THE CROTCH OF THE MATTER
I worked on a project a few weeks ago that turned my understanding of film production on it's head. You know, kind of how Nigerian politicians have turned the concept of free and fair elections on it's head. The lengths to how far left that production went are almost immeasurable. But because I will never not try, allow me to attempt to tell you guys the story. P.S if some friends of mine see this post, they'll know EXACTLY what gig I'm writing about. Guys our code word for this story is MASTIFF; yes like the dog. Because the blow from that experience can only aptly be compared to the 600 lbs bite force of an English Mastiff. If you're wondering about the title of this post, I warn you that it is literal so the pun is not only intended; it's unfortunate. We will all bask in the warm glow of foul smells, call sheets from hell and ask ourselves how badly we behaved as children to deserve the punishment of this project. Will you walk with me? Let's go then.
So a friend of mine recommended me for project MASTIFF and I think highly enough of his judgment in this field, so getting on board was really a no-brainer. However as you all have come to learn about me, I tend to find myself in the most interesting situations with nary a clue how I got there or how I'll get out. There are always clues to the direction in which a thing is going in life; always. And if we look for those clues or listen when they speak to us, we'll lead much happier lives. If we listen. But the truth is, we don't always listen. In actual fact, most of us are more skilled at playing 'ten ten' with the clues than we are at listening to them. And life; like our mothers that slapped sense into us when we got carried away en route to running an errand, slaps the very strands of hair on our heads into formation when we take certain decisions. Project MASTIFF was one such decision.
Every production has its settling period. It's like a new house that doesn't creak yet and smells of empty air because it hasn't had the pleasure of living vibrations run through it's walls. And like every house eventually settles and finds its place in the space it occupies, productions after a few days find their rythym (I never spell it right without auto correct ugh. English is so rude) Rhythm! This time of dysfunction is often characterized by actors showing up late to work. Food not getting to set on time leaving everyone in the land hangry as all the F's. Equipment malfunctions that test the complete Jesus in it's handlers. Sluggish work paces that grind on everyone's last nerve and meltdowns of shave your hair off level mid-life crisis proportions. These days are expected and they are excused. However when the production is running on fumes before 12 noon on day 1 and being pushed to the side of the road by day 3, then you know that this house has termites and is about to cave in on everyone in it. Get out! get out now!
There is a saying that it is in the doing of a thing that something something something or the other happens (please google the rest). And while I want to completely agree with the sentiment, I don't know if accomplishment lies solely in the doing. I mean, if I set out to make akara but come up with burnt flavorless lumps of pureed beans that no one can eat, have I really made akara? Is the accomplishment of a thing not only in the execution but in the consumption of said thing as well? This is a philosophical point of discussion that can take days to wring out so let me not start what I alone might be interested in finishing. Cerebral arguments are like dates; you kinda don't want to go on them by yourself. Wondering if now is the right time to kiss yourself after walking yourself to your own door is a level of weird that few people can attain and fewer can handle. So let's just not.
"When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul"
These are the words to one of the most beautifully arranged hymns on the planet; however bleak it may be in it's sentiment. The phrase "it is well" has become one of the most used phrases in Nigerian parlance because we so oft have cause to need the pacification that believing all will eventually be okay brings. I arrived on the scene to find that all was not well with the soul of this project; in fact flaming sorrows were rolling all over the place like billowing seas on a damn whisky binge. And we were the unfortunate lot that thought it was a good day to go swimming! These guys were ALL OVER THE PLACE IN EVERY DIRECTION IMAGINABLE. We had no shooting schedule and so we had no call time. I would know that I was going to set each day an hour or so before I was meant to be there. Call sheets were a thing of myth or magic and when insisted upon, a crumpled piece (not sheet, because there's a difference) of paper with hand written scenes scribbled on it was handed to one of my cast mates. She was so confused by this that she kept this piece of paper to show those of us who had not yet arrived what we had signed up for. We had a great laugh but as the shoot progressed we would come to find that joke was really on us. The crew seemed clueless at best and at their worst, fought with one another on the busy streets of Abuja IN THE DAYLIGHT while we sat in the car and watched in awe. We would sit doing absolutely diddly squat for hours, gisting about life and wondering if lunch would be dinner. A man that I can only describe as a bosom friend of tramadol and codeine sauntered into one of the locations we were at and proceeded to converse in unknown languages with the four of us...and then with himself... and then with the chair... and just as abruptly as he had walked in, walked out. We sat there in silence and probably a little measure of fear but I think the dominant consensus was confusion. We were like birds with broken wings that would fly away if only we could. This is why it is bad to work without a contract; which they were not interested in providing. And when it was insisted upon; unlike the scrap of call sheet we received, we got nothing. Take that you dumb actors.
By now you can tell that we were in production purgatory, however the straw that broke the camels back was anything but. It was a 2 tonne lead pipe that bludgeoned the camel to minced meat. The costume and beauty department were filled with... special people. Special people who needed special guidance. We had the one make up artist to beat up all the girls on the set and keep the boys looking matte and fresh; if you know anything about make up that alone was enough of a mistake to affect the pace of work. I looked like Ayamatanga with a glow up or an electrocuted Diana Ross (take your pick) but somehow we managed to manage. But the day that I said "get behind me Satan, I rebuke you in the name of Jesus" was the day of a supposed Yoga workout scene. GUYS! GUYS!! Listen! I was cut to the white meat and shook to the marrow. So throughout the shoot we had ridiculous issues with the costume department. And let me just drop this here then slide on through; production work is not for any joker who doesn't want to sit at an office desk. These jobs require TRAINING just like any other job! It requires training, and discipline so that things are done to standard. Come on people.
So we have this yoga scene and because it seemed like NOTHING was planned in this project, there were no costumes. Now bare in mind that we had been shooting for over a week at least and everyone knew that this scene was coming up. So why it wasn't till the night the scene was meant to be shot that the costume department started scrambling for gym gear, I don't know. I'm not built like a super model, that's not news and if it still shocks anyone, that person really needs to jog on. I have a butt, I mean it's a great butt, but it is an actual bottom that jiggles and spreads. I mean you really can't miss it. So it annoys me when costumiers act like they're seeing me for the first time every single day on set, present me with size 4 clothes and are aghast when the clothes don't fit. Don't be vapid. In any event, it is one of the things about my work that I mentally prepare for before I start so it really doesn't bother me unless I'm already in a bad mood then someone will get it; someone will get all of it. So the Yoga scene is upon us, but no gym gear is and our director is losing well whatever was left to lose because the ship had sunk. And in the heat of the events one of the costumiers disappears and then in a minute or two reappears with a pair of black joggers. He hands them to me and I had a sneaky feeling that something was amiss. But I took them from him and proceeded to try to wear them. As I spread open the pants, a whiff of something wafted up into my nostrils. Cue the pause, then the furrowed eye brows, then the scrunched up nose that pulls one corner of the top lip up with it; we had a situation on our hands.
Apparently my boy had gotten joggers fresh off the crotch mill and gave them to me to wear. The joggers were warm but not like they had just been ironed warm. It was a "I've just been groping human skin warm" and we all know we are more human in certain parts of our bodies than others, so there was some damp parts of the pants. Listen guys, if the stench that came from those pants took form, it would have been a Byrus aka the shit weasel from that disastrous Stephen King adaptation Dream Catcher. When I told him that I couldn't wear them because someone had literally just taken them off, he looked bewildered and said "okay, give me". Then he proceeded to whip out a can of axe from his back pocket or somewhere and started dousing these joggers in more fumes. I couldn't even you guys, I just couldn't even at all. "That's not the solution" I said. To which he responded "okay give me, they will iron it". My mouth literally fell open, because there were just no words, but his solution warranted some kind of response and that was all my brain could muster. "I can't wear them, ironing them is not the solution sir" but looking at the vacancy in his expression, I knew that he wasn't trying to be obtuse. He honestly didn't see that there was any problem at all with a woman wearing pants that a man had worn and sweated in all the day. I call minced meat on it, I call all the damn minced meat. At that point I put my jeans on and proceeded to shoot the scene in them.
Whats the moral of this story you may ask? What lessons did I learn from the experience and how has it helped shape my future? What sage advice can I give to help other people not land in similar cauldrons of boiling shit like I did? Well, I'll tell you as soon as I can get the Mastiff to let go of my leg. "Hey someone hand me those joggers!"