STS Ch-46

In the end, I didn’t have to call my childhood friends over to help me out. I hadn’t expected the entire VES department to fight for a spot on my crew, but in hindsight, of course, they wanted in.

“Noah.”

A girl stood right in front of me, her posture rigid and her eyes blazing with determination.

“I’ll be your cinematographer on this film,” she said. “That’s final.”

I blinked, caught completely off guard. I’d barely stepped into the VES classroom and hadn’t even said hello to anyone yet. The usually quiet room was filled with excited chatter today, and behind her, I could see at least a dozen faces watching me intently, their expressions hopeful and calculating all at once.

What struck me as odd was the crowd. This wasn’t just our class. The room was packed wall to wall. Students leaned against desks, sat on windowsills, and clustered near the back. Today wasn’t a regular session. Mr. Gardner had asked every budding filmmaker to show up, just to see who might be interested in joining the crew. Naturally, students from every year of VES had taken that as an open invitation.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Tessa,” I said, unable to resist a grin. “Hope you had a good weekend?”

She stared at me, unimpressed. “I did. Now will you please say yes?”

I shook my head. “I need a professional cinematographer for that role. We’ve got too much to consider. Lighting, exposure, lenses, all that stuff. I already have someone in mind.”

Her jaw tightened, but I kept going.

“You can be his assistant, or maybe a camera operator, but no promises right now. Let’s talk about it later, preferably when half the room isn’t glaring daggers into your back.”

She turned around sharply and shot a glare at the others. No one looked away, even when caught staring. The competition was real, and the claws were already out.

I pushed the tension out of my mind and made my way toward Mr. Gardner, who was standing at the front of the classroom and motioning for me to join him. As soon as I reached his side, he clapped his hands, the sharp sound cutting through the noise.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a class this crowded,” he said, scanning the room with clear amusement. “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin. If you choose to make this film, I’ll give you one concession in your coursework. Instead of submitting two short films, you can submit just one and still receive full credit. On top of that, I’ll be evaluating your work throughout the year, and if I feel you’ve performed exceptionally while making this film, I’ll give you extra credit.”

A ripple of excited whispers spread through the room at the mention of extra credit.

“I know some of you have raised concerns about whether this is a legitimate film,” Gardner continued after the noise settled. “Let me assure you that it is. I’ve spoken with the other producer, Sean S. Cunningham. He’s a film director himself and has made several movies, some of which were commercial hits. Mr. Cunningham has personally assured me of Noah’s directorial ability, since they worked together on a film all summer.”

A few heads turned toward me, their expressions shifting from curiosity to something closer to awe.

“And to further address the budget concerns,” Gardner added, adjusting his glasses, “Noah has shown me the latest bank statement of his company, which confirms that he does, in fact, have the funds to make this movie.”

What he’d conveniently omitted was the fact that he’d asked for an advance on his salary to make the movie. Even after seeing my bank statement, he’d been skeptical. So I’d written him a check for a thousand dollars. Once filming was complete, I’d pay him four thousand more, bringing his total salary for the movie to five thousand. That was the highest amount I planned to pay anyone on the project. Then again, he was the most experienced filmmaker in the room, so he more than deserved it.

Mr. Gardner stepped back slightly and looked at me, silently handing the floor over. The room grew quieter as all the eyes turned in my direction.

“Thank you for being here,” I said gratefully. “In case you don’t know me, my name is Noah Hunter, a freshman, but I have worked on two big studio films for Columbia once as an actor, and once as both: an actor and a director.

“If you choose to make this movie with me, now that your remuneration will be decided based on the role you are assigned,” I said, projecting my voice so it carried to the back of the classroom. “Those in more critical positions, like Assistant Director, will be paid more. Smaller roles will be paid accordingly. The minimum pay for anyone on the crew will be a thousand dollars, and it’ll go up to two thousand.”

A few students straightened in their seats at the mention of the money.

“You’ll receive 25% of your pay as soon as you sign the contract,” I continued. “The rest will be paid once the film is complete, or at the end of the year, whichever comes first. That part isn’t negotiable.”

Most film students were starving for an opportunity and would’ve worked for free without a second thought. Still, I felt it was important to pay them something, even if it was nominal. After a brief pause, I decided to sweeten the deal.

“As you know, this is a commercial film intended to make a profit,” I said. “If the movie is successful and I do end up earning from it, 10% of the profit will be donated to VES. Another 10% will be shared among everyone who worked on the film and stayed until the very end.”

A low murmur rippled through the room, this time warmer and more intrigued.

The bonus was meant to encourage commitment. The donation to VES had been Mr. Gardner’s idea, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I’d be using VES equipment, classrooms, and time. Giving something back felt fair.

Before I could continue, a senior student near the front raised his hand and spoke up.

“That’s all fine,” he said, his tone blunt but not hostile. “But what’s the story about? I don’t care about the money. If the script’s bad, I’m not interested.”

It was a fair question. I didn’t mind working on mediocre films as long as I was learning something, but if I were in his place, I’d be skeptical too.

“That’s exactly what I was getting to,” I said, nodding. “Before I start, just keep in mind that the script is registered with the Writers’ Guild of America and has been submitted to the U.S. Copyright Office. So don’t try to copy any part of it, unless you want to get sued.”

That got a few nervous laughs.

With the warning out of the way, I began narrating the story. The room slowly fell silent as I walked them through the premise. Faces leaned forward, notebooks forgotten. I explained the core plot device, the time loops, how they’d trap the protagonist, wear him down, and eventually force him to change. I described how each loop would push him closer to understanding himself and the choices he kept repeating.

And then, right in the middle of it, I stopped.

“That’s all you’re gonna get from me right now,” I said with a smile. “I’ll narrate the rest of the story only to those who sign an agreement to work with me.”

“Not fair, man,” a senior protested, half laughing. “I was completely invested. I wanna know how things go back to normal.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to risk leaking the story this early. That would kill the excitement. Just think about it. If you’re this invested already, imagine how the audience will feel when we turn it into a movie.”

That did the trick. The same senior stood up, stretching theatrically. “Alright then. Where do I sign?”

“Not so fast,” Mr. Gardner cut in, raising a hand. “First, anyone who doesn’t want to be part of this film, please leave the classroom.”

We waited in silence. Chairs scraped against the floor as five students from different years gathered their bags and filed out, the door swinging shut behind them.

“You need to be ready to do any job if you want to work on this film,” I said after a moment, breaking the quiet. “That includes handling lights, holding a boom mic, or setting up props and preparing scenes. Filmmaking is a collaborative effort. If you think that kind of work is beneath you, or if you only want to call the shots as a director or camera operator, you can still leave.”

I gave them time. After nearly a full minute, two senior girls exchanged a glance, stood up, and walked out without a word.

“So that leaves us with 26 of you,” I said, scanning the room. “27, if you include me. Perfect. First things first, all of you will submit an application stating which role you want.”

I started handing out forms from the front row, passing stacks down the aisles. “I’ve listed every role we’ll need for the film. Check all the ones you’re most interested in. Mr. Gardner has given me access to your past coursework. I’ll review it and decide who gets assigned where.”

“That said,” Mr. Gardner added, stepping forward, “this is still a learning opportunity. We’ll be rotating you through different roles during production so you can experience multiple aspects of filmmaking. That includes the director’s job at times, since Noah here will also be the lead actor in the film.”

I didn’t like that part, but it was one of Mr. Gardner’s non-negotiable conditions for backing the project. Letting students focus on a single role would’ve improved efficiency over time. Rotating responsibilities meant longer shoots and more room for mistakes. Still, I agreed, with one condition. Anyone who proved incompetent wouldn’t be allowed to repeat the same role again.

Let’s just hope the production won’t be as chaotic as I’m already expecting it to be.

(Break)

“Next!”

My classmate Oliver, who also happened to be acting as the casting director today, called in the next person for the audition. The door opened, and in walked my roommate, Ron.

“Ron,” I said, grinning. “Good to see you here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I thought you’d do your best pal a little favor and just give me the role directly.”

I shook my head. “I believe in meritocracy. No nepotism. Sorry.”

“So, shall we begin?” Oliver cut in before the banter could spiral any further. “We are on a schedule here.”

One of the things I admired about Oliver was that he never lorded his wealth over anyone, and despite not landing a major role on the crew, he took the job without complaint and was very diligent with his work. That couldn’t be said for everyone. Once the roles were announced, three more people dropped out of the production, leaving us with just twenty-three students who actually signed their contracts.

It was still a decent-sized crew for a low-budget film, so I was satisfied. Even then, I had to bring in five external crew members. Some jobs simply couldn’t be trusted to inexperienced students if I wanted the final product to have any real quality.

“Yes, let’s,” I said, nodding at Ron. “Show us what you’ve got, roomie. Just remember, contemporary monologue. No Shakespeare.”

Ron bounced lightly on his feet, loosening up his shoulders, then planted himself in the center of the room. He cleared his throat, his posture shifting as he settled into character.

He glared at me, his jaw tight, as if holding back something volatile. “All I need is just one vote, right?”

I blinked, unsure what he was getting at, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself before crossing the room and crouching down in front of Oliver. “What do you say, buddy? Wanna watch the World Series? Come on, pal. It’s gonna be a big moment for you. You wanna watch baseball?”

It clicked a second later.

He was doing One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Jack Nicholson’s scene.

I almost winced at the audacity of it. Even I wouldn’t dare touch that monologue lightly, and Ron was going all in. Bold didn’t even begin to cover it.

When Oliver stayed silent, Ron shifted his focus to Tess, repeating the plea with a slightly different rhythm. Then he turned to an older upperclassman near the wall. Each time he was ignored, his desperation deepened. His voice cracked just enough. His movements became sharper, more frantic.

“For Christ’s sake, isn’t there one of you fucking maniacs that knows what I’m talking about!” he shouted, the words tearing out of him at the end.

The room froze.

His face was flushed, eyes blazing with frustration and heartbreak. No, it wasn’t at Jack Nicholson’s level. Noone ever could be. But it was leagues better than anything I’d seen all day, and that was saying something, considering the drama department auditions had already wrapped up earlier.

I didn’t even need to see him read the actual lines.

“Hire him,” Oliver whispered near my ear. “He’s good.”

I nodded once, then turned back to Ron. “Alright, Ron. You can stop.”

He exhaled, still half in character.

“That was a great job,” I said. “I can’t offer you a role on the spot since there are still people waiting outside. But I promise you this. You’ll have a part in the movie. That was very, very good.”

His face lit up instantly. “Thank you, Noah.”

He shot me a grin, gave Oliver a quick nod, and walked out of the room with a confidence he definitely hadn’t walked in with.

Once Ron was gone, Tess nudged me lightly with her elbow and said in a teasing tone, “By the way, did you audition yourself? Because we don’t actually know how good you are as an actor.”

I shook my head, suddenly feeling the weight of the day. “If you want to see my acting prowess, you’ll have to wait for the movie. For now, let’s call in the next actor.”

And just like that, the auditions rolled on.

The part I was already regretting was casting older actors. Extras and student roles were easy enough. Harvard alone gave us an endless pool of students, and if we needed more, MIT and BU were close by and just as packed. But the older characters were a different problem altogether. For those, I’d need to organize another audition off campus in a few days. The ads were already out, and I’d booked a venue to move that part of the process forward.

There was only one role I wasn’t willing to cast openly.

The protagonist’s father.

That’s because I had someone in mind for that role.

(Break)

“What are you doing here, kid?”

Al Pacino stared at me from the doorway, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Didn’t you tell me you were going to Harvard?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “I came back just for today. Had a couple of errands to run, and I figured I’d stop by.”

“That’s when you thought of me?” he asked, clearly confused. “Well, come on in and tell me what you need.”

I stepped inside, my stomach tight. If he said no, this trip would’ve been a complete waste. I didn’t actually have any errands. Sure, I’d see my dad since I was in town, but the real reason for being here was standing right in front of me. I just wasn’t about to admit that.

“I want you to play a cameo in my movie,” I said the moment we sat down. “You’re my favorite actor of all time, and I’d love for you to play my father. It’s a small role. We’ll shoot all your scenes right here in New York during winter break, so you won’t have to come to Boston. It’ll take a day or two at most.”

He sighed and gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, kid. I can’t just do any random student film. It wouldn’t be good for my image. My manager would kill me if I agreed to something like this on a whim.”

I wasn’t ready to give up. Not even close.

“Here,” I said, sliding the script toward him. “At least read the parts I’ve highlighted. I’m damn sure you’ll love them. If you don’t, I won’t bother you again. I promise.”

He hesitated, staring at the pages for a few seconds before finally picking them up. “Alright. I’ll give it a read.”

“Great,” I said quickly, standing up. “Like I said, I’ve got a few errands to run. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, and then we can talk more.”

“But—”

I was already heading out the door.

If I’d stayed, he would’ve found a polite excuse to put it off. I needed him to commit to the script before doubt set in. That was why I didn’t give him the time to think it through.

Let’s just hope this doesn’t blow up in my face.