How Melissa Wee Made a Movie Titled A Conversation Between Two Miserable People in Dr. Tourin’s Waiting Room

            by Melissa Wee

 

The Screening

            “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine! Everyone’s going to love it.”

            Despite my friends’ assurances, my legs, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. What if no one gets it? Surrounded by the wide expanse of seats and the tall, ornate walls of the Grand Lake Theatre, I felt exposed and sank lower into my chair. Soon my film would be stretched from wall to wall, exposed to the judging eyes of the audience. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Calm down, it’ll be fine. Breathe in. Breathe out. 

            And then, my film was next and my legs, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Calm down, deep breaths, okay, it’ll be fine. Then I heard the music- that quirky, bizarre, oh so familiar music. But, as the words I had written half a year ago echoed in the theatre, and as the images I had shot three months ago lighted the audience’s laughing faces, my legs, my hands stopped shaking.

The Factory

   The blurring city lights and Sinatra’s Way You Look Tonight echoing in the street, the long breaks and smell of burnt popcorn, the white mountains of Park City and Sundance’s crowds, the long BART rides and sun setting over the golden bay—these are the memories I’ve made at the Factory, a non-profit film program committed to giving youth the means to express themselves through making professional quality film.

   Last year, surrounded by passionate youth from San Francisco to Berkeley, Walnut Creek to Oakland, I attended the Factory’s three hour sessions four days week, in hope of exploring my interest in film.

 

Inspiration

“Sounds hard to watch.”

   My eyes were sore from staring blankly at the increasingly meaningless words of my nineteen page screenplay. My hand was sore from aimlessly scrolling through the blur of pages. And my aching mind was starting to wonder why I had even written this.

   The screenplay was a spin on the cliché romance. “Girl” lives numbly, full of unfathomable expectations until she meets the love of her life, “Prince.” The spin: their initial attraction and brief period of happiness burns out and they discover they aren’t right for each other. Prince dumps Girl, Girl feels “heartbroken,” Girl’s life plummets downhill, Girl has a revelation of her stupidity, Girl pieces life together, Girl is now self-reliant. Even the spin on the cliché was cliché.

   But the images would be vivid, beautiful, moving. Open movie with pure white, symbolizing renewal and purity. Fade in a scratchy “Some Day My Prince Will Come” over the sound of a shower. Pan camera from the white light of the window to “Girl” sitting fully clothed in her shower, in the midst of her revelation, crying, the beads of glimmering water trickling down her face and cleansing her soul. And then “Girl”, walking down the gray, cold street, searching the crowd for some face she has yet to meet. The warm yellow light of a coffee shop, the range of oranges and browns on a crisp fall day, the silver and gold lights of a bay view, the images would be vivid, beautiful, moving.

   But the screenplay was crap. As I sat there staring at the screen, I knew I couldn’t go through with this movie. It was overly emotional, overly dramatic, corny corny corny!

   I needed to write something plain, free from all these emotional highs and lows, and certainly from romance. Something humble, something honest.

   So, wanting to abandon my crap screenplay, I walked to Factory director Scott’s office.

    Standing in the doorway, I said without consideration, “I want to make a movie about miserable people talking.” Without looking up from his lab top, he replied, “Sounds hard to watch.”

   I nodded, he was right. Sitting in a theatre, watching whiney, miserable people sitting and talking doesn’t really sound like a pleasant experience. I went back to my computer.

Writing It

   The next day, despite how hard it would probably be to watch, I typed, “A Conversation Between Two Miserable People”. I laughed. What a descriptive title! Let’s make it more descriptive: “A Conversation Between Two Miserable People in” Dr. Marshall’s Waiting Room? No, Dr. Smith, no, Dr. White Envelopes, no Dr. Tour Hawaii, Dr. Touro, Dr. Tourin. “A Conversation Between Two Miserable People in Dr. Tourin’s Waiting Room.” And so, I titled my screenplay.

   After hours of writing, I had a finished screenplay that strangely reflected thoughts and conversations I had had in the past. Later, my mom, my eleven year old sister, and my eighteen year old brother asked, all at different times, if I had based the quirky, sharp-witted character of the Starer (who stares at a fishbowl) off of them. The Starer is a self-acclaimed “depressed, cowardly, friendless liar” who believes life is meaningless, fears death, hates people, and lies for the power. Opposite the Starer is the Reader (who reads a magazine), whose biggest problem is breaking up with his girl friend. Although no one came up to me and asked if I based the more pathetic character of the Reader off of them, the Reader was my brother (who went to the same college as his girlfriend) and every love-sick, constantly-romanticizing person I had met. The two people are miserable for very different (but ordinary) reasons and through their conversation solve their problems without even meeting with Dr. Tourin.

Pre-production

   While writing the screen play took only an afternoon, the revising, shot-listing, director’s scripting, line-scripting, actor auditioning, and all those other lovely steps of pre-production, probably took an entire month. But, amid the chaos of papers that threatened my sanity emerged the amusing task of finding actors.

 

The Search

   Perhaps, had I the common sense to specify age, gender, or race for my characters while writing the screen play, the task of finding actors would have been easier. But no, I fancied myself deep for wanting to make a piece that could surpass such superficial issues. So when I posted adds on Bay Area Casting and Craig’s List for actors of ages 10-90, any gender, and any race, I got about fifty replies, even though the “perks” were limited to “lunch, DVD copy, and exposure,” nothing about money.

   Sorting through these replies provided infinite amusement. After clicking the links for head shots of these potential actors, I often couldn’t help blurting, “Oh god!” or snorting a laugh as hilariously dramatic or surprisingly cheerful portraits loaded onto the screen. I amused myself imagining a radiant, smiling red-head playing the dark, sarcastic character of “the Reader” or picturing a burly, grim man as the cheerful, sunny secretary. 

                       Somehow I managed to filter out what seemed the creepy, the boring, and the inexperienced to nine chosen actors. But, after contacting them, this number soon dwindled as they discovered they had surgery scheduled the day of the shoot, problems with their day job, and that we wouldn’t pay them.

 

Auditions

              As I cleaned and rearranged the Youth Sounds living room (usually reserved for long breaks and mingling), I couldn’t help feeling it was I who was being auditioned. I had actor information sheets ready, complete with clipboards and fresh pens. I had my director’s script, whose fourteen pages were neatly filled with notes like, “trying to engage” or “avoiding conversation.” I even had clean cups ready should the actors be thirsty. But, I didn’t have confidence. Could I step up and actually direct these actors, most of who were at least twice my age? And worst of all, what if they were mean?

                       But, they weren’t. And even though these thirty-something year olds looked a little surprised that I, the tiny sixteen year old standing before them, was Melissa, the director who contacted them, they were patient and respectful.

Mark and Diane

              “Well crazy or not, she sounds like a monstrous maniac,” Mark spat with a scowl. Mark: the dark haired, dark eyed guy whose hilariously emo head shots and e-mail saying he himself had “experienced similar conversations” had convinced me he actually was miserable

              “She’s not. I know her,” said Diane, the quirky looking white lady with wild puffy red hair.

                       “You’re waiting for her then?” Mark hissed, looking so disgusted I was convinced he was ready to leave the room.

                       “Yeah, she’s my mother,” Diane said blankly, her big brown eyes blinking.

                       Now both done with the selection, Mark and Diane both turned toward me, awaiting my direction.

              “Good...” This was the first time I had heard my script performed out loud, and it struck me how different it sounded now than in my head. In fact, the script’s feel changed from actor to actor.

Devon and Nile

              “Well crazy or not, she sounds like a monstrous MANIAC,” Devon announced loudly, tilting his head with a smirk. His voice said he was ready to be a game show host, a weather reporter, or maybe a salesman. Devon: a dramatic, cheerful Factory member and our designated stand in for actor auditions.

              “She’s not, I know her,” Nile said with a flirty half smile. Nile: a young, attractive black woman with flawless features.

              “You’re waiting for her then?” Devon yelled, his eyebrows forward to express interest.

              “Yeah, she’s my mother,” Nile said chewing her thumbnail as if she had a secret.

 

Decisions

              With a tape-full of auditions and a folder-full of headshots, I had some decision-making before me. Although I knew right away who my Dr. Tourin (a big bellied man sporting a pony-tail named Byron) and Barbara the Secretary (a darling, cheerful lady with big, black, curly hair named Mary) would be, I still had to choose actors for the more important roles of the Starer and the Reader. After much thought, I chose Sonja, a dark eyed twenty-something year old with thick eyebrows, as the Starer and Remi, a timid wrinkly old man, as the Reader. Sonja had an intense expression and a quirky look, and her performance as the Starer was right on mark. Remi’s acting was dull and almost expressionless, but this was overshadowed by how perfectly his pathetic demeanor reflected that of the Reader, and how hilarious it would be to have someone at Remi’s age be sad his girlfriend is away.

The Set

              When I wrote the screenplay, I envisioned a somewhat Freudian waiting room- intimate, with huge sofas piled with pillows, a purple maroon color palette, and walls covered with bizarre art framed in gold. But, given our budget, this wasn’t possible.

              In fact, I had trouble finding an appropriate waiting room, much less decorating it. I asked friends and family if they had a therapist, doctor, or dentist friend who would donate a waiting room for a weekend. I even considered using my social worker dad’s waiting room at Berkeley Mental Health (whose chairs were barred together to prevent the patients from throwing them at the already cracked, bullet proof receptionist window). In the end I chose to somehow convert the studio at Youth Sounds into a waiting room.

              It started with the color scheme. I wanted primary colors, bright and simple. This led to a new idea: a sunny day theme. I thought it would be brilliant to contrast the dark emotions of the patients with the bright, happy colors of a sunny day. Better yet, it could symbolize the psychiatrist’s failed, but well intended attempts to instill joy in its patients.

              The result was the tackiest waiting room possible. It was a rainbow of blindingly bright colors, with quotes like “Live today like there’s no tomorrow” (cut out of a calendar my mom gave me as a joke) plastered randomly on the wall, and the sofa cover consisting of a florescent orange sheet purchased from Ross. I even cut out a sun from yellow paper and stuck it on the wall. The room was painful to the eyes.

              But as I sat there, probably invisible in the glare of orange couch, looking about the room of potted purple, red, orange, and pink flowers and rainbow picture frames, I couldn’t help thinking, “If I were depressed, this room would sure make me happy.”

Albert

              Although I knew from the beginning that my dialogue-driven piece wouldn’t be visually pleasing, I did pride myself on one somewhat artsy shot. “The artsy shot” was to be a close up of the Starer behind a fish bowl (staring at it), hopefully creating a face distorted by the glass and water.

              Aside from being “the artsy shot,” it provided me with a beautiful excuse for buying a fish.

              After spending at least fifteen minutes at Petsmart deciding between this fiery red beta and that deep indigo beta, I chose the half pink and half blue beta which Remi later dubbed “Albert.” Not only was he gorgeous, but he matched the pink and blue pebbles I had bought for his fishbowl (the room, as it turned out, could get tackier).

The Shoot

              Shoot Melissa.

              When I probably should have been doing some important director’s business, I often found myself staring at the Factory calendar. Written neatly in black sharpie across the two squares for Friday and Saturday for some week in April, were the words Shoot Melissa. The first time my eyes passed over these words inspired a split second wave of panic and terror at the possibility that someone was planning to shoot me. Of course, this was not true. But as soon as that excessive alarm diminished and I was able to catch my breath, a new type of fear arose: my shoot was a reality. At first, those words seemed distant and unreal. But, as I found myself a month away, two weeks away, five days away from Shoot Melissa, my anxiety rose.

              Before I knew it, it was Shoot Melissa day and I was standing above the expectant Dr. Tourin with Dove gel and my sister’s purple comb, feeling quite lost. “I’m not sure how to make your hair silly…” I muttered, circling the chair and its client.

              “Just use his normal hair,” Scott said blankly as he walked hurriedly past.

              If he was offended, he didn’t show it and the soon-to-be Dr. Tourin handed me two hair ties (which usually tamed his curly hair into a ponytail), “Try pigtails.”

              The script called for Dr. Tourin to have “silly hair.” Awkwardly taking his graying (yet, thankfully, clean) hair and making a little pigtail, I wondered why on earth the writer (I) called for “silly hair.” Did she (I) not think of the discomfort the director (I) would have to face styling a strange fifty-something-year-old’s hair in attempt to make it look silly?

              I stepped back to examine my work, and couldn’t manage to suppress an immediate giggle. A big-bellied man with a dignified expression sporting darling, baby pigtails was silly indeed.

              The rest of Friday’s shoot went surprisingly well, aside from the moments when, in the dream-like daze of seeing my script come to life, I forgot to say “Cut.” At such moments, the little world I had created would shift, the actors would slow their lines and glance at me expectantly, and I would soon wake up and blubber, “Oops, umm, sorry, CUT!”

              Saturday’s shoot, however, didn’t go quite as smoothly. This was mostly because Remi, the ancient actor who was to be the Reader, kept forgetting his lines.

              But, he was hardly to blame. The script was a good fourteen pages of pure dialogue, most of which was, for an old, old actor, painfully verbose. Seeing poor seventy something Remi try to spit out lines like, “Well, seeing as you’re a depressed, cowardly, friendless liar, I’ll enlighten you,” and, “I suggest you suppress all these negative feelings and live your life while you can,” was torture.

              Even with the shorter lines, he usually managed to fit in a half second pause between words. With each line, everyone in the room- camera man, actors, and director alike- would lean forward, waiting for Remi to either stop completely, jumble his words, or (hopefully) spit out an entire sentence.

              And I pitied him! Each time I said, “Cut” after he forgot to pick up Seventeen or he skipped a line, his eyes would water and he’d take a deep breath in frustration. I found myself treating him like a child: praising him when he did remember and giving him careful, supportive criticism otherwise. The directions I had so carefully thought out beforehand seemed useless when he could barely say the lines.

              This all made me hate myself for my casting decision. Had I been so blindly amused by his oldness that I had overlooked his poor acting? But how could I have possibly known he couldn’t memorize lines, when during auditions he had a script right in front of him?

              Sonja, who played the Starer, was luckily the polar opposite. She knew her lines by heart, understood the Starer’s character completely, and put energy and enthusiasm into each line. She responded to direction very well, but barely needed any. Somehow, her liveliness balanced out Remi’s old man tiredness and we were able to finish the shoot on time.

              At the end of the day, after all the actors had gone home, I took the shot lists, the director’s scripts, actor scripts, line scripts, all those horrid papers, and threw them in the trash. Sinking into the florescent orange couch, I sighed. It was over! I was done!

Finishing It

              As it turns out, it wasn’t over. In fact, editing took nearly all summer. At first, it was discouraging: filtering through scenes where a boom pole invaded the frame, or where there was a camera glare, or when Remi forgot a line, and trying to find the best performances proved both difficult and tedious. But, after I had picked out the right footage and edited the basic sequence of shots (called the “rough cut”), timing the dialogue and cuts was rewarding. The words I wrote, the footage I shot, turned into something that looked more like a movie. In the sound design, I added tracks of back ground noises (bird, cars, sirens, the works) and sounds for the door slams. In color correction, I saturated the colors, added a warm hue, and adjusted the contrast and brightness. It was exciting.

The End

Closing Final Cut Pro for the last time concluded nearly half a year of work. As I grabbed my bag and took the elevator to the lobby, it struck me how all the time and energy I had put into this movie could end in an instant, with a click of a mouse. I walked past the eerie little bar with Christmas lights, “Café Van Kleef,” where the same man with the black beret and turtle neck stopped hosing off the sidewalk so I could pass, and took BART home, watching the pink sun set over the golden bay.