Day two's Zombie extra experience was kind've like a party.
Unfortunately it was the sort of party you arrive at to realise you've been invited because someone has to hold the coats, and dang if you don't have the longest arms...
I was sat in the green room. It's early, but for some reason I hadn't stormed to the front of the make-up queue this time. Sarah was nowhere to be seen today. Perhaps that threw me; what if the other make-up ladies weren't as competent? What if they weren't even awake? They moved, and spoke, and seemed to be doing rudimentary things, but what does that actually mean at 6 in the morning? Nobody was too chatty this time; for most of us the novelty of rising this early must have worn off. What, I thought, is the point of going in first just to spend two hours in cold, sugary goop waiting for the rest to get done? Nobody was going anywhere before the last of us was ready. Any less than day one's amount of Zombie was no good to anyone.
So I waited. Mistake. (The first.)
Because once again, Ted loomed over me.
Would I like to be the body in the road today? Apparently the stuffed plastic bags had been difficult to work with. The collective had experienced creative differences and gone their separate ways. One wanted to go back to regional theatre, one had landed a recurring role on Hollyoaks. Insert your own joke. They can't be worse than those.
Being a helpful sort, I said yes. Mistake. (The second.)
I try to be a helpful sort, but truth be told, I'm also somewhat insecure, like most writers. I didn't want to be the guy who said no to this crew. Who let them down.
I didn't want them to hate me.
So I spent most of the day on my back. I'm not the first person in the movie biz to experience that. Trouble is, it was on cold concrete, with a tight, green lycra cowl pulled over my head, the same on my left leg and one armed pinned beneath me. Unfortunately this does not constitute a weird sex game.
The instant I pulled the cowl on I started to panic. The sensation was like drowning. All I want was to rip the thing off and breathe. Which I did. Fortunately, we weren't rolling at that point. I had to force myself to relax, close my eyes and pretend it wasn't happening. I was still warmer than last week, thanks to a puffa jacket so large I could almost generate my own gravity.
Around me, my ex-fellow zombies shuffled and moaned. All I could do was listen to them. I couldn't see a damned thing but extremes of light and shade.
But I wasn't in every shot, and this was where my experience differed from the others. Because when you're not in the shot, you have nothing to do. You're behind the camera. You get to watch, and to watch is to learn.
Weapons, props, lighting, A camera, B camera, steadicam harnesses, the video village, rehearsals, blocking out sequences... the list of educations is endless. There is so much going on, such a collective effort behind every single tiny sequence that it boggles the mind. Making good movies is hard, like catching lightning in a bottle, and this is why. It requires such precision, such confluence of random factors with well-honed skill and artistry, that it's a wonder we ever get great ones at all. For that miniscule education I am truly grateful. Those moments alone made it all worth it. I think I earned them.
During the course of the day, some Zombies got up close and personal with "the talent", some got weird blue contact lenses, some got socked around the head with rubber wrenches, expiring in spectacularly-conceived orgies of bloody destruction...
I got to lie on the floor, blind and panicking, while Michelle Ryan drove a clapped-out BMW at me.
To be fair, she did it all rather well and seems a nice lass. She promised not to drive over my head, which was all I could ask for really, and thanked everyone at the end of the day, which I would not have asked for but was very sweet anyway.
I have to give a shout out to my Zombie bollard, whose name I never caught. He stood by my "invisible" green head so that Ms. Ryan couldn't possibly drive over it without having to admit she'd been aiming for me all along. If you're the guy from the University of East London studying film, and reading a book on it at lunch, that's you, that is. Cheers!
Nevertheless, all day I had the nagging feeling I'd done something to be relegated to dead body duty. Not just dead, but headless and dead. And not just headless and dead, but headless and one-armed and one-legged and dead. When you've been a key shuffler in the zombie apocalypse on day one, that kind of demotion is hard to swallow (as are most things when you have no head.)
Had I not shuffled to their satisfaction? Was my dribbling not effervescent enough? Perhaps my loosely-twitching arms hadn't met Zombie kite-mark standards? It's a big step up in class from domestic zombieing to the international scene. I convinced myself I was the Matt Le Tissier of Zombies. The Ian Wright of the undead.
Or maybe, just maybe, they had no recollection of who I was, or what I had or hadn't done on day one. Maybe I was just the only average sized male who hadn't been through make-up yet.*
*This is a pragmatist's view. I'll stick with my paranoid conspiracy if you don't mind.
It was lonely inside the cowl. I now know largely how Batman feels, except he has the physique of a gymnast, the mind of a genius and massive personal wealth. I had a sore back, one cold foot and a £13 Primark hoodie.
At some point mid-afternoon I started to feel a touch annoyed. (Not because I'm not Batman, but I'll be honest, it didn't help.) As amazing as the experience was, I was now a bit cold and a bit sore. I'm the sort who takes it on the chin, generally, but the Zombies were being directied. Because, well, they had something to be directed towards. There's not much directing you can do of a headless dead zombie unless you're well-steeped in the metaphysical. I'm not sure Matthias Hoene is that sort of Director yet.
When it came time to get back down, nobody seemed able to decide where I was lying in the previous shot. There was no reference to hand. Matthias moved me, whereupon someone else showed up and complained that I'd moved. Several times I lay down, cowl on, only to realise I was behind the camera. I needed a headless Zombie attache but there seemed to be none on the payroll by this point.
As the day drifted by I seemed to be largely forgotten about, trusted to know where to lie, and when. It was like being the invisible man; you can do pretty much anything you please unless you're doing something obviously wrong, whereupon all hell lets loose. None was, so I assume I was playing dead to a reasonable standard. I wondered if I should try a little leg jerk, but decided that might be a bit "method".
Shot after shot after shot, it went on. I was in, I was out. I was dead, I was alive. My back was sore, my back was slightly less sore. I lay dead, I watched magic created by dozens of dedicated people.
And then, after twelve hours that made day one seem like a breeze, it was over.
The zombies wrapped for the day and proceeded to loop some groaning. I declined, seeing as I technically had no larynx. The truth was, the zombie camaraderie I felt on day one had floated away on the breeze. Everyone was still friendly, but I didn't feel I was one of them anymore. I was neither alive nor undead. Just dead. The fallen.
I gathered my things and went home, glad not to have to rid myself of the make-up again.
At some point in the day a Zombie remarked that for the amount these people are paid, they ought to get things right first time. I couldn't disagree more. For a start, most of them aren't paid that well. Below-the-line folks do it for love, not money, and could probably earn more in an office, in the warm and with shorter hours. After that, we come down to a simple truth of the business, as made famous by William Goldman: Nobody knows anything. It's both art and science, and to expect it to be quantifiable in those terms is ridiculous.
Already, I look back with rose-tinted specs. It's damned hard work, this movie lark, but if you love telling stories, whether if it's through make-up or lighting or writing words or saying those words, if it twists and growls inside you like a monster straining to get out, this is the most fun you can have in the world.
Unfortunately it was the sort of party you arrive at to realise you've been invited because someone has to hold the coats, and dang if you don't have the longest arms...
I was sat in the green room. It's early, but for some reason I hadn't stormed to the front of the make-up queue this time. Sarah was nowhere to be seen today. Perhaps that threw me; what if the other make-up ladies weren't as competent? What if they weren't even awake? They moved, and spoke, and seemed to be doing rudimentary things, but what does that actually mean at 6 in the morning? Nobody was too chatty this time; for most of us the novelty of rising this early must have worn off. What, I thought, is the point of going in first just to spend two hours in cold, sugary goop waiting for the rest to get done? Nobody was going anywhere before the last of us was ready. Any less than day one's amount of Zombie was no good to anyone.
So I waited. Mistake. (The first.)
Because once again, Ted loomed over me.
Would I like to be the body in the road today? Apparently the stuffed plastic bags had been difficult to work with. The collective had experienced creative differences and gone their separate ways. One wanted to go back to regional theatre, one had landed a recurring role on Hollyoaks. Insert your own joke. They can't be worse than those.
Being a helpful sort, I said yes. Mistake. (The second.)
I try to be a helpful sort, but truth be told, I'm also somewhat insecure, like most writers. I didn't want to be the guy who said no to this crew. Who let them down.
I didn't want them to hate me.
So I spent most of the day on my back. I'm not the first person in the movie biz to experience that. Trouble is, it was on cold concrete, with a tight, green lycra cowl pulled over my head, the same on my left leg and one armed pinned beneath me. Unfortunately this does not constitute a weird sex game.
The instant I pulled the cowl on I started to panic. The sensation was like drowning. All I want was to rip the thing off and breathe. Which I did. Fortunately, we weren't rolling at that point. I had to force myself to relax, close my eyes and pretend it wasn't happening. I was still warmer than last week, thanks to a puffa jacket so large I could almost generate my own gravity.
Around me, my ex-fellow zombies shuffled and moaned. All I could do was listen to them. I couldn't see a damned thing but extremes of light and shade.
But I wasn't in every shot, and this was where my experience differed from the others. Because when you're not in the shot, you have nothing to do. You're behind the camera. You get to watch, and to watch is to learn.
Weapons, props, lighting, A camera, B camera, steadicam harnesses, the video village, rehearsals, blocking out sequences... the list of educations is endless. There is so much going on, such a collective effort behind every single tiny sequence that it boggles the mind. Making good movies is hard, like catching lightning in a bottle, and this is why. It requires such precision, such confluence of random factors with well-honed skill and artistry, that it's a wonder we ever get great ones at all. For that miniscule education I am truly grateful. Those moments alone made it all worth it. I think I earned them.
During the course of the day, some Zombies got up close and personal with "the talent", some got weird blue contact lenses, some got socked around the head with rubber wrenches, expiring in spectacularly-conceived orgies of bloody destruction...
I got to lie on the floor, blind and panicking, while Michelle Ryan drove a clapped-out BMW at me.
To be fair, she did it all rather well and seems a nice lass. She promised not to drive over my head, which was all I could ask for really, and thanked everyone at the end of the day, which I would not have asked for but was very sweet anyway.
I have to give a shout out to my Zombie bollard, whose name I never caught. He stood by my "invisible" green head so that Ms. Ryan couldn't possibly drive over it without having to admit she'd been aiming for me all along. If you're the guy from the University of East London studying film, and reading a book on it at lunch, that's you, that is. Cheers!
Nevertheless, all day I had the nagging feeling I'd done something to be relegated to dead body duty. Not just dead, but headless and dead. And not just headless and dead, but headless and one-armed and one-legged and dead. When you've been a key shuffler in the zombie apocalypse on day one, that kind of demotion is hard to swallow (as are most things when you have no head.)
Had I not shuffled to their satisfaction? Was my dribbling not effervescent enough? Perhaps my loosely-twitching arms hadn't met Zombie kite-mark standards? It's a big step up in class from domestic zombieing to the international scene. I convinced myself I was the Matt Le Tissier of Zombies. The Ian Wright of the undead.
Or maybe, just maybe, they had no recollection of who I was, or what I had or hadn't done on day one. Maybe I was just the only average sized male who hadn't been through make-up yet.*
*This is a pragmatist's view. I'll stick with my paranoid conspiracy if you don't mind.
It was lonely inside the cowl. I now know largely how Batman feels, except he has the physique of a gymnast, the mind of a genius and massive personal wealth. I had a sore back, one cold foot and a £13 Primark hoodie.
At some point mid-afternoon I started to feel a touch annoyed. (Not because I'm not Batman, but I'll be honest, it didn't help.) As amazing as the experience was, I was now a bit cold and a bit sore. I'm the sort who takes it on the chin, generally, but the Zombies were being directied. Because, well, they had something to be directed towards. There's not much directing you can do of a headless dead zombie unless you're well-steeped in the metaphysical. I'm not sure Matthias Hoene is that sort of Director yet.
When it came time to get back down, nobody seemed able to decide where I was lying in the previous shot. There was no reference to hand. Matthias moved me, whereupon someone else showed up and complained that I'd moved. Several times I lay down, cowl on, only to realise I was behind the camera. I needed a headless Zombie attache but there seemed to be none on the payroll by this point.
As the day drifted by I seemed to be largely forgotten about, trusted to know where to lie, and when. It was like being the invisible man; you can do pretty much anything you please unless you're doing something obviously wrong, whereupon all hell lets loose. None was, so I assume I was playing dead to a reasonable standard. I wondered if I should try a little leg jerk, but decided that might be a bit "method".
Shot after shot after shot, it went on. I was in, I was out. I was dead, I was alive. My back was sore, my back was slightly less sore. I lay dead, I watched magic created by dozens of dedicated people.
And then, after twelve hours that made day one seem like a breeze, it was over.
The zombies wrapped for the day and proceeded to loop some groaning. I declined, seeing as I technically had no larynx. The truth was, the zombie camaraderie I felt on day one had floated away on the breeze. Everyone was still friendly, but I didn't feel I was one of them anymore. I was neither alive nor undead. Just dead. The fallen.
I gathered my things and went home, glad not to have to rid myself of the make-up again.
At some point in the day a Zombie remarked that for the amount these people are paid, they ought to get things right first time. I couldn't disagree more. For a start, most of them aren't paid that well. Below-the-line folks do it for love, not money, and could probably earn more in an office, in the warm and with shorter hours. After that, we come down to a simple truth of the business, as made famous by William Goldman: Nobody knows anything. It's both art and science, and to expect it to be quantifiable in those terms is ridiculous.
Already, I look back with rose-tinted specs. It's damned hard work, this movie lark, but if you love telling stories, whether if it's through make-up or lighting or writing words or saying those words, if it twists and growls inside you like a monster straining to get out, this is the most fun you can have in the world.
