Kyle’s Techno-Bio

I’ve been making short films (8mm, 16mm) and videos since i took an intro video course in the 9th grade. Then I got into photo and who knows maybe I’ll be able turn my true love of crafting images into a career somehow. But until that time comes, I’ve been working as Production Assistant/Personal Assistant, whoring myself for no money to brilliant and talented yet vain and selfish writers, cinematographers, and producers. I’ve had the pleasure (and I mean that sincerely) of going through the freshman hazing on the set of Fox’s 24, the post-production room for HBO’s Band of Brothers, and a couple of low budget hollywood horror flicks. While I’m not a writer nor do I really aspire to be one, I figure I’d include an excerpt from a story I wrote about my near death experience on the set of Sublime, a WB horror flick my mentor/screenwriter Eric Jendersen. Feel free to read it if you have time.

The set looked like the façade of an old art deco hospital building under construction. There was a large shell shaped window in the center and scaffolding in front. A young actor stood on the scaffolding in a bloody hospital gown with what looked like an amputated leg. He kept looking down at the street and then back to the serial killer surgeon who stared at him from behind the large window. Just as he was about to jump, the heroic male nurse came in holding a large blade and tackled the doctor to the ground. A voice called out “cue FX.” Then a mixture fake blood of exploded onto the window. The villain was dead. The director yelled cut and a loud horn sounded for a few seconds. The cameras stopped rolling, the lights turned off, and a small army of grips started moving the light stands around.
A young man in the USC shirt brought me to the nucleus of the large crowd of people. Eric stood near a cluster of television monitors and discussed the scene with the tall, handsomely Jewish director and the fat, pony-tailed cinematographer. I handed Eric the frappuccino. A thick layer of water floated on top. Eric took it from my hand, looked at it briefly, and grimaced at his two colleagues.
“Hmmm, that look like a frappuccino to you Tony?” Eric said to the director.
“Well, it certainly doesn’t look like any delicious creamy frozen beverage I’ve ever seen. What do you think, Dermott?” Tony said to the cinematographer.
The cinematographer grabbed the cup, peeled off the paper wrapper on the end of the straw, and sipped it.
“In my professional opinion, this beverage is neither creamy nor delicious,” Dermott said, and set the drink down on top of a monitor.
The three grinned just enough to express their mutual enjoyment of my humiliation.
“Kyle, meet Dermott Downs, the cinematographer and lighting genius behind CSI Miami.” Eric said, “And the boss man, Tony Krantz, producer of Twenty-Four, first time director, and, in your case, a man you desperately want to impress,” Eric said.
I shook their hands.
“That shot was pretty impressive. I loved the blood,” I said.
“Looks pretty real doesn’t it? And it’s so damn simple – just Crisco oil mixed with red dye and a touch of milk. The fun part is getting to shoot it out of the weapons grade mortar we installed behind the set,” Tony said.
“But don’t you think it would make more sense if the blood squirted instead of exploded onto the window?”
The friendly, non-threatening tone in his voice disappeared.
“Shit, Eric, looks like you’ve got a hot shot on your hands…a real prodigy,” Tony said before he turned towards me. “And no, I don’t think it would look better.”
Tony asked Patrick, the production assistant in the USC shirt, if there were any chores for me to do.
“Dan in make-up asked if his niece could get an autograph from Mr. Johnson,” Patrick said. “I said I would take care of it, but Kyle can easily take her over to the trailers for me.”
Patrick spoke into his radio. A few minutes later an Asian teenager walked up, shook my hand, and introduced herself as Lily. She held a copy of People magazine with a picture of Don Johnson on the cover, under the title Top 20 over 50. Eric raised his eyebrow at me as if to say, “Don’t screw it up,” and waved me off. I opened the door politely for Lily and escorted her out.
“Must be pretty cool having a dad who works around celebs all the time,” I said.
Lily acknowledged that she was pretty lucky but said nothing else. Every so often we would glance over at each other, then quickly shift our eyes down to our feet. Her legs were soft and long and she looked cute in her little khaki shorts. I tried to think of something clever to say, but I kept coming up empty.
When we arrived at the trailers, neither of us had a problem figuring out which one was Johnson’s. Larger than life action shots from Miami Vice covered the windows of the bus. A picture of him on one knee steadying his pistol guarded the door. In the picture he wore Raybans, a gold chain bracelet, a oversized white blazer, and a badge dangling from his neck. I knocked once and waited. An agonizing minute went by and I knocked again. The door opened and Don Johnson stood their twisting a cigar around in his mouth, his shirt completely unbuttoned.
“Hello there, Mr. Johnson. Tony Krantz asked me to introduce you to Lily here. She’s a huge fan of yours,” I said.
“I’ve seen every episode of Miami Vice at least twice,” she said.
“And who are you, exactly?” Don Johnson said to me.
“My name’s Kyle Howard, I’m Eric Jendresen’s new…”
“Fantastic. Good for you. Well, why don’t you come back in a little while…oh and give Tony a nice ‘hello’ for me, can you do that?”
“My pleasure.”
I extended my hand to shake on it but he failed to see it. He ushered the girl inside and closed the door. “What the hell is a nice hello?” I wondered. I lit a cigarette and it glowed brightly between my lips. It hadn’t been more than a minute when a girlish shriek rang out inside the bus. The door burst open. Lily ran out, buttoning up her blouse. She went by so fast that I couldn’t catch up to her. Don Johnson stood in the doorway and stared down at me three feet below on the ground.
“Are you fucking stupid? Your career…done. Your parents’ careers…done. You have a girlfriend? Well you better hope not because I’m going to take her, too!” he yelled.
He slammed the door. A gust of wind extinguished the glowing cigarette tip. My lungs continued to draw in air without even noticing the lack of smoke. It wasn’t hard to figure out that I was screwed. Might as well accept it and move on. I had just stepped up to double-barreling two cigarettes at once when the door to the soundstage opened. The footsteps got louder, then Eric stood over me.
“Even my retarded cousin knows that Don Johnson has the yellow fever!” He shouted.
“You really have a retarded cousin?” I said.

Eric eventually gave me a shot to redeem myself. I’m happy to say I didn’t totally blow it (and that I haven’t needed a cig since).