What is it with old men?
They seem to think that they know everything, even when it is excruciatingly obvious that they don’t.
They seem to have no idea about time management, as in…
We have an hour to finish three shots.
Up till now a ‘shot’ has taken us an ‘hour plus’ to finish,
but the old guy want’s to shoot just one more shot,
cause he’s not happy with one of his pieces.
He seems to have some sort of ‘time distortion’ thang going on where his minutes are five times longer then everyone else’s.
I think that my problem is that I keep forgetting that he is the centre of the universe.
At one point he had hoisted up a studio lamp, and was waving it through the air, cause a shadow was irritating him. The tutor had to keep repeating ‘you can’t hold a light above your head while we shoot a scene.’
Most old men seem to be like this.
I’m embarrassed to say, that at one point, the old guy (don’t feel sorry for the ‘old man’ - he is defiantly cashed up, works in construction, and spends big chunks of his time on adventure holidays around the world - This guy can look after himself) was behind a sheet of sound proof glass, and we all started bitching. Just like when your dad is over by the BBQ, dousing it in petrol, and everyone else in the family is grouped around the picnic table, complaining about the aftertaste gasoline gives the sausages.
Does this mean that guys like Sean and I suddenly become cantankerous old bastards when the snow is a little thick on the roof?
Sometimes I reckon I’m already turning.
Like this is the form that male menopause takes (or something?)
Will it be like Alzheimer’s and I won’t care that everyone around me thinks that I’m an arse?
It doesn’t help that I’ve started wondering what the heck happened to pop music, and that the TV seems to be filled with crap, and the dawning realisation that having a twenty one year old lover is an acceptable thing.
(I think that shagging a younger woman will defiantly arrest the slide into ‘single minded old bustard!’)
Anyhoo, we actually got the six shots that we needed on tape.
We were all happy at the end of the day…
despite finding that the camera had been set for sunlight for most of the indoor shoot.
That the headphones only sometimes worked so we’re pretty sure that we got audio.
That we had really dodgy ‘continuity’ (we all swapped jobs for each shot which didn’t help) so objects probably will appear and disappear from shot to shot.
Trainspotters will love our piece. ‘Can anyone spot something that didn’t move from shot to shot, other then the wall?’
As is always the case with such things, we were gelling as a team, just as the shooting was drawing to a close, and that special ‘sumptin sumptin’ that forms in the atmosphere around a group of people shooting a film (or putting on a play) was beginning to coalesce.
Tomorrow is ‘editing.’
Hooray for ‘let’s fix it in Post!’ which became our battle cry around two this afternoon.
They seem to think that they know everything, even when it is excruciatingly obvious that they don’t.
They seem to have no idea about time management, as in…
We have an hour to finish three shots.
Up till now a ‘shot’ has taken us an ‘hour plus’ to finish,
but the old guy want’s to shoot just one more shot,
cause he’s not happy with one of his pieces.
He seems to have some sort of ‘time distortion’ thang going on where his minutes are five times longer then everyone else’s.
I think that my problem is that I keep forgetting that he is the centre of the universe.
At one point he had hoisted up a studio lamp, and was waving it through the air, cause a shadow was irritating him. The tutor had to keep repeating ‘you can’t hold a light above your head while we shoot a scene.’
Most old men seem to be like this.
I’m embarrassed to say, that at one point, the old guy (don’t feel sorry for the ‘old man’ - he is defiantly cashed up, works in construction, and spends big chunks of his time on adventure holidays around the world - This guy can look after himself) was behind a sheet of sound proof glass, and we all started bitching. Just like when your dad is over by the BBQ, dousing it in petrol, and everyone else in the family is grouped around the picnic table, complaining about the aftertaste gasoline gives the sausages.
Does this mean that guys like Sean and I suddenly become cantankerous old bastards when the snow is a little thick on the roof?
Sometimes I reckon I’m already turning.
Like this is the form that male menopause takes (or something?)
Will it be like Alzheimer’s and I won’t care that everyone around me thinks that I’m an arse?
It doesn’t help that I’ve started wondering what the heck happened to pop music, and that the TV seems to be filled with crap, and the dawning realisation that having a twenty one year old lover is an acceptable thing.
(I think that shagging a younger woman will defiantly arrest the slide into ‘single minded old bustard!’)
Anyhoo, we actually got the six shots that we needed on tape.
We were all happy at the end of the day…
despite finding that the camera had been set for sunlight for most of the indoor shoot.
That the headphones only sometimes worked so we’re pretty sure that we got audio.
That we had really dodgy ‘continuity’ (we all swapped jobs for each shot which didn’t help) so objects probably will appear and disappear from shot to shot.
Trainspotters will love our piece. ‘Can anyone spot something that didn’t move from shot to shot, other then the wall?’
As is always the case with such things, we were gelling as a team, just as the shooting was drawing to a close, and that special ‘sumptin sumptin’ that forms in the atmosphere around a group of people shooting a film (or putting on a play) was beginning to coalesce.
Tomorrow is ‘editing.’
Hooray for ‘let’s fix it in Post!’ which became our battle cry around two this afternoon.
She wears a suit to work, and the trend these days is for pants to hang from the hips.
The hazard in this is that when she sits down, a decent wedge of cleavage is exposed.
One time she was at a corporate lunch and she nabbed a colleague, who was leaning back in his chair, and targeting her gap with peanuts.
She got home that night and found that he had been a lot more successful then she had realised, when she pulled off her slacks and a shower of nuts bounced across the floor.