The shooting of "Buried" went remarkably smoothly, one might even say unbelievably so.
The entire burden of the film rested on Renly's shoulders. All other tasks had been streamlined to the bare minimum, and the progress of the shoot hinged entirely on the quality of Renly's performance. If his state deteriorated, causing constant mistakes in a scene that required multiple retakes, hours could be wasted on a single segment. However, if he excelled, meeting requirements with just a few takes, even bringing surprises, then shooting five to six scenes in a day posed no issue.
Luckily, Renly's condition was excellent, even sizzling.
In less than five days, the shooting progress had surpassed two-thirds, greatly exceeding expectations. In the following two to four days at the most, it was estimated that the film would wrap up successfully. Even for a low-budget, small-space, independent film, this was truly inconceivable.
This was fantastic news for the production that was struggling financially. Exceeding two weeks of shooting would deplete their funds. They would have to halt production, seek additional investment, and if things went poorly, the project might remain abandoned, gathering dust. However, now the production could be completed within ten days, leaving room for post-production and promotion. This was undoubtedly a huge blessing.
The shooting progressed smoothly, and the entire crew operated at full speed. Even the hired mercenaries were content, as the smooth shooting translated into easy money. This was the most pleasant collaboration experience for them. They didn't need any additional work, nor did they have to deal with complex personnel relationships. After completing their roles, they could watch the performance, a relatively light job that was rare in the current global economic crisis.
However, Renly's personal state was deteriorating.
The boundary between reality and illusion in his mind grew increasingly blurred. His sleep quality plummeted, and since the enclosed experience, he woke up from nightmares every night.
In these dreams, he was buried beneath the desert, desperately seeking help using his cellphone. However, no one paid him any attention. All had indifferent faces without features, expressions, or emotions. They all coldly replied in unison, "Sorry, we're powerless as well." He was left abandoned in the desert, waiting for death.
Alternatively, he would dream of being bound and thrown into a deep pit, terrorists standing at the edge of the pit, leering, shouting incomprehensible Persian phrases. Then they'd take up shovels, earth raining down like a torrential downpour. His eyes would widen, and he'd strain in vain, his strength nullified. He'd watch himself being buried alive, the despair chilling his blood.
After the shoot began, these occurrences grew more frequent. Some nights, he'd wake up two or three times from the nightmares. His sleep duration and quality were plummeting like a free fall. His dark circles deepened, his eyes bloodshot. Even his footsteps felt increasingly light.
Worse still, there was an occasion when, after awakening from a nightmare, he became confused. He couldn't discern whether he was Renly or Paul. He strongly suspected he was Paul but saved this time. Yet, even after being saved, the memory of being buried alive in the desert continued to haunt him.
Though this confusion had only occurred once, it left Renly feeling mentally dazed. During today's lunch, he even dozed off while sitting, then awoke suddenly, drenched in cold sweat.
After finishing a day of shooting, Renly returned to the hotel early, attempting to rest. Despite his heavy eyelids, he couldn't sleep. His muscles were sore and exhausted, but his mind was painfully awake. Left with no choice, Renly retrieved the script, starting to read the content for the next day's shoot. Even though the script for "Buried" wasn't complex, with few lines, the hidden elements behind the words held the space for an actor's performance.
As he read on, he unknowingly fell asleep. In the midst of his heavy slumber, he felt a persistent disturbance, irritating him endlessly. He raised his hand to swat it away, but he found that the annoyance couldn't be brushed off, like an exasperating fly buzzing around his ear. With his eyes closed, he instinctively reached out, only to grab a handful of gravel. The sensation was so gritty and real that it startled him. He jolted awake, his head colliding with a wooden plank. Sharp pain made him grimace, yet he had no time to attend to it. His panicked gaze darted around, and his breath caught.
He was inside a coffin. Sand was continually trickling down. This wasn't a hotel room; it was the place where he had been buried alive.
A dream. This was a dream. He was Renly Hall, lying in a hotel bed, and this was merely a nightmare. He swallowed saliva, reminding himself, but everything felt so real—the incessant sound of sand cascading, the accumulation of gritty weight on his chest, the stifling, almost boiling air, the intermittently dim flashlight, and the phone vibrating like thunder...
Everything was unnervingly real. Especially the growing pain in his head and arms, which became increasingly pronounced. He lifted his hand to inspect it, only to find his palm smeared with blood. The vibrating phone in his hand instantly registered, and memories surged in an instant.
A bomb had just been dropped, shattering the coffin lid. Then sand fell like a torrential rain. The phone lost its signal, his call was abruptly cut off. In this dire situation, his survival instinct erupted with incredible force. He tried to plug the crack with his shirt to stop the sand from seeping in further. However, the wooden board eventually snapped, and the sand kept trickling down in sparse increments. Time was rapidly dwindling. If he didn't get out soon, he might not have another chance.
Yes, he didn't have much time left.
Seeing the phone in his hand vibrating, a glimmer of hope ignited. The phone, which had lost signal earlier, was ringing again. He had to let them know outside that something had gone wrong, that rescue needed to hurry. This was his only lifeline.
Without hesitation, he immediately pressed the call button. "Hello? Who's there?" Raising the flashlight, its pale yellow beam revealed a cascade of fine sand, dripping and falling like a sorrowful yet grand scene. But he had no mind to appreciate it now. His voice was urgent, grasping at the final straw of salvation.
"Is that Paul Conroy?" The voice on the other end of the line was unhurried, each word enunciated, the deliberate clarity excruciatingly slow, almost unbearable. He had to interrupt that voice directly. "Yes, yes, this is Paul. Who are you?" He had to push the shirt more securely against the gap as sand kept falling, seemingly worsening his situation.
"Paul, my name's Alan Davenport speaking." The voice on the other end was still clear and deliberate, taxing one's patience. "I'm the personnel director here at Crestin, Roland and Thomas."
"I left you a message." He only wanted them to hurry, to speed up, sand was still falling, the phone was running out of battery, not to mention the fluctuating signal.
"Yes, I heard about it from Rebecca Browning at the State Department." He just hoped they'd hurry, even quicker. Sand kept falling, the phone was almost dead, not to mention the unreliable signal.
"You did. I also heard from Rebecca Browning over at the State Department. Are you able to speak on the status of your situation?"
The deliberately leisurely voice on the phone was undoubtedly infuriating, but he had no time to be angry now. The sand falling before him couldn't be stemmed. With life and death on the line, he had no time to pay attention to the other side. Annoyed, he uttered, "It's worse. There was an explosion or something. The coffin's breaking, there's sand pouring in from everywhere. I only have half an hour before..." His words were frantic, and he struggled to even articulate properly.
"Okay, okay. Slow down. You should try to stay calm," he rolled his eyes. He was about to die, and yet the other person wanted him to stay calm. In that moment of anger, he gritted his teeth, channeling all his fury into his hand. Surprisingly, the shirt gradually filled the gap, and that glimpse of hope spurred him on. He focused intently on the task at hand, with no time to spare for the other side. "Tell me something, Paul, who have you spoken to?"
Finally, the gap was plugged, and the sand stopped falling.
"Damn it! Does it matter right now?" Frustration surged within him, and he couldn't hold it back, uttering a profanity. Having experienced all this struggle, he also knew anger wouldn't help at this moment. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, attempting to get his mind functioning again. "Uh, the hostage takers, Dan Brenner from the hostage working group..."
"Okay, Paul. I'm with you. How about the media. I know your ransom video leaked, but have you spoken directly to anyone about what's going on?"
The other person interrupted him, getting straight to the point. He frowned slightly, wondering why the other side wanted to know this, but he still answered, "No."
"That's good." The other person seemed quite satisfied with this answer, which further furrowed his brows. His peripheral vision, however, kept getting distracted by the gap blocked by the shirt. He couldn't concentrate on thinking. He sensed something was amiss, but in this life-or-death moment, he couldn't afford to focus on trivialities. "It needs to stay that way. It's important that we keep this situation as contained as possible."
In an instant, anger broke through the grip of crisis. He fiercely struck the fragile lid with his left elbow, roaring in fury, "About three inches to my right, there's a wall. Three inches to my left, there's another wall. And about four inches above my head, there's a roof that's about to collapse and drown me in sand." Sand started falling again due to the intense vibration. "I
think this situation is pretty contained!" He exerted his last bit of strength, and the fear of death, the frustration of being buried alive, and the desire to survive erupted to the extreme. "Help me! Help me!" His pupils dilated completely, and he shouted incoherently, "What are you going to do to help me?! Huh? Ah! Ah!"
He was like a drowning man, struggling recklessly, but all his efforts dissolved into the calm surface of the water. His body began to sink slowly, and no matter how he struggled, it was in vain.
How he wished this was just a nightmare.