first week of shooting. When I am anxious I lose weight, and I lost seven pounds that first week. Everything that could go wrong did. Except, and I pointed this out at the end of each day: no one had died.
Then, at the end of the week, my producer, Gina, said she needed to tell me something; it was about Joe. My heart sank. He was okay, but when the location scout was looking at his house, Joe mentioned he’d just gotten a diagnosis of cancer from the doctor and he had only two weeks to live. We were shooting his scene in a week. Gina said she’d talked to him and he insisted he really wanted to do it, but that it was up to me. All our movie problems went away for a moment, and there was just sorrow, a terrible ache for this man and his wife. And I knew there was no way we could go forward with him; it was irresponsible and frankly just scary.
So that was that. I called Joe from the set. He said he felt fine, and I said I knew he did but that I just had to do what I thought was best. “Well, you’re the boss,” he said glumly. I had been used to his chatty bluster, but in that moment I heard the man who had painted buildings for seventy years, a hard worker who was used to being part of a team and doing what the boss said. Some bosses had probably not been very nice.
That weekend I sat in a room and watched elderly actors read Joe’s lines. I was so exhausted that my personal goal was just not to cry during these auditions. The whole idea for the role of Joe was Joe. Most of the lines I’d written didn’t matter; they were just placeholders for where Joe would improvise. When these old men improvised, they drew upon their personal histories — as lifelong actors. They weren’t a boring group of people, but none of them had met their wives at Lake Paw Paw.
After watching one particularly frail man hobble through his reading, I complained to Gina that these eighty-year-old men actually seemed sicker than Joe; who was to say that all of them didn’t also have cancer and just two weeks to live? It also occurred to me now that Joe had been counting on the checks we were about to give him, for his work and for the rental of his house. Had I come into his life, gotten his hopes up, and then let him down — left him to die?
After the bleak auditions, I asked my husband to come with me to meet Joe; I didn’t trust myself entirely. The two of us paced around Joe’s living room, trying to paint a picture of what a movie shoot was like. “A normal day is really long,” I said. “Like twelve or fourteen hours.” “There would be lots of people in here,” my husband said, looking around the tiny house. “It would be like the army coming in and taking over.” “Will they mess up the carpets?” Joe asked. “No, no,” we said, “they’d put rubber mats down, all over the house.” After a while we’d talked over every last detail and there was just nothing more to say. I had to call it. “Well,” I said shakily, “I’d like to do this with you, if you really want to.” “I really do,” Joe said.
We splurged and ran two cameras all day, knowing we couldn’t expect Joe to repeat things he’d done, so each scene was filmed tight and wider at the same time. Then we’d shoot Hamish’s various reactions, which would hopefully bind the dialogue into the fiction. When I asked Joe to sell Hamish the old hair dryer, he handled it like a seasoned improviser, hilarious and real. Much harder was trying to get him to say specific lines, especially “You’re still in the beginning.” It was blisteringly hot, the room was crowded, and he’d been working for hours and hours (many of them spent waiting for planes to fly by). It was so hard to keep insisting that he say this particular sentence that had long since lost all meaning. He must have tried fifty times, so sweetly, always missing by a mile and then launching into a monologue about his own early married years, which he remembered perfectly. Finally on
Then, at the end of the week, my producer, Gina, said she needed to tell me something; it was about Joe. My heart sank. He was okay, but when the location scout was looking at his house, Joe mentioned he’d just gotten a diagnosis of cancer from the doctor and he had only two weeks to live. We were shooting his scene in a week. Gina said she’d talked to him and he insisted he really wanted to do it, but that it was up to me. All our movie problems went away for a moment, and there was just sorrow, a terrible ache for this man and his wife. And I knew there was no way we could go forward with him; it was irresponsible and frankly just scary.
So that was that. I called Joe from the set. He said he felt fine, and I said I knew he did but that I just had to do what I thought was best. “Well, you’re the boss,” he said glumly. I had been used to his chatty bluster, but in that moment I heard the man who had painted buildings for seventy years, a hard worker who was used to being part of a team and doing what the boss said. Some bosses had probably not been very nice.
That weekend I sat in a room and watched elderly actors read Joe’s lines. I was so exhausted that my personal goal was just not to cry during these auditions. The whole idea for the role of Joe was Joe. Most of the lines I’d written didn’t matter; they were just placeholders for where Joe would improvise. When these old men improvised, they drew upon their personal histories — as lifelong actors. They weren’t a boring group of people, but none of them had met their wives at Lake Paw Paw.
After watching one particularly frail man hobble through his reading, I complained to Gina that these eighty-year-old men actually seemed sicker than Joe; who was to say that all of them didn’t also have cancer and just two weeks to live? It also occurred to me now that Joe had been counting on the checks we were about to give him, for his work and for the rental of his house. Had I come into his life, gotten his hopes up, and then let him down — left him to die?
After the bleak auditions, I asked my husband to come with me to meet Joe; I didn’t trust myself entirely. The two of us paced around Joe’s living room, trying to paint a picture of what a movie shoot was like. “A normal day is really long,” I said. “Like twelve or fourteen hours.” “There would be lots of people in here,” my husband said, looking around the tiny house. “It would be like the army coming in and taking over.” “Will they mess up the carpets?” Joe asked. “No, no,” we said, “they’d put rubber mats down, all over the house.” After a while we’d talked over every last detail and there was just nothing more to say. I had to call it. “Well,” I said shakily, “I’d like to do this with you, if you really want to.” “I really do,” Joe said.
We splurged and ran two cameras all day, knowing we couldn’t expect Joe to repeat things he’d done, so each scene was filmed tight and wider at the same time. Then we’d shoot Hamish’s various reactions, which would hopefully bind the dialogue into the fiction. When I asked Joe to sell Hamish the old hair dryer, he handled it like a seasoned improviser, hilarious and real. Much harder was trying to get him to say specific lines, especially “You’re still in the beginning.” It was blisteringly hot, the room was crowded, and he’d been working for hours and hours (many of them spent waiting for planes to fly by). It was so hard to keep insisting that he say this particular sentence that had long since lost all meaning. He must have tried fifty times, so sweetly, always missing by a mile and then launching into a monologue about his own early married years, which he remembered perfectly. Finally on
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