Kaua'i, Hawaii. August 2007.
I loved practical effects. CG has its place in movie making for sure, but I dreaded the day when tasteful enhancements were subsumed by the viral infection that computer graphics would inevitably become. Planting their invading flag on the rich soil of artistry to turn it into an artificial concrete monument celebrating the destruction of soul and authenticity.
It wasn't even like CGI was any cheaper than practical effects, either. Even as my platoon and I hopped off a fake but functioning helicopter with out-of-frame fans blowing strong winds down on us as we ducked our heads and battened down our equipment from the spinning propellers. All of this was still cheaper than getting a company to make the fake helicopter for us on computers.
For the most part, this entire movie was a practical effect festival, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.
Could Ben Stiller have filmed this entire thing inside a nice air-conditioned studio warehouse? Of course! But having us actors legitimately sweat it out under the beaming tropical sun looked more real than having a talented makeup artist spritz us with Evian mist for the same practical effect.
Davy Jones and Voldemort? CGI. Robert Downey Jr. with pigmentation surgery? Practical effects. Wasn't that a better use of a makeup artist than anything else?
I knew I was with my sort of people when instead of campaigning for a body double or clever camera angles, Jack Black gave Steve Coogan the go-ahead to play front-hand back-hand with his chubby cheeks. Those nice, tight slaps were another great example of practical effects. Time and effort saved for the sound guys, I reckon.
But the summit of a war movie's practical effects always peaked with the quality of its ballistic explosions.
[Steve Coogan as director Damien Cockburn gave us diva actors the rundown on how this disaster of a movie was now going to be filmed. "We have rigged this entire valley of Death with hidden cameras and I will be shooting from unseen vantage points so that every glorious moment is captured on film." And those cameras were also being captured. "If it looks real, chances are it probably is." See what I mean about practical effects?
The actual movie camera, not the prop one, followed Cockburn as he got in each of our faces one by one throughout the course of his monologue. As he pulled back, so did the camera until we were all in a wide shot waist deep in tropical foliage.
"The chopper is God and I am Jesus Christ, his son. You are my chosen disciples, and no one gets to go home until we get the shots. Now let's go and make the greatest war movie ever!"
Steve hit his mark and glanced down. "Oh!"]
"Cut! Freeze."
We did our best to maintain our position and blocking to carry forward the continuity in the shot. It wouldn't be perfect, but the editing would fix anything that wasn't.
A dummy double strapped with real explosives swiftly replaced Coogan.
This is the point where CGI would come in later to make and meld the scene to make it look real.
"Action!"
[Kaboom!
The sudden bang popped my ears, making me jump in my shoes a bit.
Visible to us but completely out of frame were production assistants standing on scaffolding littering Damian's dismembered body parts around us.
Sniffing exploded gunpowder wasn't the same as trying to do some 'smell the fart' acting, but I knew I looked appropriately uncertain, while Jack Black as Fats persisted with his wooh-ing.]
Instead of the assistant director, it was Ben who called cut this time.
Being the writer, producer, director, and one of the lead actors in the movie, it was very much his prerogative to go review the footage.
"No, let's run that back." I won't lie. This is already our third day filming the same scene, and the sun wasn't getting any cooler. The likelihood of me being the only one smacking my lips for a quick drink of cool water was lower than the divot the bomb dug in the dirt. But no one was prepared to gainsay the man because he was still in full wardrobe, guns included - and I didn't just mean the firearm.
["Not bad Cockburn. Not bad… wherever you are." Simple Speedman tried speaking to a ghost.
"Wherever he is? Looks like he's all over the place." In contrast to his life decisions, Osiris remained level-headed.
"No offense Kirk, I know you're the big fancy actor here, but I've done a lot more effects driven movies than you." The way Stiller as Speedman condescended; and the way Downey as Osiris shifted his body language, you'd think these two burly men in the jungle suddenly transformed into two bitchy girls from the valley. "I think I can spot a prop head when I see one." Speedman bent down and came back up with a fistful of one of the most grotesque fake heads I'd ever seen.
Cue disgusted moaning, gagging, and coughing from the rest of us.
"It's corn syrup, guys." Gordon Ramsay stuck his finger in and had himself a taste. "Warm… blood flavoured corn syrup." He continued parading the prop around, chunks and bits spilling out, as the rest of us struggled to hold our own guts inside. "Look at me! I'm David Beckham!"
The head was meant to fly over the group, but Speedman missed the goal by a good margin. Despite Alpa Gambino's perfectly timed squeal, the prop didn't clear the distance it needed to.
My reflexes took over, and I caught the disconcertingly firm face in my arms before it could bury itself into my chest.
If a head can roll with a kick, I shall endeavour to roll with the punches. "No! I promised myself no more hazing. I may have done it that one time with the pig, but I refuse to stick my twig and berries in another severed head!" Future prime minister of the UK, David Cameron would need to take a good hard look at himself in the black mirror one of these days.
"What the hell kind of school did you go to?" Some secret society hazings in the UK would disgust even the worst US frats.]
"I hope you're not as quick with the ladies as you are on your feet there, sport." I'd gotten so used to that Kentucky fried accent of his, that hearing Downey talk in his proper voice felt more alien than the extra terrestrials Iron Man would be brawling with in the future.
"No complaints in that department. I'm quite used to getting…" I wiggled the world's worst fleshlight. "Ahead."
"I remember being seventeen. Word to the wise?"
"Normally I'd say no because there aren't exactly many people living better than I am… but in terms of life lived, you've got me beat." My pre-Bas era included. I've yet to go to prison on drugs and weapons charges.
"Don't eat yellow snow and don't sniff the white snow either." Sound advice, probably brought on by the specific brand of jelly beans Jack Black's character likes to ingest.
Neither did I consider it unsolicited. He'd been a child star, grown up in the industry, and made near every mistake in the celebrity brat book. This wasn't the RDJ the world salivated over. The marvel cinematic universe wasn't slated to take off until next year. Downey hadn't had his career uppie yet.
Unlike a cow's opinion, it would behoove me to listen up. "Forget the hit to your career. What's worse is spending even a second in prison. You're still a minor, but I doubt juvie's any better."
"No worries there, mate. As scary as jail sounds, I'm far more worried about what my people would do to me." I doubt I'd even make it to the police station before more than one set of jaws sunk into me. "I've got better games to play than the winter olympics."
"This is only like the third conversation we've ever had, and I literally feel like I'm playing ping-pong with myself."
"As long as you keep your paddle on your side of the net."
"Feels like forever since I've had a playmate. Listen, what do you think about using that razor sharp wit of yours in character with me?"
That… doesn't sound like the best idea. "Won't the production get cross?" Scripts were there for a reason, weren't they? Once you're off the sauce, apparently you tend to seek thrills elsewhere.
"I've worked with Stiller before. He likes his movie to be the way it's in his head. But he'll compromise on character work if it fits the scene better." Ah, like Alfonso Cuaron. "Like we did the scene just now; your line wasn't in the script, but I'll bet my entire salary that that cut's hitting the final print."
"Why, though?"
"Why not? We can. Trust me, kid. Movies like this don't come around every day. Most of the time, contracts and production'll tie you down so tight that you'll need a permission slip just to pick your nose. I get that it's our job and everything, but that's no excuse for why we can't have fun." His hand stopped halfway between our bodies. "Fooling around here means you're less likely to make worse mistakes out there. I know better than anyone where that leads."
Evidently, RDJ wasn't one to just pay lip service. I felt humbled for two reasons: first, that someone saw me as a vulnerable young man and offered subtle guidance. Second, I'd have to really analyze the vibe I was giving off because it seemed everyone around me pinged on their radar that I was magnetized for trouble.
I clasped his arm in the handshake of men. How could I say no? "Table tennis time it is."
[Speedman and Osiris were having a complex conversation about Simple Jack. Speedman's fictional Forrest Gump rip-off. "In a weird way, I had to sort of just free myself up to believe that it was okay to be stupid or dumb."
"To be a moron, to be moronical."
"Yeah."
"Like the dumbest motherfucker that ever lived."
"When I was playing the character. As Jack." Speedman felt the need to clarify.
"When you was playing the character. Stupid ass jack. You was farting in bathtubs and laughing your ass off. Hats off for going there, especially knowing how the Academy is about that shit."
"About what?"
"You're serious? You don't know? Everybody knows! Yo, Babaralius!" RDJ made the impromptu decision to serve me with a volley. The way Stiller's eyes swam in his head, he was as unprepared as I was. But he kept the show going.
"It's Barnaby Cunnigham."
"Yeah? Whatever. Tell me something, at that fancy drama school of yours, what was rule number one that they taught you?"
The line he wanted me to say was obvious. "... Never go full retard?"
"See? Even Basil Faulty know. You went full retard, man. Never go full retard."]
The rally couldn't keep going if he was the only one swinging.
["Yo, man, I got a bust-a-nut." Alpa offered his branded energy bar.
"You go to hell!" To Fats, who'd bust a gasket when a bat stole his cocaine.
And before I bust a bladder, I walked to my marker and pretended to whip it out. Osiris came acting fishy and didn't allow me privacy for too long.
"Branzino. Hold up man, keep it on the down low. I ain't really gotta piss. I'm tryna talk at you, man. They teach you how to read a map at your old school-house?"
"Cartography was a necessary skill I had to learn as part of my extracurricular sailing. I used to capsize rather frequently…"
"You think this a game, man? You wanna step on landmine? Get shot by a real man? You wanna die?"
"No. Mummy would be furious if that happened."
"I'm tryna get home, man. If I put that map in your hands, can I count on you, Barbara?"
"Barnaby-!"
"Dynamite." I glanced down at Osiris as he pretended to shake himself off. "What the fuck is you doin'? You ain't s'pose to look directly at another man's one-eyed-monster."
"Apologies. I was, er… curious." Osiris' eyes and jaw widened in disbelief as I put him under the proverbial microscope. "Your racial reassignment surgery didn't quite come with the full package, did it?"
"You lucky my gun's fake."
I guess that meant point to me this rally.]
"Am I going to have to put you two in separate corners? Because I will!"
It was hard to take my director refereeing seriously when he had a can of Booty Sweat waving around as he scolded us. But, hey, detention with a friend was always better than detention alone.