Friday, 4 May 2012

Making films

A month ago I worked at a film as a costume designer. Last night I saw that I was at the director's house because we had a meeting there.
We were in a small, warm room with less than enough space for everyone to sit, so most of us were standing. I was chatting with the actors and the producer when I understood we would have to re-take a scene and I had not been told anything until the very last moment. I felt increasing stress and anger because nobody had respected me as a colleague enough so as to let me know in time what we were to do. I also had re-distributed the clothes and they were no longer available. I approached the director to inform him. He was also stressed and angry. We had a small dispute and then we went downstairs. Suddenly a great amount of water started falling from the ceiling but nobody gave a fuck. Then a maid came over and started mopping. We assumed that the damage had started at the small WC at the top floor. Then the floor started corroding and the staircase collapsed. Somehow everyone else had managed to get upstairs, leaving me alone at the ground floor with no obvious means to reach them. They told me to get the lift. I walked there and as I was about to get in I was stopped by a lovely older couple, who I assumed to be the director's parents. The woman was short and chubby but with a bright, friendly smile and the man was taller- I remember looking at his clothes and not at his face- and rather gentle, as I could gather from the way he spoke. We all got into the elevator and started going up. They told me that the lift was also broken and that it only took people to the first floor. They wanted to go to the third floor and therefor they would have to walk to the other end of the house to take another one. I thought that this was absurd.

That's about it. 

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