64 hours

This weekend, I participated in a film-making competition. On Friday evening, 50 teams of filmmakers were told three things they must use in their film. A specific character named N. Raynal who is a former contestant on a French show similar to American Idol, a corkscrew, and the line of dialogue, "Je n'aime pas ca," meaning "I don't like that."

And every team got a different genre in which they must make the film. There were genres like action, horror, comedy, sci-fi, mockumentary. I pulled the notoriously difficult: Western. Which is hard enough for Amercians to put together. Try doing it in Paris.

At 7pm they rang a bell. Finished films must be back by 7pm Sunday.

I got to work that evening with the script. As I came up with characters, I called friends to do the parts. I asked a diner permission to shoot. I had some early ideas for footage I wanted and shot a few things around Montmartre at night. I went out on my bike with the camera. I kept working on and on until I was to meet my actors for the first scene, at the diner, at 8 in the morning. Shooting continued until 8 at night. I went home to eat, then got back on a train to my girlfriend's house to edit at 11pm. I edited all night long. Meanwhile, I was back and forth on email with my sound guy, who I never saw the whole weekend. He was mixing a few sounds for me. A cold wind, diner background noise, a carnival song, gunshots, a lonesome whistle. At 8, my girlfriend and her family woke up. I hadn't gone to bed for a second continuous night. They left for a day in the country to leave me the house vacant so I could work. I met up with two of my actors again at noon cause I had to get about five more shots. I loaded the shots into the computer and continued editing. I finalized the cut of the image. I fixed the sound. My friend read out the voice-over narration. I fit it over the image. The film was done at 6:15.

We went to load it onto the mini-DV but the computer refused. I tried again. It was 6:20. This wasn't happening. Because not only was the film finished. It was good. Really fucking good. We were all astounded that we could work together to make such a nice short film and it seemed impossible that we did it all in 48 hours. All of it, including writing and editing. Fantastic performances, striking images, nice sound, deliberate use of color, and a good story that gets your heart racing and shocks you. We really did it. And with a thousand euro prize hanging in the balance, the film would not print with 40 minutes to go. I searched for a rewritable DVD. I only found CDs. I tore my girlfriend's house apart looking for DVDs. I finally found one and rushed it to the computer and began to print. It took forever. Burning to disc. Finishing burn. Veryifying disc. As the last process slowly trudged on., we all packed our bags. We figured out the best possible plan. I was to run to the metro as fast as I'd ever run before. Take it to Place d'Italie, transfer, and take the line 5 to Oberkampf. And then run to the bar where I was to turn in the film by 7. At last the disc came out. I put it in its case and ran. Ran like I'd never run before. I made it to the metro. Got the train. Ran through the transferring station jumping around people like I was in the Matrix. I did one move where I flew over a guy by jumping over a bench, bending beneath the curved ceiling, my chest rubbing barely against the top of his bald head. I got the next train. Got out at Oberkampf. I found rue Oberkampf where the bar was. I ran as hard as I could. Stopped for no traffic. Weaved between cars and bicycles. The road went uphill. I pushed and pushed. Couldn't stop running. I didn't know precisely what time it was but I knew it was close. A lost second could mean these last 60 hours I hadn't slept, all the beautiful things we did with the film, it would all be useless in terms of the competition. If I was one second late after the bell rang, I was out. So I pushed uphill. I couldn't feel anything. Just my brain sending signals to my exhausted body. Don't stop. Don't stop. I ran and ran, out of breath. Heaving, I pushed through the door, saw the organizer, handed in the disc with my body bent double, sweat pouring down. She handed me a time card. My film arrived on time. At 6:59.


So there was a little reception. Sangria, wine, little tiny breads with little tiny spreads. I heard that out of 50 teams, 14 didn't make it on time. I talked to one guy I know. Said, how was your weekend. He smiled and said, it was fun, it was fun. Don't think our film is that great but we had a good time. You? Our film is great, I said, sweat still pouring down. It's unbelievable. We made a Western that takes place in Paris and it rocks. We really fucking did it.

My friend who played the lead role and his girlfriend who was in the film too came to the reception, having pushed me out the door running. We drank until there was no drink left and went out to the bar we always go on Sunday nights. Where our friend Barry plays. A big bald 46 year old black man. Barry was in the film, too. He visits the prostitute. I was delirious with having been up more than 60 hours and then that surge of energy from finishing the film and running like a missile. I was hallucinating, saying things nobody understood. I finally went home after midnight. Called my mom to tell her how much it all rocked. And got to bed at 2 after an amazing sleepless 64 hours.