Department of Nowhere

I worked on this student film one time called "Department of Nowhere."

Awful film.

It was about some college kids who are told not to go into an abandoned department store, then do, and freaky things happen. By freaky, I mean stupid. There was one scene where the actors were magically transported to an outdoor picnic and this lady with a red face is holding a crying baby.

Everythign wa sset to shoot this scene: we rented out the picnic area, slapped red makeup on the woman, and we even had a few Extras milling around, drinking the free beer the producer bought. The red-faced woman even brought her niece: a real baby.

We were very excited about having a real baby to work with.

The shoot was going fine; the baby was content and didn't mess up our sound or anything. Then came the baby's big crying scene, and the unpleasant question of how to make the infant sob.

The producer took one look at the baby and told the director to take care of it. The director passed it to the camera operator, who said, "I can't make a baby cry! Get a gaffer to do it--they hate everything good about life."

Off to one side stood Clyde, our red-faced, ham-fisted gaffer. At the mention of his name, his cratered eyes lit up like firecrackers and he cracked his knuckles in a long, sustained bridge.

All of a sudden everyone agreed that Clyde should be kept away from the baby.

So the responsibility was passed on down the food chain, from gaffer to actor to associate producer to continuity expert to script girl, until finally it landed at the bottom of the heap: the writer.

Me.

I felt terrible. I hated the movie, almost as much as I hated the script I wrote. I was flattered to have all of this people working to bring my words to life--but they were just such bad words.

The director looked at me, hopefully. "This is your vision, Ryan. Make it happen."

I tiptoed toward the infant--the sweet, tender-faced, content little bundle of pink flesh. I took one glance around at the crew: a motley band of film school slackers who had come together for one common purpose...to get a grade. I knew none of them liked the script, but none of them knew that I hated it, too.

How did we get to this point, ready to disturb something beautiful and placid just for a few frames of film? It was madness. How did I reach this point in my life? This isn't art, this is postponing reality. We like watching movies, but is anyone here really passionate about them?

I knew I wasn't.

Stupid. Completely selfish and cruel. The camera was set up. Slate was clapped. The sun was in my eyes.

I gave the baby's toe a twist and and bolted out of frame.