"He did what??" Kristi says.
"He's a producer. What do you expect?"
"Motherfucker."
"I know. But now," I say, holding the bottle of Evan, "we enter phase two."
"What's phase two?"
I swig.
"Phase two is where we kick some motherfucking ass. We have a completion guarantee which is what we should have had in the first place so from now we leave blood on the motherfucking sound stage."
"Um, L—"
"From now on—"
"Lauren I've got good news for you."
I hand her the bottle.
"What's that?"
"We've already been leaving blood on the motherfucking sound stage. You're one of the only people I respect in my entire life."
"Don't get weepy on me girl."
"I'm not getting weepy it's just—I didn't know you gave up $900,000 to make this movie."
"Give up my fucking kidney."
"I know you would. That's why I respect you."
"Cheers me. Fuck it. Cheers me girl. We're making this film to the motherfucking end."
"You scare me a little bit."
"Learn to be scared, girl. Life is scary. If you're not scared—trust me—you're not doing it right."
Kristi cheers me. We do sequential shots.
"So what do you need?"
"What do you mean?"
"How much money do you have left?"
"Don't ask."
"You can stay at my place. Give up your apartment. You can't have much cash left."
"I'm not staying at your apartment, but thanks."
"Can you afford this place?"
"No, but it'll take six months for them to evict me. By then we'll have the movie done."
"Your end-of-the-world talk frightens me."
"Wake the fuck up, little girl: it is the end of the world. Six more months there'll be a nuclear holocaust. Alien invasion. There is no time but now. So if you want to help me, call Marcy. I have some changes to make to the call sheet for tomorrow."
"Ok," Kristi says. "Let's get the call sheet ready for tomorrow."
I stood above everyone in Warner Bros stage 12 on a utility lift and said:
"You may have heard some rumors that the liquidity of this production is in question. I want to take this opportunity to answer any questions you may have about this. So. Questions. Yes Kristi."
Kristi was standing right beside me.
She raises her hand.
"Go ahead," I say.
"Is the production on?"
"Yes," I say. "And that's all you need to know. Please get ready to shoot scene 37. We start in one hour. Thank you everyone."
And Kristi pushes a button and we scroll toward the floor of the stage.
On the way down I said, "I think you're the coolest motherfucker on the planet. I'm trying to think of someone else but I can't."
"Well if you do, I don't want to know."
At lunch Anna Hanna sees me paying for craft services with my credit card.
"Shouldn't the production cover that?"
"We're playing by house rules now, kiddo."
And Anna looks at me like I'm crazy, which I fucking am.
Before the shot, Marcus Howell says:
"Prepare for the worst, eh?"
"What?"
"Everything goes wrong on a film. Always prepare for the worst."
"Hahaha!" (I laugh my head off.)
"What?" he says.
"Prepare for the worst? That's the thing. You prepare for the worst..but you don't know what the worst is."
"What do you mean?"
"Guy goes running. Trail in the woods. Takes a cell phone, backup battery, first aid kit, Army food rations. What's the worst thing that could happen—right? He breaks his leg? He gets lost? So he's running along and fucking bigfoot snatches his ass up, carries him up the mountain, rapes him, eats him."
"Bigfoot isn't real."
"But say he was. The point is you can't prepare for the worst because you have no idea what the fucking worst is. You're better off preparing for nothing..because the worst thing you can imagine is nothing compared to the worst thing that's out there."
Marcus sets his focus and then, right before we're about to shoot, he surveys the scene and says in a whisper:
"Isn't this degrading for women?"
"Marcus. We've been shooting for 181 days. Have you seen a woman degraded on this set?"
"No, ma'am."
"I'm not a ma'am I'm a miss."
"No, Miss Lauren."
"And this prefix you just used before my name, does it indicate you're talking to a woman or a man?"
"A woman, of course, Miss Lauren."
"Well. Mr. Howell, rest assured that all the women in my movie are badasses and they will continue to be badasses until the last frame of digital film where a trigger is pulled by a woman's finger. I don't want you to worry about this further, Mr. Howell, so are we clear about women's roles in my film?"
"Yes, Miss Lauren."
"Are you going to lose any sleep over this issue tonight?"
"No, Miss Lauren."
"Any other night?"
"No, not at all, Miss Lauren."
"You got daughters, Mr. Howell?"
"I have two."
"Well now you have three tickets to the opening. See what they think and if they're not satisfied with the portrayal of women I will re-cut the film to their satisfaction."
"I have a wife, too, Miss Lauren."
Marcus smiles.
"Is she the same age as you?"
"Yes, Miss Lauren."
"Then I doubt she would like the film. Bring your daughters. I'll add your names to the list."
"Thank you, Miss Lauren."
"Thank me after you see the film."
So we shot, and there was no more discussion of production liquidity or any of that producer bullshit. We did what we were trained—or born—to do: make movies. Grips gripped. Painters painted. Actors acted. And I—one of those born, not trained, into this—directed. And it was like a fish had been dumped from a plastic bag into the ocean.