Romania Travelogue II, Part 2

Originally published December 3, 1993, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1046

(Concluding Peter’s latest foray to the wilds of Romania—in this instance, for the filming of the science-fiction western Oblivion.)

Oct. 29—Several scenes set in Mattie’s (Jackie Swanson) store today. In one, Mattie is kidnapped by the ultra-kinky Lash (Musetta Vander). The script calls for Mattie to walk in and Lash—named after her weapon of choice—to leap on from off-screen, grab Mattie from behind, and whisper sweet nothings about the fate-worse-than-death that awaits the heroine. In one of my more demented inspirations, I wrote that Lash actually licks Mattie on the face.

Musetta and Jackie pull off the take, and it’s nothing short of warped. Then the two of them run over to the monitor to watch the playback and giggle hysterically.

That, of course, is the difference between men and women. If two men had to play an identical scene, with one of them sexually aroused by the other and licking cheeks and such, they would not run to watch it and snicker. Instead they would immediately start chugalugging beers and talking about football.

A puppy adopts me. There are two dozen dogs who live on the grounds, courtesy of the studio owner’s wife. She’s a big dog lover and she picks up strays and deposits them on the grounds. So this little thing about as big as my hands, possessing soulful eyes and a mottled nose, wanders up to me and just stares at me like something out of a “Moppets” painting. I scratch his head for a while. I ask one of the crew what his name is. (All of them have names.) I’m told it’s a Romanian word which, when translated, means “Little Maker of Caca.”

Just what I need. I’ve already got one of those back home. I call her Ariel. But potty training is a likelihood for her. Not, on the other hand, too probable for the pup.

My stomach was killing me yesterday and continues to irritate me.

One of the actors describes his harrowing excursion to the set today. The van in which he was riding was hurtling down one of Romania’s many narrow roads. And then a man who looked to be in his 70s decided to start crossing the lane in the van’s path. The van swerved into the oncoming lane, at which point an 18-wheeler swung around a curve and bore down on the van. The driver desperately cut back to his own lane, barely avoiding not only the truck but the old man.

Did the old man jump back? Did he give any indication that he had almost been run over?

No. He waved his cane angrily at the van. As if his walking stick and indignation would have been a shield against a hurtling passenger van doing 80 kilometers an hour. The actor said that the guy’s face was no more than an inch or so from the passenger-side window, as the van shot past him.

Romanian pedestrians show a dazzling, even impressive, disregard for what moving vehicles can do. One could argue that New Yorkers are the same way, but that is not true. Yes, Manhattanites will cross an intersection en masse, seemingly ignoring the traffic, walking in between cars. But those cars have stopped. If, on the other hand, a yellow cab barrels through, New Yorkers will scramble. Romanians look in amusement and just keep on walking.

I know that quite a number of residents I’ve met would far prefer to be elsewhere, but are they that desperate to be quit of the place?

Oct. 30—My father doesn’t come to the set, taking the day to tour Bucharest instead. His escort does not take him near some of the favorite beggar hangouts, so he does not see the battered and deformed children or hopeless creatures like the elderly beggar with one arm—a sort of living reminder of the future these children have to look forward to.

He sees some pleasant shops, buys some souvenirs, and has a marvelous day.

I envy that.

This is not to say that the set is bereft of parental presence. Richard Joseph Paul (you gotta love a guy with three first names, I always say) brings his mother and father, two charming folks who live in London and, consequently, have a relatively short trip compared to the rest of us.

In the scene being filmed, Richard, as our hero, Zack Stone, has his first meeting with Jackie’s Miss Mattie. The conversation doesn’t go well, and Mattie winds up slapping Zack across the face. Richard’s parents are watching on the monitor, and his father in particular is gleeful.

The first slap is not entirely to director Sam Irvin’s satisfaction (it doesn’t look emphatic, and also Richard flinches in anticipation of it). “Slap him again, faster and harder,” instructs Sam with such sang-froid that it draws chuckles from the crew. Jackie obliges, whacking him so hard I can feel my own teeth rattle. And Richard’s father pumps a fist and chortles, “Yes!” His only regret is that Sam is satisfied with the take, because Richard’s dad was ready to give Jackie pointers.

In the meantime, blue screen work is prepared that will enable Max Caulfield to “morph” from his normal appearance into that of a hideous monster. Slow, painstaking, and quite possibly the most tedious bit of movie-making I’ve ever seen. Max has to keep his head perfectly still, or move it minuscule amounts to get it all properly lined up.

This must be part of all that glamour that I’ve read about.

In the evening, I put on the television and they’re running the old TV series Midnight Caller, subtitled in Romanian. Guest star is Tim Thomerson, who starred in the two Trancers films I wrote.

Somehow I find that appropriate.

From back home I receive questions about whether George is feeling all right. Apparently William Shatner was on three different talk shows this week plugging his autobiography, and on every single one he said that George was ill.

Well, it’s obvious what happened. It’s common knowledge that Walter Koenig is recovering from a heart attack. Koenig played Chekov. George played Sulu. Shatner was either misinformed or, worse, got them confused. (I can see how that could happen; after all, George Takei and Walter Koenig are practically twins.) When George got home, he probably had about three million messages waiting for him from concerned family and friends.

I fall asleep watching European MTV. I drift awake around 3 in the morning. Beavis and Bûŧŧ-hëád are on the screen.

God in heaven, haven’t these people suffered enough?

Oct. 31—Halloween in Romania.

It’s the one off-day. I spend most of it in my room writing. Finally, I take a break to walk around the grounds. It’s the first opportunity I’ve had to do so. It’s a marvelously lovely place and, aside from my being chased by a large dog, relatively uneventful.

I sit on a bench and read Dracula. I’m a big believer in the right book in the right country at the right time.

I read until it gets dark, at which point I head into the hotel and discover that the dailies are being screened. It’s all scenes that I haven’t seen filmed. It’s looking absolutely superb. If Full Moon really sticks to its word and releases this film theatrically, it might actually go somewhere (other than straight to video, that is).

As it gets later, the Halloween spirits infest the dining area where the cast eats. Pumpkin buckets filled with candy are put out on the tables. Some utterly bizarre masks are trotted out. The actors are being totally loose, and there are some hysterical results. Frank Roman, who plays a henchman named Wormhole, has just returned from Paris and is fracturing people with deft impressions of Jerry Lewis and Katharine Hepburn. Max Caulfield (I think it was Max) shoots me with silly string. Richard Paul has gotten his hands on a video camera and is taping the whole thing, to what will probably be the chagrin of some of the cast later on. Considering that these are people who spend six days a week dressing up in costumes and play-acting, it’s ironic that they wind up spending their evening off doing exactly the same thing.

Nov. 1—I am frequently dazzled by a writer’s ability to make the lives of others a living hëll.

In the scene being filmed, the villainous Lash (Musetta Vander) has just been tossed into a jail cell. She trades words with her captors, Marshal Stone (Richard) and the unflappable bounty hunter, Sweeney (Max).

Now, a good tip for any screenwriters who want to drive directors and actors completely nuts: Set a sequence behind bars.

Visually, it has a terrific look to it, with Musetta pacing like a caged panther. However, if she’s just a fraction of an inch off her mark while delivering lines, her face is blocked by the bars. Either that, or shadows are cast over her face, fouling up the meticulous lighting of the scene. And the same thing goes for the reverse-angle shots of Richard and Max.

Truly, it is the shooting day from hëll. A take is ruined by the camera running out of film. The camera is reloaded, but the following take is botched by the sound of a passing airplane. The next is wrecked courtesy, once again, of the dámņëd barking dogs running around the lot. Then some unknown crew members wander past on the other side of the wall, chatting quietly among themselves—but not so quietly that the boom mike doesn’t pick them up, spoiling yet another take. Finally we get a take going, and the planes are quiet, and the dogs are quiet, and the crew is quiet, at which point the film runs out again.

A two-minute scene takes hours to get. The day is crawling.

Another sequence involves getting a close-up of Lash on horseback. One problem: We no longer have access to the horse. So we go to extreme close-up of Musetta riding along, bobbing up and down, with the camera angled so that we don’t see she’s riding on the shoulders of one of the Romanians. I’m told that having an actor ride “crewback” is not uncommon in filming Westerns. The horse’s head can get in the way when the actor’s delivering dialogue, and riding machines that simulate the motion are available but pricey.

Clint, say it ain’t so.

Dad and I have our last dinner in Romania (at least for a while). I’ve spent a week and a half in the country and have seen only the hotel and the backlot. I’m being selfish and staying the hëll out of Bucharest. I want to avoid seeing depressed people.

This ambition is about to be thwarted.

Halfway through dinner, someone announces in a loud voice, “It just came over the wire service: River Phoenix is dead.”

There is a stunned silence. Details are sketchy. He’d come out of a well-known night spot, “acted strange,” and died. People talk in low tones. The word “drugs” is mentioned in whispers.

People finish their dinners and drift to their rooms one by one, the atmosphere quieter than usual. Finally it’s 11:30 at night, and there are only three people left in the restaurant: Max, Jackie, and me.

Jackie looks like a ghost, her warmly-colored cheeks standing out against a face become pale. She knew Phoenix personally. The world of show business they live in, she indicates, and the pressures of it, destroyed a 23-year-old young man with a promising future. Also, she is upset that, upon learning the news, people in the dining room continued eating “like nothing happened.” Her emotions are raw as an open wound.

“It’s not like in movies where someone learns something and reacts immediately,” I say. “That doesn’t happen in real life. Right now, people are up in their rooms still absorbing it.”

Caulfield nods. “I have a feeling River Phoenix is going to be haunting our dreams tonight,” he says.

Jackie, as if speaking from a great distance, murmurs, “Life is so fragile.”

We go off to our respective rooms. It’s the last time I’ll see these lovely people until who-knows-when, and the circumstances are worse that I would have liked.

Then again, so were the circumstances of the passing of River Phoenix, so who the hëll am I to complain?

Nov. 2—It’s a clear morning, which is fortunate, because we’re heading home today.

We’re up and out of the hotel by 5:30 a.m. We are accompanied by a charming young actress, Kathleen, who came for a week to visit her husband (one of the cast members of another Full Moon film shooting at the same time, Dark Angel).

At one point at the airport I help Kathleen with her luggage and then stand to the side waiting for her to clear security. And a Romanian security guard promptly comes over in the belief that I am illegally selling my services as a porter. After helping Kathleen I was thinking of kiddingly standing there with my palm out, as if expecting a tip. Thank God I didn’t, or I’d probably be in a Romanian jail right now.

Kathleen makes her connection at Frankfurt with minutes to spare. On her plane is Zelda Rudenstein, a diminutive actress best known for Poltergeist and Picket Fences who has a cameo in—of all things—Oblivion. We don’t have a chance to chat, because the plane to Los Angeles is heading out shortly. Our plane, on the other hand, isn’t for two hours.

The flight home is uneventful. Dad is “detoxing,” as it were—readjusting himself for returning to the real world. He built himself up for this for five months. And, now that it’s over, he has his memories of it, plus tons of pictures. It’s rare that something planned that far in advance actually lives up to expectations, but it unquestionably has. For that I feel I owe a tremendous debt to the cast and crew of Oblivion, who treated him with courtesy and consideration his entire stay.

Curiously, every cast member during my stay spoke to me about two things: First, they complained about the conditions under which they were shooting (the lengthy and sometimes perilous rides to and from the set; the bare-bones amenities; being away from home for months on end). And second, every single one of them said to me, “So what about the sequel? Have you given any though to that? And what my character would be doing in it?”

And that’s Hollywood—or Romania, as the case may be.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at To Be Continued, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, N.Y. 11705.)