ACT THREE
We see the street in front of the Sunset District house. IAN is carrying a container of gasoline. It's 7 p.m. Sunday, and the day that began with chaos at the train station has just ended with the final scene of the scripted movie. Not everything has gone well, however: The car they were filming in ran out of gas, and IAN and PETE have just returned from the corner station. Both of them sport stubble and dark bags under their eyes. PETE, however, has felt no ill effects from his run-in with the taxi last weekend: "I don't know why, but I feel good. Whatever happened, my head has definitely cleared."
James Sanders
48-Hour Brain Trust: Producer Ian
Takahashi, director Crystal Miller,
and director of photography Matthias
Koenigswieser (seated).
James Sanders
A cameraman films as Pookie
sleepwalks through traffic.
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We learn that last night, MARIO rewrote 2 1/2 pages of the script, figuring out ways to flesh out parts of the story that badly needed it. MARIO is finally leaving, his eyes bloodshot and a backpack slung over his shoulder as he waves goodbye to IAN. The footage is in the hands of the editors now. After a hectic but productive day of shooting, thanks largely to Mario's heroic efforts on the script, there's an open debate on set about whether the scripted movie or the documentary is stronger. Which one should they go with? CUT TO:
CRYSTAL, one hand on each of the editors' chairs, her eyes flicking back and forth between two computer screens. Her brows scrunch as she studies the documentary footage on one monitor and a rough cut of the dramatic movie on the other. It's the wee hours of Monday morning. Soon the postproduction people must begin burning DVDs. IAN sits on the couch, face puffy and lips cracked. It's decision time: Should they submit the drama or the documentary? The key crew members have weighed in with their preferences. CRYSTAL, her throat raw and her diminutive frame sagging, makes a final case for each option, reiterating the stance she's articulated several times this evening.
CRYSTAL: Half of me just feels that Plan B is a cop-out. The judges are going to think, "These people couldn't get the story done, so they did this," and I don't know that there's any way of seeing that differently. But I also know that something like Plan B has not been done in this competition before, and the sleepwalker story still has problems. Are you going to bet on the long shot and win it all or bet on the safe thing and not take a risk? It's an all-or-nothing kind of thing.
IAN nods. It's up to him. And he's thinking -- or tryingto think -- on 90 minutes of sleep in the past two days. The room is quiet, except for the hum of computers. Then he speaks.
IAN, letting out a long sigh: You know what? I like the documentary better. It captures the raw emotion. The structure's better. It tells a good story. That's what we're going with. CUT TO:
The inside of a van, sunlight streaming through the windows, the streets of San Francisco roaring past. IAN checks his watch: It's 11:45 a.m. He reaches into his pocket for the envelope of cash. There's $24 left. "On time and under budget," he jokes. Maybe they really will get jobs in Hollywood.
We see IAN handing over the DVD to his professor, relief spreading over IAN's face. They will find out in January which school wins the contest. We see IAN and PETE return equipment throughout San Francisco. We see them cleaning up the house, moving the furniture back into position, tossing out huge bags of garbage. We see IAN, as the sun sets, driving all the way to Stockton, returning his girlfriend's van. He looks beyond exhausted, his eyelids slowly descending as he crosses the bridge back into San Francisco at the end of the night. CUT TO:
A sushi restaurant in downtown San Francisco. Afternoon, a few days later. IAN has slept, and the weekend's adrenaline has finally begun to ebb. As he picks over some tempura chicken, he talks about the unlikely lessons he took away from the project.
IAN: I probably wouldn't do this ever again, but I wouldn't trade the experience we had for anything else. It pushed all of us close to the edge. If the story had worked out perfectly, we wouldn't have learned as much -- about ourselves, about everybody, about the whole process of filming. We could have made a nice little short, and that's what it would have been -- a nice little short. At least now we have something that really pushes the boundary, something that's different from everything else. We have a real story.
FADE TO BLACK
