Many thanks to photographer Ceci Norman for this photo she took of me in Smiley, Texas near the end of the shoot.

We've managed to complete principle photography on the feature. It was really pretty tough working with such limited resources and under such a rigorous schedule, but most of us managed to survive with out wits intact. Ceci pointed out that the preceding sentence may have contained a Freudian slip, and so I've elected to leave it. The intense heat did wonders for my pores, although I may have blown out a sweat gland or two along the way. I managed to get in some time operating the camera, and even got credited with the title of 2nd Unit Director of Photography, even though I did shoot principle actors, including Walter Perez.

Before I left for the shoot in Gonzales, Texas, I was inspired to create a logo that seemed to embody the mood of the shoot. I hope that some of the crew will order the shirts to remind them how it felt to be a "migrant filmmaker".

Now what? Director Chris Eska will set about to editing a trailer and the final cut. Then he hopes to premiere the film at one of the more popular film festivals, like the one in Berlin, or perhaps Vienna or Toronto. I'm confident that he'll get into at least one of them. Chris is a very motivated individual, and he's sure to have a good showing at any of them.

My wife and others have been baffled by the tone of this posting, since it seems to run counter to the feelings that I expressed in one or two previous posts, in phone calls home, and in my general demeanor during the shoot. Okay, so I did a lot of moaning during those five weeks. You would have too, if you arrived at the production office to find the place devoid of even one full-time Assistant Director. When you worked your first sixteen-hour day, you may have taken more than one tug on your whiskey flask. When you crawled into bed twenty hours after being hoisted out of it, you might have even started searching for a tourniquet and a syringe of something. If you'd sweated more on this set than at any other time in your life, including the time you were running that horrifc fever that got you admitted to the hospital, you might have even whimpered in an ever-so-slightly plantive tone about the pace of production. That being said, I don't want for anyone to think that I actually grew to hate anyone during the shoot. I thoroughly enjoyed working with the crew, and wish that more of them would have shown up to work. The director took on a sizable task with an ambitious crew, and we all worked hard in spite of modest resources. Maybe this posting has a little more flavor to it now. If not, I'll hit the flask, loosen my tongue and have another go at it later.

One of the reasons that I feel compelled to work in the camera department whenever I can is the profound feeling of satisfaction that I feel, especially when operating the camera. One night we were shooting a couple of scenes at a restaurant in San Antonio. It had already been a long day, and there was no chance of wrapping at a decent hour when the DP couldn't go any longer. He handed me the camera, a Sony F900/2 with a 7-inch monitor and Anton-Bauer brick on board -- easily thirty-five pounds of gear that was running fairly hot, and the cleat was burning Yasu's shoulder. I wasn't certain that I could carry on shooting, because I hadn't had much of a break, either. When the camera went onto my shoulder, I felt suddenly alert as from a full night's sleep. I was able to continue shooting until the director was satisfied with the scene. It was remarkable to feel so charged -- recharged by the burden of the camera and the job of operating it.

What is sad and almost tragic is how much I love to operate the camera, and how difficult a time I have getting to do it, and getting paid to do it is just about impossible. The producers of August Evening negotiated for a deferment, naturally. The contract, as I recall it was more substantial in its wording than the contract for my very first feature gig, but I have still to receive a copy of it. I was ignored when I requested a copy of my contract the day that I signed it. When I blogged about the matter of the contract I was told that I would get one, and was asked not to sound so plaintive about the whole affair because it would make the filmmakers look bad. To that I must say that it is the filmmakers who make filmmakers look bad. I don't even care if I never work in film again. In fact, I'm not going to.
There is just one reason: Low or no pay. For many, there would be nothing more to say, and it really is at the crux of my complaint. Why do a job that doesn't get you anywhere, even though it promises "working with a great group of filmmakers"? I don't care if they are the greatest group of people on the planet -- I can't pay my creditors with camaraderie. By their very nature, producers and directors have no concern for anyone or anything apart from themselves and their project. This fact makes it all the more important that the crew get paid. Ever seen the show "Dirty Jobs"? What is something you never hear any of the dirty-jobbers complain about? THE PAY. Those dirty jobs tend to pay very well, which helps tremendously. I contend that I would not feel compelled to commit a single cross word about anyone or anything on the sets I've worked on had I been paid a decent wage. One of my first gigs was a Court-TV shoot in Austin. I laugh about how crappy the crew chief was on that one, because I was paid very well on that. I have genuine skill and talent for operating a camera, and I cannot even get a gig as a grip in this crappy Texas film production market, and so I am done with it. The rest of you can work for free to your hearts' content, but I am done. There is nothing in film for me, and so I am going back to concentrating on my own work.