as a template, we can guess what happens.  They hate each other at first, but she’s a little charmed by him, and he’s a little amused by her.  Charm and amusement turn to affection, and all of a sudden it’s “Westley who?”  Of course, there’s confusion and misunderstanding that leads to Boy Losing Girl, only to prove his worth and eventually get her back.

The difference between this film and the cookie-cutter romantic comedies that follow is that, even now, the film has a certain energy you can’t quite describe.  It feels fresh, even though we’ve seen it hundreds of times over.  Every once in a while, a romantic comedy captures some of that same spark, even if just for a moment.  And I think that’s why we keep coming back, hoping for the best from the genre, even when we’re not supposed to.  We’re waiting for that moment when the romantic comedy can prove its worth, regain its honor, and recapture those magical moments we experienced in the past together with films like It Happened One Night.  The truth is, when romantic comedy is at its best, the genre contains some of the greatest films and film moments in history.

I’ve been able to secure a cast and crew (i.e., beg my friends and family to help me out), and we were able to find a date that worked.  Score one for Ditty.  Next up?

SECURING A LOCATION

I sent an e-mail to the office manager of the building I wanted to use.  It went something like this:

“I have a short film I’m planning to shoot in May that requires use of a couple of cubicles and an elevator, and I was hoping I might be able to use your facilities. I’m planning the shoot for a Saturday, so there would be no inconvenience to business as usual. I would also ensure that no confidential or company information was visible in any shot.  Is this something your team would allow?  I’d be happy to include a “special thanks” in the credits and answer any questions you might have about the film and crew.”

Unfortunately, my request was declined.  Score one for People Who Make Ditty Sad.  So, it became essential to move on to Plan B (and also to create a Plan C in case Plan B failed, too — I like to be as prepared as possible).

Plan B was to see if I could use the building where my lead actor and actress work.  Thankfully, we received approval for the date we had in mind, so now we’re good to go. If not getting my first choice of location is the only problem I encounter on this shoot, I will be one happy camper, folks.

PREPARING FOR THE VISIT

Because I hadn’t seen the specific places we’d be using for the scenes, I wanted to schedule a location visit well in advance of the shoot.  I asked for about an hourlong window of time, and I prepared a list of things I wanted to look for so I could use everyone’s time efficiently.

1. Film issues: I wanted to take measurements (especially in the elevator), test movement and angles in the elevator, and test lighting.  I also wanted to get an idea of the cube layout and look at where exactly my single exterior shot would play best.
2. Set Dressing: I wanted to check for anything that’ll need to be removed from or covered in the cubes for filming (logos, personal information, confidential information, etc.), and I wanted to get an idea of the props we’ll need to bring in.  I also wanted to see the color scheme we’d be working with.
3. Logistics: I needed to check for outlets, any potential distractions, and any limitations on elevator use (is there an alarm that goes off if the door is held open too long?).  When it gets a little closer to the shoot date, I’ll also look up nearby businesses in case we need anything.

THE VISIT

In short, I found out everything I needed to find out, and I only used about 35 minutes of my hourlong time slot.  I pinpointed a few cubes I wanted to use and took some video so I can get an idea of how the colors play.  I chose cubes that didn’t back up to windows so I didn’t have to worry about the time of day for shooting or about any silhouetting.

We ran into the Guy In Charge of Facilities, which gave me the opportunity to ask about the elevator buzzer.  There is one, but he offered to give us the lock-open key for the shoot, which was serendipitous as it wasn’t something I’d considered.

It turns out that this key will be integral in getting decent shots, as there’s just not enough room in the elevator for the scenes to happen and for me to be in there filming.  A buzzer would have been annoying for the actors, though not a deal breaker as I was informed it doesn’t alert anyone or anything.  But this way we’ll have the best of both worlds.  There’s also an outlet maybe 20 feet from the elevator, which is great.

Also important, the lighting in each location we’ll be using, including the elevator, is completely workable.  I was worried about low lighting in the elevator specifically, since my camera gets a little grainy, but the elevator we’re using is well-lit, and the image looked fine in my test shots.

For my one exterior shot, the main entrance proved satisfactory.  There are logos on the doors, but they aren’t too visible from back where I’d like the shot to happen.  Worst case scenario, I can always cover them up pretty easily, aided by the fact that the doors are heavily tinted.

USING THE INFORMATION

Now that I have an idea of my actual set, I can start storyboarding and creating a shot list more effectively.  I’ve recruited my Sister the Artist as production and wardrobe designer; now she can take a look at the colors and start thinking about a look that will hopefully pop on video.  Basically, now I can start making a concrete plan for Shoot Day, which is both exciting and, if I think about it too much, nerve-wracking. But mostly in a good way.

Once Screnzy fades out, I’ll start working with more focus on the storyboards and shot lists.  So, if you’re interested in following this little adventure, look for more from me in May.