www.flickr.com
|
"My Day In The Barrel" made its world premiere at Wichita's historic Orpheum Theatre on May 22, 1998. Over 550 people saw the Wichita-made film, filling the floor seats at the famous theatre. Most of the cast and crew were present for the premiere, and the champagne reception following. The following weekend, nearly 400 more people saw the film,bringing the grand total from the three nights to 939 tickets sold.
SOME
THOUGHTS ON
by Jason Bailey (writer, co-producer, co-director, co-editor)
There are some moments you
have a vague recollection of, a general idea, a basic memory of, and you
recall them with a fair degree of accuracy, paraphrasing the conversations
and getting the central point across. And there are some moments that,
no matter how far into the rearview mirror they get, you recall with crystal
clear exactitude, as if they occurred ten minutes ago. This is one of
those moments.
“I
think it will be interesting, Jason, when you start making movies about
people instead of action.” That’s a direct quote, frozen into
my mind. We were in a classroom at Wichita State University, immediately
following one of my theatre classes, and I had just shown a few of my
fellow students the trailer to my newest movie, a cat-and-mouse “thriller”
called Bad Chemistry. As I pressed “stop” and enjoyed
the kudos of my colleagues (“Looks cool, dude”) I caught the
eye of my professor, who smiled condescendingly and uttered the words
that have haunted me since that day.
“I think it will be interesting,
Jason, when you start making movies about people instead of action.”
Shit. They were on to me.
What my esteemed educator could
not have known was that I was thinking the same thing myself. A year earlier
(this would be spring of 1996), my Uncle Dave had told me an old, dirty
joke about a sailor’s early days at sea. The punchline, as anyone
who’s seen the resulting film (or heard the joke) can tell you, was
“That’s your day in the barrel.” Dave and I agreed that
this would be a great cold opening to a movie, and that My Day In The
Barrel was a pretty good title. A couple of days later, I started
writing that very script. I typed out the title, transcribed the joke,
and stopped. Nothing. I stared at the screen for approximately two minutes
and gave up (perseverance has never been my strong suit). “I’m
not ready to write that yet”, I decided, and went back to work on
whatever Tarintinoesque, revenge-minded gangsters, killer lawyers, spurned
stalkers, pierced lesbian detectives script I felt was more in my range
at the time.
Now, a year later, the gauntlet
had been thrown down. Yeah, it was about time I stopped fucking around
and started writing scripts that were maybe a tad more truthful and personal.
Maybe, just maybe, I should think about writing something the reflected
what I’d seen in life, instead of what I’d seen in other movies.
The script that came out in
the following month was blatantly autobiographical. For the last six months,
I’d been living in a big, drafty, old four-bedroom house near campus
(translation: in da ‘hood) with three roommates: Robert, who was
high or drunk a good portion of the time and got an astounding amount
of stink considering the fact that he apparently never left the couch;
Damian, my best and oldest friend, who in the previous months had quietly
crept out of the closet to everyone, it seemed, but me; and Tim, another
old high school buddy, whose quick wit and knack for arcane knowledge
hid an easily bruiseable heart. These three friends, slightly fictionalized,
became the roommates of my main character, a highly idealized version
of myself. “Nick” was a comedic exaggeration of Robert, yes,
but not by that much. I swear to God, every time I walked in the house
he was on that couch, and often with some young hottie in a compromising
position (as Ray tells the audience, “He’s got a bedroom, you
know.”). Ray’s realization of “Dave”’s secret
happened much more gradually for Damian and I, but the character’s
good heart and common sense (and study habits) were very much Damian’s
(and, obviously, he brought a lot of that to the role when he played it
himself). Tim didn’t have the annoying break-up troubles that “Will”
did (that, honestly, was more of me), but he did influence the character’s
speech patterns and prediliction for trivia. .
Once the script was done
and had been through a draft or two with suggestions from Lonny, the plan
was simple: 1) adapt the screenplay into a stage play; 2) enter it in
the WSU Playwriting Competition, which it would win handily since they
were on a two of the last three winners had sucked out loud; 3) cast and
direct it for the stage; and 4) using those performances as a combination
“test screening” (adjusting the screenplay based on audience
response) and fundraiser (to interest potential investors, who’d
of course whip out their checkbooks following the performance) and film
it shortly thereafter, on 16mm film, using the play’s cast and eliminating
rehearsals. Easy as pie. Then the play didn’t win. Instead, the WSU
judges chose “Clean Break” (the third medical play to win in
four years), a choice that still prompts head-scratching from those who
saw that production and saw our film.
I shrugged it off. By then,
I’d written a new screenplay—another romantic comedy/drama,
titled Playing Favorites, which Lonny and I quickly appraised as
being “just as good as Barrel” and much more cinematic.
We decided to cast Playing Favorites instead, make a teaser trailer
and fundraising package for it, and raise the funds to shoot it on 16mm
come January. In the meantime, as more of an afterthought that anything
else, I asked to direct a production of the other script (whose title
I had shortened to simply The Barrel for the stage, for reasons
that now elude me) for the next season of WSU’s Readers Theatre,
a series of staged readings of new and experimental scripts.
We cast Playing Favorites
in June of 1997, shot the trailer that summer, showed it around some (but
not much), and were surprised when nothing happened. In October, rehearsals
for The Barrel’s staged reading began, featuring some new
faces (notably some bartender from Kirby’s who saw a flyer and wandered
in) and one old friend.
Mike Hull and I had gone to
high school together, acting on the North High stage on numerous occasions.
I’d offer him a role in my first film, Payback, which he turned
down flat (he may have even laughed in my face, if memory serves). Shortly
thereafter he disappeared to St. Louis for a couple of years, but had
seen some of the other flicks and liked what he saw. I encouraged him
to come try out for Ray. From the moment he read it, there was no other
choice.
Casting and rehearsing Barrel
got me excited about it again. When Lonny and I met to discuss what to
do about Playing Favorites, we decided to drop it and go back to
Plan A, inviting some potential investors to the staged reading and seeing
what we could do. If we could get some money together, we’d shift
over some of the Favorites cast (some of which had already dropped
out or been fired anyway) and mix the groups up. We also figured, as we
had originally, that the (basically) single setting of the script could
make for a fast (and thus, cheap) shoot.
The staged readings were a
rousing success, much to our surprise (realize, this was the first time
I’d written anything remotely personal or particularly comic, so
I was basically terrified). Amongst the audience was my dad, who had always
been supportive but saw here, for the first time, something that he thought
could be commercial. He vowed to put the money together, and did (taking
out a second mortgage and hitting up family friends). In the meantime,
Lonny and I put the casts together. Keeping Mike and Carrie Cadman (Reese)
were no-brainers. Mac Welch (who had appeared in Payback and then
gone away to be a daddy), Amity Hoffman, Danzel Muzingo, and Chala Savino
had all been cast in Playing Favorites, and were slid into similar-sized
roles in My Day In The Barrel (I had restored the full title by then).
Damian loved the play, so I asked him if he’d be comfortable playing
Dave in the film; he agreed. I offered Will to an actor who’d been
cast in Playing Favorites, but he had to leave town and declined,
so I was able to offer the role to the bartender who’d played it
in the reading, and who had slowly warmed up to us; that was Jason Crile.
In rewriting the script, one
thing was apparent: the ending didn’t work at all. The version we
performed ended with a poker game between the four roomies; it was a pretty
dead ending from a staging standpoint, and the laughs basically dried
up. It needed a shot in the arm. I was venting this frustration to Mac
one afternoon. He thought for a moment (trying, I realize now, to find
the way that we get him more screen time). “What if,” he asked,
“people just started showing up for a party, like Nick was throwing
a party and didn’t bother to tell anyone?” My jaw hit the floor.
“How did you know about that?” I demanded. He told me that an
old roommate of his had pulled that move on him once. What he didn’t
know was that Robert, whom Nick was based on, had done that very thing
to us. More than once. The ending was set, and I was able to write in
a more cinematic conclusion (and some more roles).
By the time rehearsals started,
the make-up of the house had changed: Robert disappeared, leaving a couple
hundred dollars of unpaid bills in his wake (last I heard he was in Vegas,
but who knows), and Tim moved back home. Lonny had taken over Tim’s
room, and thus pre-production and shooting were basically confined to
the house that had inspired the script. Our friend Leif Jonker (who directed
to local cult hit Darkness a few years earlier) pitched in suggestions
for the production, such as places to buy film and the name of a good
DP (Mike King) who could work fast and cheap. He ended up being an incredible
help during the shoot itself as well.
We did one night of shooting
at the beginning of rehearsals, shooting the two flashback sequences on
video (which we dropped to black and white later). Lonny was present at
most rehearsals, shooting scenes and trying out angles, which we then
used to create digital photo storyboards to send to Mr. King in LA. From
the git-go, it was all about doing whatever we could to save time during
the quick shoot, when the meter was running. As a result, we prepped this
movie like crazy.
We shot the film in four days.
We did most of the locations outside of the Holyoke house on the first
day (a Saturday in January, if memory serves)—the rest stop flashback
scene (not in the play), and the other halves of phone calls. That night
we stepped lightly into the house stuff, shooting in Will’s room
(I think we shot his scene with Amity; I know we definitely shot his over-the-phone
breakdown, which Crile nailed on the first take, to crew applause). The
next three days were spent shooting in the house; Lonny watched and helped
behind the camera, while I watched the video tap in the dining room (where
sound designer Denzel Lane ran the DAT and assistant director Chantel
Nichols logged the shots) and popped in between scenes and takes to work
with the actors. For the most part, they didn’t need any help. They
had been rehearsed so exhaustively that they knew their lines and their
characters backwards, forwards, and sideways.
Everyone knew how expensive
the movie was (for us, anyway) and worked their asses off accordingly.
Questions were asked in rehearsals. Egos were checked at the door. We
ate together in the basement during the shooting days (lots of pizza,
donuts, and fried chicken; I still fondly remember Lonny making pancakes
for everybody on the final morning). When we wrapped (usually anytime
from 11pm to 2am), we watched TV and movies together (Living in Oblivion
was a favorite near the end of the shoot; early on, lots of South Park).
After that, we’d crawl off to bed; we’d picked up extra beds
and sleeping bags over the last couple of months, and the cast and crew
slept in the house. It was intensive, creative, and exhausting. It was,
far and away, the best time I’ve ever had making a movie, and one
of the best times of my life, period.
The final night of shooting
was spent on the party sequence that closed the film. When we called the
magic words (“That’s a wrap!”), we tapped the keg and partied
for real. That was a great night.
After the film was developed and transferred to video, Lonny did the bulk of the editing—I helped as I could, but really the most I could do was log and capture footage. Our friend Gooding composed a beautiful score, the always brilliant Navarro Parker put a great poster together from Uncle Dave’s group poster, and we actually had money to buy some TV spots (during Loveline, Conan, and again, South Park—this was when it was really hot). Dad arranged a fancy-schmancy premiere at the historic Orpheum Theatre, and we got ready for the big night. He’d gone all out—limos brought us to the door (albeit from a parking lot two blocks away—come on, we weren’t millionaires here), there was a champagne reception after, and the turnout blew us away. I don’t mind telling you, there was nothing like watching your movie on the screen of that beautiful theatre with over 500 people laughing and applauding it.
My Day In The Barrel was the turning of a corner for me, as a writer
and director. It marked my first foray into the kind of film that I really
was comfortable in, and it marked my first collaboration with three actors—Mike,
Crile, and Mac (I’m not counting Payback, and if you’d
seen it, you wouldn’t either)—who in the following years became
not only regulars in front of the camera, but behind it as well.
I watched it recently, and you know what? It kinda holds up. I’ve taken flack over the years for it’s basic visual strategy, but I’d like to see what kinda Matrix-style shit those bastards would come up with in a four day shoot. Personally, I think it gets a little too serious in it’s second act—I wish I’d have mixed comedy and drama a little more successfully. Aside from that, it works. The performances are strong across the board, the characters are real and believable, and there’s some big laughs and real emotion in it’s 86 minutes.
Of course, I’m probably a little biased.