Producer's
Pre Production Diary

Part 1
Monday 13th August 2007

I wake to the sound of the phone clattering for attention. I try to ignore it but it refuses to go away. Such impudence, clearly it has no respect. It is early and I have had less than, I check the clock, 3 hours sleep having worked my “normal” job overnight pressing buttons, playing music and talking nonsense on the radio with a presenter. Bugger. I answer trying not to sound too annoyed.
“Hello?”
“Hi Jonnie, it’s Ed, listen sorry mate I’m not going to be able to help.”

And so the day begins. Badly.

Today is the first day of pre-production and Ed was supposed to be our emergency Line Producer, stepping in bravely to fill the void left by the mysterious disappearance of Williams our original Line Producer who we have been unable to contact for three weeks since we offered him the job. We figure he is either in prison, in hospital or has been deported back to Mexico. Thankfully he is not Brazilian or he may have been shot by the police. I snuggle back between the folds of the fluffy cloud-like duvet and try to ignore what I have just heard. If I forget it it will not be real. It is this kind of sound logic that has gotten me where I am today. Begging people to work for free three days before my 36th birthday. My phone bleeps at me again.
“Whose stupid idea was it to start today?” I holler at it forgetting it was mine all along.
“Hello?”
“Hi Jonnie it is M_____, sorry but I don’t think I can give you the time--”
I know the time, it’s bloody early o’clock.
“I need to save my money and--”
I let the phone dangle knowing what is about to come so not feeling the need to actually listen to it. Some poor excuse about eating food and paying the rent being more important than making a film. Such a misappropriation of priorities amongst the youth. How inconsiderate some people are I think, all we are asking for is that she commits herself to six days a week filming for five weeks playing the female lead in a film she is not going to be paid for.
“No worries M_____, I understand.” I don’t understand but I can’t say that.
I hang up and return to the desires of slumber. It doesn’t last, rather like people’s commitments on this film.

The phone rings again. I resist the urge to toss it out of the window into the perpetual rain of this summerless year but decide to answer, after all it could be a guardian angel offering a solution to all my problems. Instead I get this--
“Hello it’s Helen, Amie’s friend.”
“Hello,” I reply rapidly trying to think who the hell Amie might be.
“Is Amie there?”
Ah. There is not nor has there ever been nor is there ever likely to be anyone called Amie here, unless it was that girl who died six months before I moved in (hence the cheap deal and quick sale!) No, that was ten years ago it must be a wrong number. I inform the disbelieving Helen of this simple fact convinced she suspects I am lying and covering for her friend. Somewhere in the next few days an argument is going to explode because of a miss-pressed digit. Still, this is a first for me, most wrong numbers I get are for people wanting to book a tennis court at the local sports centre who’s number is one different to mine. Sometimes, when I feel particularly malevolent, I accept the bookings. I would have done so today.

I text Paul, the film’s Director and my fellow Producer, the news about M_____. A few moments later I get the reply “Well she must be some kind of c***. Not a good start!”

I reply with typical blind optimism of a first time Producer that it is better to have a bad start than a bad finish. I’m not entirely convinced of my own sentiment but it is the best I have at the moment.

I settle in for a few more hours sleep before my first meeting of the day and fail dismally as the building workers across the street decide this is the perfect time to start drilling holes.

The afternoon comes and starts to go and I realise it is time to head into Soho for the first of the day’s meetings. Two prospective Make-up Artists. One, a friend of a friend and the other a friend of Kylie the Executive Producer. We meet at the Blue Posts pub in Berwick Street. The first Make-up Artist is not convinced she can commit to the film, and does not do hair, she is however interested in how much blood and gore FX there will be (clearly she has not read the script – a sort of surreal dream-like love story of two people in a forest in France). She is only interested in dark films, Kieslowski & Lynch. When she leaves Paul and I stare incredulously at the pavement.

“Do we really want to spend three weeks in a forest with her?” He asks hoping I will say no. “I feel like slashing my wrists. What we need is someone who’s favourite film is Mary Poppins.”

Our thoughts turn to the Line Producer problem and the inevitable truth that we are half a day into pre-production and already a few days from postponing the shoot. We both know that if we don’t do it now we will miss the autumn leaf drop that Paul wants in the forest and that 'postpone' really means 'cancel'. We dig out our phones and scroll through our contacts for anyone who could help. Well, Paul’s are contacts, mine is little more than a list of people I have met, usually a little worse for wear at the Cannes film festival. I call a couple of Directors I know and beg for help whilst to my side I overhear Paul leave a message for someone—
“Hi, it’s Paul Hills, remember we did that advert three years ago--?”
We are half a day into preproduction and already the barrel is, if not being physically scraped, being at least studied closely with a spatula in hand.

Messages are left but hopes are little raised. Our spirits are lifted slightly when an attractive dark-haired woman breezes past and smiles at us both. She enters the pub and we return to our malaise finally deciding to post pleas on various film making websites in the hope of persuading someone to give up the next ten weeks of their life for us.

A few moments later the woman re-emerges.
“Are you Paul?” she asks Paul.
“I hope so,” he replies.
We head into the pub and find a table. Paul orders drinks and attempts to persuade the Polish barmaid to divide the bill by ten before putting it on his tab. She is not falling for it, probably as he tries it pretty much every time he sees her. We sit, drink and chat and within minutes the black tumult has lifted significantly enough to allow a ripple of laughter into our lives. Cristina, an Italian with a fiery look about her, proves to be a constant source of amusement.
“What’s your favourite film?” asks Paul.
“Some like it hot?” She replies cautiously unaware how we will react to such an old choice. Sensing our pallid faces unaware that this is a result of relief she adds “Is it strange to like a black & white film as a favourite?”
“Not at all,” I offer. “My favourite film is in black & white.” (Woody Allen’s Manhattan if you are wondering.)
“Mine is in monochrome,” adds Paul though he refuses to divulge what it actually is.

And so we continue in the same vein for an hour chatting about the film and swapping stories of our various farcical arrests by the Metropolitan Police and suddenly the world isn’t quite so bad. He boyfriend it turns out is Brazilian so she is always a little apprehensive every time he takes the tube.

So the first day ends on somewhat of a high even though technically we are in a worse position than we were.

Crew members. 1 gained. 1 lost.