Everyone breaks hands.
As we're setting up, Marcus Howell, acclaimed cinematographer, is looking at the monitor with me.
"Still, he says, it is a minority of women filling the directorial role."
"Wanna hear a joke, Marcus?"
"Sure."
"Guy rapes a girl. Asks her how she feels. She says she hurts. He says you should feel special. She says why. He says because..I risked 20 years in jail just to fuck you."
Marcus says, "That's disgusting."
"You ever expect a woman to tell you that joke?"
Marcus looks away from the monitor—at me.
"Point taken."
"Good. We'll get along a lot better if you don't anticipate me."
When I said it inside my head there was a motherfucker tacked on the end there.
The first shot, I had butterflies in my stomach.
It went perfectly.
I pretended my team-building speech had something to do with it.
After that I spent less and less time in my chair and more and more time on the floor, talking with actors and pointing at lights and moving them magically with my hands. I felt more like a conductor than a director.
At lunch one of our supporting kids, this 16 year old named Anna Hanna (no shit) comes to me while I'm trying to construct a decent salad at the craft services table.
She has her script in hand and doesn't say anything..just stands next to me hoping to get my attention.
"I see you Anna."
"Um, hi, Lauren."
"What's up?"
"Well. I'm here with Tuesday Walker and Amanda Haines and.."
"What?"
"I'm wondering what I'm doing here. All I've done is a commercial."
"I know. I saw it."
"But it was just a Golden Corral commercial."
"I know, Anna..I saw it!"
"But it was just a Golden Corral commercial!"
"I know. And look who they featured..you! You were the cutest one in your stage family and they showed you in the two main shots! You're it, girl. The director of that commercial knew it and I knew it when I saw the commercial."
"Just from one commercial?"
"This is like tapestry or collage, Anna Hanna. You're one piece of string that I'm weaving into a whole, and all you've got to focus on is your part. I'll do the weaving, ok? You actually have an easy job because all you have to do is be yourself."
"Be myself."
"Right. I picked you because of who you are so if you be yourself it'll be a job well done. Relax and have a salad, if you can manage to put one together. Can I have some olives?"
Kristi is by my side.
"Green or black."
"Black," I say, like that's the only possible answer.
Kristi leaves.
"Anna Hanna, let me ask you something."
"Anything," she says, exhaling.
"Is that your real name?"
"My real name or my given name?" she says.
"What did you do before you acted in Golden Corral commercials..and films?"
"Worked at Starbucks."
She takes a plate and looks up at me.
"What did you do?"
"Same."
"I thought you were from Portland."
"So?"
"What are you doing in LA directing movies?"
"Let me tell you something, Anna Hanna. A waitress in Portland knows as much about directing movies as a movie director does in LA. That's how cool Portland is."
"I've heard people say it's cool."
"It's not really that cool," I say. "It just rains a lot so there's nothing to do but watch movies and work."
"If I had to guess what you did before you came here I would have guessed..community college professor."
"That is such an insult," I say, adding some banana peppers to my salad. "If you're gonna guess, guess college professor—which I was not. I'm a 40-year-old woman who waitressed at Denny's for 20 years."
"Then how'd you learn all this stuff?"
"You haven't spent much time working third shift, have you? Kid, a waitress picks up more wisdom from drag queens and homeless chess masters than any college professor in the world."
"I thought you said you were a barista."
"I was, Anna. Two jobs. Two jobs."
Our key producer, Shelly Kind, spent way too much time on set even though I told him specifically he was not to be on set. But—he's the money guy—what am I gonna do?
"Shelly, you're here."
"Gotta keep an eye on my investment. What scene is this? What page are we on?"
"You're making the actors nervous."
"They don't know who I am."
"Shelly, everyone knows who you are. You're making my crew nervous. The money guy shows up, they assume there're problems, it gets under their creative fingernails."
"Exactly where I like to be."
"Well let me guarantee to you that you aren't under mine. I love you, Shelly. I love the deal we've made. You're going to love the movie we make. But you've made a critical mistake with me."
"What is that?"
"To assume that I'm afraid."
I was always leaving set and having my 1st AD call action just to annoy Shelly and show him how organized we were—we were so organized, we worked as such a team, that we didn't even need the director on set to shoot a scene. And that's my first assistant director—different than my director's assistant. Everyone important has an assistant. The more assistants you have, the more important you are.
I'm walking off set and watching Shelly squirm.
My star, Tuesday Walker, is squirming too.
"But what do we do for lines?"
"Make some up."
"But—"
"Look, Tuesday, why did I hire you? Because you're the best actor in the business. Marcus, why did I hire you? Because you're the best cinematographer in the biz. I don't have to be present for every little thing we do here. This is a we thing, not a me thing. You're professionals. So do some pro shit."