My first-rate cinematographer, Patrick Neary, and I toyed with the notion of creating a title sequence ourselves. Our first thought was to capture scads of wrecking yard footage and then re-work it in post, combining errant car parts with organic elements. Then I arrived at the notion of creating a motion-graphic version of this idea. I imagined it as a classic Saul Bass sequence with a horrific twist. This notion called for someone with significant graphic software skills, so I opted to hire out the creation of the titles. Title design is its own unique art form and I wanted to make sure we started the film with something shockingly different to announce the film’s creepy aesthetics.

Using the oh-so-informative Web site, Art of the Title, I made a list of potential title designers and contacted my number one choice: Kurt Volk, a graphic designer for Robert Rodriguez’s Troublemaker Studios. He found the title concept intriguing and wanted to work on it, but ever-escalating demands on his time precluded his involvement. He was, however, kind enough to recommend Ian Albinson, none other than the founder of Art of the Title. Fortunately for me, Ian was available and
interested. Shortly after he accepted the gig, he proposed going back to the original live-action title concept, showing a series of techno-mechanical images tied to the film’s bête noir, the phantom car.

The film's hand-drawn logo in b&w

Since then, Kurt’s worked up about eight iterations of the title sequence and is near to finishing after about three months of work off and on. He and his collaborators have done an amazing job. The 90-second sequence features hand-designed titles (created by Jon Contino) over strangely affecting images with recognizably automotive origins. He gave the sequence an exceptional dynamism by not only putting the titles in motion, but also making them transparent as they approach the viewer, providing glimpses of the next image in the sequence before its fully revealed. As noted previously, the capper was the music. My composer, John Askew, surprised me with a fantastic main title theme. (To be clear, I wasn’t surprised the score was fantastic, but that John created a score at all. I’d long planned to use a pre-existing song from an obscure mid-70s band for the sequence. But when securing the rights to the tune became problematic, John offered his own take.)

Now, all that remains is a few finishing special effects touches and the sequence will be complete and ready for output. Another element put to bed on the way to a final master…

While that does occur, the main purpose of ADR is to give the sound designer maximum flexibility in treating the various sound elements. In the usual course of production, bits of dialogue come across as distorted or unplayable. Sometimes it’s due to the noise accompanying an on-set action that can’t be pantomimed. Sometimes it’s because the actor moved in a way that resulted in an off-mic line delivery or generated an unwanted fabric swish. If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you’ve gathered that there’s a fair amount of car mayhem in the film. As you might expect, there are several in-car conversations. Given that we couldn’t afford a process trailer for more than a couple of days, we recorded most of these conversations with the car in motion, engine running. This amounted to recording guide tracks for the inevitable ADR work, as the engine noise nearly drowned out the dialogue. (As an amusing aside, I was typically curled up in the back of the El Camino just out of camera range, clutching the sound recording equipment. I often had to keep as low a profile as possible, so I usually couldn’t see anything; I just listened for solid performances.)

Joshua St. James gives a scream during his Nightscape ADR session

It’s been nearly five months since the end of principal photography and none of my leads have ever done ADR before. It can be a serious challenge to any actor—even recognized veterans—because you not only have to recreate your performance, but do so in sync with what’s on-screen. That’s the epitome of the old saw about putting the genie back in the bottle. Luckily for us, our leads have done amazingly well. Emily Galash was the first to enter the ADR booth. She faced the daunting task of re-recording about 80% of her dialogue, mostly because of environmental issues like wind and unavoidable noises tied to on-screen action. She was typically fearless and knocked out her dialogue like a seasoned voice actor in short order. She compared her experience to playing Guitar Hero,  matching dialogue to action in a remembered rhythm. Joshua St. James and Jorge Madrid have been equally adept at ADR work, quickly getting back into character and in some cases, even improving on their original performances.

I’m indebted to Jason and his assistant, Lou, for their infallible attention to detail. They’ve done an exceptional job of identifying all of the necessary ADR elements, even going so far as to record single words because of slight distortion—discrepancies that would likely go unnoticed by the average filmgoer. For them, it’s a matter of professional pride. And that’s what makes for a winning film. It takes all of the little things done right to make for a satisfying whole.

It’s a bit like seeing the timestream branch before your eyes without the
benefit of living out any of the alternate paths. Getting to picture-lock took about
two-and-a-half months of daily editing. My skillful editor, Ben Mead, known primarily for award-winning documentaries like Brutal Beauty: Tales of the Rose City Rollers, compiled the first assembly edit as we shot the film. He made great progress on it, despite welcoming his first child into the world during the shoot (not on set, mind). Subsequent versions underwent a number of changes, though all of them followed the same basic structure, closely mirroring that of the shooting script. This process involved selecting the most effective shots from more than 600 minutes of footage and reconfiguring them into seemingly endless patterns. (Btw, we used primarily one camera—the Red One—though we occasionally employed a relatively inexpensive crash-cam and for two days of intensive car stunts, actually had the luxury of a two-camera setup.) At about the two-month mark, though, Ben and I determined we needed a fresh perspective.

That’s when I asked a friend-of-a-friend, the uber-talented editor and director, Gary Lundgren (Calvin Marshall), to come up from southern Oregon for a week to apply his brand of filmic magic. Gary got his start in the industry as an editorial assistant and has been part of the editing team for a number of Hollywood productions, including Ernest Dickerson’s Tales from the Crypt: Demon Knight (uncredited, for you IMDB checkers). Working frenetically over the course of a workweek, Gary and I whacked the then-110 minute edit down to a snappy 77 minutes. I can’t say this part was easy. Absolutely necessary, yes; easy, no. There were moments when I doubted my storytelling instincts. But the end result was well worth all the accompanying emotional turmoil. Sometimes the most drastic cut can be the kindest. Gary’s beady-eyed focus on narrative clarity and momentum established a surer, leaner baseline for the film.

From that point on, it was relatively easy for Ben and me to rework the film into its current svelte, but more emotionally-engaging, picture-locked form. The 77 minute version turned out to be a mite too fast and some of the edits required additional bits to flow properly. Ben restored a lot of the essential breathing room and I added a few diary-entry voice-overs to give the lone female lead a greater, more sympathetic voice than the pared-back version allowed. I also reconvened the crew for a day of soundless pickups designed to fill in a few fleeting, but nonetheless noticeable gaps, and to ease a couple of scene transitions. (For completists, we trialed a Red Epic camera, the camera used on the most recent Underworld picture and the upcoming The Amazing Spider-Man, among other things.) The current cut is about 87 minutes without closing credits.

Now, we’re in the throes of sound design, music, special effects, color correction and all the other usual post-production activities. Every element is inextricably linked, which makes coordination a challenge. For instance, I originally intended to use a track from obscure 70s band, The Godz, over the main title sequence. When negotiations with the record company proved unduly trying, however, the composer, John Askew, offered up a score. And boy-howdy, I’m glad he did! It was a revelation that altered our initial plans about the use of score throughout the film and impacted a number of sound design elements. (We’re experimenting with tying score and sound effects together to a greater extent than typical studio fare à la David Lynch.) Fortunately for me, the post-production crew consists not only of seasoned veterans, but many of them have worked together over a number of projects, making the process relatively seamless.

We’re now looking at a March timeframe for final mastering—about seven months after the end of principal photography. Not bad considering the fitful nature of post. I’m trying not to rush it, but my anticipation is second only to the anticipation I felt during my wife’s pregnancies. It’s worse than any childhood Christmas for sure. I can’t hardly wait to show what we’ve got in store. Regardless of your feelings about the finished film, I guarantee you’ll find it uniquely compelling.

Monster-Sized Monsters recording "Save Yourself (Cuz No One Else Will)"

We recorded the foundational parts of the track last Friday in a marathon nine-hour session. The film’s composer, John Askew, served as our able guide and recording engineer. A veteran musician and producer,  he provided invaluable feedback throughout the recording process. And because his studio boasts a number of vintage instruments, band members we’re able to perform with era-appropriate gear. We’ll be adding some instrumentation and mixing the song over the next few weeks (in-between various post-production tasks). The initial plan is to debut the song this spring in conjunction with the tie-in book and hopefully, our first major film festival screening. But I doubt I’ll be able to contain my enthusiasm for the track that long and will likely post a special preview sometime before year’s end. Maybe as a holiday present for those who enter our Facebook sweepstakes. So, if you haven’t entered yet, get to it. The sweepstakes ends October 21^st.

Dreams of Devils_Online Preview

I’m pleased to present a special preview of this short novel and at the same time, announce a related Facebook sweepstakes. We’d like to garner as many Facebook friends as possible. By becoming a friend of Nightscape on Facebook and/or persuading your friends to do so, you’ll be entered into a contest in which you could win your name (or alternately, the name of a friend or family member) in the tie-in book, plus a host of other cool Nightscape merch. Check out the details of the sweepstakes at

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nightscape-Movie/194911663155?sk=app_28134323652.

The contest ends on October 21^st, so be sure to enter soon!

Whatever the cause, the actor neglected to inform me or anyone else in the production department that she was seriously ill. So I was shocked and dismayed when she showed for a planned 12-hour night shoot so weak she couldn’t stand for more than three consecutive minutes. This was a big scene involving a specially-designed set that took weeks to construct; a cast of over two-dozen extras, including a small choir; about a dozen vintage cars; our three-person stunt team; and substantial fire and makeup effects. The actor apparently thought willpower alone would take her through the scene. Unfortunately, that theory didn’t prove out. The scene required her to deliver a sermon that timed out at over four uninterrupted minutes. Frail and unfocused, she could scarcely recite more than two lines at a time, much less perform the blocking I’d envisioned. As much as she wanted to play the part, it just wasn’t happening. Watching her (non-) performance on the monitor, I started to shrink into myself. The footage was completely useless.  

 While I felt badly for her condition, I couldn’t help being angry at her for putting me in an untenable position. She hadn’t given me any warning. There was no immediate recourse. The scene was pivotal to the rest of the film. My heart sank as I realized the only option was to recast the part and reshoot the scene another night—at considerable expense. Thankfully, we’d shot only one other, much shorter scene with her. (She’d appeared shaky then, but plausibly attributed her condition to the unusually hot weather.) To keep on schedule, we had to reshoot that short scene the next day (well, technically, later the same day as it was after midnight when I came to that decision). With no time to find a replacement through the usual casting channels, I made the bold (some would say foolhardy) decision to play the role myself.

Although I hadn’t done any acting since college, I was comfortable with delivering the lengthy sermon because: 1) I’d written it and accordingly, knew how I wanted it to come across; and 2) as a former elected official, I’m accustomed to speech-making. I figured I could bluff my way through the quieter moments, in part, by affecting a soft Louisiana accent. (One of my college roommates was Karey Kirkpatrick, the screenwriter for Chicken Run and a variety of other Hollywood successes. He hails from Louisiana and—at least at the time—talked with a slight regional twang. I just kept his vocal inflections in mind as best I could.) Besides, I knew for certain I’d always be on time and ready to perform.

I have to say, the experience increased my respect for Clint Eastwood and other actor-directors who routinely star in their own films. It was awfully challenging to act and direct at the same time. I had to cede a lot of the decision-making to the first assistant director and the director of photography. Sure, I could view the shots on the monitor, but in order to stay on schedule, it became impractical for me to do so every time. At one point, choked by bloody tentacles, I just had to trust my team had nailed the shots as we’d discussed them. Once I worked up the courage to watch the dailies, I confirmed that they had. (Not that I ever doubted it.) The scene cut together nicely and we even salvaged a few shots from the previous attempt. Though the circumstances around the scene weren’t ideal, what matters is what’s onscreen. And as we’ve made adjustments in post, it’s gone from merely good to potentially great.

The key challenges we faced consisted largely of events beyond our control, i.e., mechanical failures. One of our cherished picture cars, a 1973 Chevy El Camino, which sadly, could be destroyed only once, broke down on a semi-regular basis. It proved to be our Bruce the Shark, prompting us to alter our shooting schedule on a number of occasions. For the sake of brevity, I’ll recount just one of the times this car nearly cost me my (relative) youth.

While driving home at the end of the first day of shooting—one of our few 14-hour days—the El Camino came to a grinding halt on the freeway. It was just after midnight and my cell phone had long since lost its battery power. Thankfully, a few crew members happened to spot my trouble and shortly thereafter, drawn by the growing crowd of cars in the median, a very understanding highway patrolman joined them. The car sported Mexican plates (rented from the Universal prop dept.) and at the time, I didn’t have any proof of the car’s registration or insurance. Rather than citing me, however, the patrolman called a tow truck, indicating the incident was an emergency and then waited with me until it arrived. He’d heard about our late-night (and very public) shoot in the neighboring town of Banks from a fellow officer and we passed the time talking about the ins and outs of producing an indie film.

I had the car towed back to Banks and the next morning, drove early to set to see if I could get a mechanic’s eyes on the vehicle first thing. With luck, I managed to track down Robert Duncan, the wife of an extra we’d recruited some time back, who helped me push the car to his shop. A short while later, he informed me the car had thrown a rod, punching a good-sized hole in the engine. I walked under the hoist and saw it first-hand. Yep, it was a hole alright. It might as well have been through my heart. The rest of the crew would be arriving in less than an hour and we didn’t have the car that was supposed to play that morning.

My years of project management experience in both the private and public spheres certainly came in handy. I didn’t panic (that would only panic everyone else). I didn’t curse (well, maybe a little, but only in my head). I called the key crew members and within the hour, we formulated a plan to adjust the schedule for the next three days to accommodate the lack of El Camino. As part of this plan, I actually arranged to have the El Camino towed to our next location so we could shoot as much as we could. At one point, we even had a few crew members push it down a hill so we could get two separate moving shots (one of which, I suspect, will even make it into the final cut). It wasn’t a stress-fee day, that’s for sure. But we got the job done. And when every day of a shoot counts, sometimes that’s enough.

Check it out: 

I don’t want to say too much this early in the shoot for fear of jinxing it. Suffice it to say I’ve been profoundly happy with the images and performances we’ve managed to capture so far. Yesterday, we shot my favorite scene in the film–an emotional exchange in a rundown motel room. Our leads in this case–Joshua St. James and Emily Galash–really delivered the goods! It was a stirring moment to see  them bring my words to life. I can’t wait to see the dailies. It’s not the flashiest scene in the film. But to my mind, it encapsulates what the film is all about–everyday people trying to find their way in a world that persistently mystifies them.

Frame grab from RED One camera test

Today is the final day of preproduction. We’ve done our level best to be prepared for all the niggling eventualities of principal photography. In recent days we’ve reviewed schedules, conducted tech scouts, revised shot lists, finalized grip and lighting packages, filled remaining crew positions, tested makeup, wardrobe and cameras, rehearsed scenes with special attention to fight choreography—settled a hundred little details. No matter how much planning goes into a feature film, however, you can never feel prepared enough. You have to contend with a host of haunting unknowns: What if we can’t get permission to clear the street and have to shoot with the flow of traffic? What if this makeup effect takes twice as long as anticipated? How will we make our day?

At some point, you have to adopt a Zen-like attitude of acceptance. You have to reconcile yourself to the fact that you can only bend reality so far. You have to make do with what’s possible in the moment and not worry overmuch about how you pictured the film in your head. Thankfully, I have an amazing cast and crew to help me realize my vision. Each of them is an artist in his/her own right. And I’m humbled by the sheer talent assembled for this project. Our gaffer, for instance, is a 30-year industry veteran of such films as Michael Winterbottom’s The Killer Inside Me, James Mangold’s 3:10 to Yuma, and John Carpenter’s Vampires. His expertise and experience constitutes a great safety net for the production. The same can be said of all of your principal crew.

Since I first saw Star Wars at age 11, I’ve dreamed of writing and directing a film with the power to enthrall an audience. In those days, without the Internet, the only way to find out about new films was to read about them in industry magazines like Starlog and Fangoria. I used to slip my mom notes on their release dates in hopes she’d pick them up on her way home from the Forest Grove Aquatic Center where she worked as a receptionist. I checked out every book on filmmaking in the local library. And of course, I made my share of (notably bad) Super-8 and later, 1/4 inch videotape productions. But even after I started the screenwriting program at the University of Southern California, the day of actually shooting a feature seemed impossibly distant.

Now that the day is upon me, I’m both nervous and excited. But more than anything else, I feel blessed by the opportunity. My family, especially my wife of 21 years, has been unbelievably supportive. I know that feeling will fade as I’m immersed in the day-to-day concerns of shooting, but I’m glad to feel it now and will try to hold it in memory for as long as possible for the sake of that 11-year-old inside me.