by Tom Vitale
Sandy uttered a quiet cough and put down her spork.
TONY DIED BEFORE WRITING OR recording any voice-over for the Indonesia episode. In a perverse way it meant he’d get that show he always wanted with no voice-over. But the episode just didn’t feel right. I was used to Tony defining what was either right or wrong. It wasn’t always the easiest feedback, but it was all I knew.
I was numb watching the footage, trying to figure out what to do. Even though Tony wasn’t here, it felt like there was some small part of him still alive in the edit. Subconsciously, maybe, I could sense once we were finished, Tony would really be gone for good. It was a catch-22: a painful episode to work on, but even worse to think of it being finished. I wasn’t ready to move on.
The endings were always the hardest part, and Indonesia was no exception. The last scene of the episode—the last scene I ever filmed with Tony—had been a funeral and cremation ceremony with the ashes scattered on the beach. Tony never would have chosen to use the funeral at the end of the show; given what had happened it was too “on the nose.” Instead, he’d have advised to think outside the box. Jesse and I had experimented with a few options, but without Tony’s voice-over, everything we tried just made an already complicated situation even more complex.
The best solution I’d come up with was to include a previously unused voice-over line Tony had recorded for the Greek Islands episode a few years back. “All good stories end on a beach. Why should this one be any different?” it went. Ending this way wasn’t the way Tony would have done it, but the more conventional and comforting ending with an uplifting voice-over suggestion of hope before the credits was closer to the ending I wished Tony had had.
PART TWO
Chapter Seven
HIGH-RISK ENVIRONMENT
“WELCOME TO LIBYA!” REDA, OUR FIXER, CALLED OUT AS THE CREW AND I exited the airport. After multiple false starts, dead ends, and years of trying, we were finally here. It was January 2013, and following what was perhaps the most unexpected and impressive victory of the Arab Spring, for the first time in forty-two years Libya was free.
“Congratulations on the new series,” came a familiar voice. It was Damien, our lead security consultant. “All’s quiet on the western front thus far,” he said, clicking his heels. Damien’s presence indicated our insurance carrier considered Parts Unknown episode 104 a higher than usual threat to our well-being. The fall of Muammar Gaddafi, Libya’s megalomaniacal dictator, had led to a power vacuum, allowing various militia groups and radical Islamist elements to flourish in recent months. Beheadings and Westerners being targeted had been playing on the news. High-risk environments weren’t my cup of tea, but this shoot was important to Tony, so of course I had fully invested myself. Despite current events, Tripoli, Libya’s capital city, looked a lot like everywhere else. High-rises, paved roads, traffic jams. From what I could see so far, at least, the only evidence of fighting was several burned-out tanks left to rust along the airport road.
As we drove to the hotel, instead of soaking in the atmosphere or reveling in the excitement of being somewhere new, I was trying to rationalize two mutually exclusive realities. There were the obvious security concerns, and there was what Tony wanted. We didn’t usually head into a shoot with hard and fast preconceptions, but this time Tony had made it absolutely clear he wasn’t at all interested in depicting what was screwed up about Libya. The current security situation was an inconvenient reality that threatened to get in the way of the story Tony wanted to tell—had been wanting to tell—about regular people, kids mostly, fighting for and winning their freedom. It was an unusually sentimental and optimistic viewpoint.
Arriving at the Radisson Hotel, our van stopped at the perimeter gate, where they checked for car bombs. “CNN, CNN,” our driver shouted. The stern face of the guard instantly brightened, and he waved us through with no inspection.
“We’re having some issues communicating the concept of keeping a low profile,” Damien explained.
“Libyans love CNN,” Reda said. “They were the only ones here with cameras when Tripoli fell.” Name-dropping CNN could do nothing to speed up the airport-style security at the hotel’s front entrance, however. It took over forty-five minutes to get our gear through the x-ray machine.
“Libya is a high-risk environment,” Damien said in a refined British accent that could be alternately charming, authoritative, disarming, sadistic, or irreverent. “The situation remains fluid, blah, blah, blah, proliferation of weapons following the 2011 uprising, etcetera, etcetera. Good, I’m glad we got that out of the way.”
Wearing a tweed cap and vaguely anachronistic bootcut jeans, Damien didn’t look or sound like a typical “security consultant.” He had almost no hair, and what little there was—really only his eyebrows—matched the light color of his skin, rendering them almost invisible. The only contrast on his face was the hint of green in his yellow eyes, which were always scanning the room or whomever he was speaking with. Having spent years deployed to Afghanistan in the service of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, Damien now worked “cushy” media jobs like ours.
“Recent developments along the borders have my panties in something of a bunch,” Damien said, delicately sipping a cup of tea. “There’s concern about a ‘spillover’ effect here in Libya.”
In the weeks preceding our arrival, everyone had been paying very close attention to rising tensions across the region. Ongoing French military intervention in neighboring Mali had increased the possibility of attacks targeting Western interests. The week before we arrived, just across the border in Algeria, hundreds of workers had been taken hostage when jihadists stormed a gas plant, resulting in the deaths of thirty-seven foreigners. Deadly riots were gripping Egypt, and there were reports that terrorist cells were operating in southern Libya. Benghazi, the country’s second-largest city, had been suffering a recent string of attacks on Western diplomats, including the assassination of the US ambassador by al-Qaeda-linked extremists. International news reports were starting to refer to the situation in North Africa as a “cauldron of extremism.” Though locations on our itinerary were considered secure and stable, regionally we were heading into what appeared to be a deteriorating security environment.
“Aye. It’s right fucked,” Bowler said. Bowler was also a former Royal Marine and Damien’s right-hand man. Bowler’s calm, even demeanor inspired confidence, and I’d grown to really like him. The trouble with Bowler was I often couldn’t make out what he was saying, thanks to a thick Glaswegian accent. If Bowler talked fast, forget it. “Asye neight gang sith,” he said.
“Exactly,” Damien said. “Which is why Wally and Mick are here to be a couple extra sets of eyes.” I’d worked a half dozen shows with Damien and Bowler over the years, but four security guys was a new record.
“Time to pull up the big-boy pants,” Josh said.
“Indeed,” Damien said.
While Josh wrapped up some logistics with Damien and Bowler, I found Reda in the hotel restaurant.
“Hold on, I need a pen,” Reda said when he got off the phone. I watched him searching his bag, entertained by his failure to realize he had one behind his ear as well as several more stuck in his hair. I liked Reda and had got to know him well over the last couple months via Skype as we planned the shoot. He was quirky, always laughing and intensely proud of this country, a trait I highly valued in a fixer. When not missing, Reda’s glasses were perpetually smudged, the frames mangled from having been stepped or sat on, or perhaps simply caught up in the chaos and disorganization that constantly swirled around him. But what Reda lacked in organization, he made up for when it came to creativity. Fixers were our lifeline to a country. Pretty much everything that made the shows what they were came through them, their contacts, knowledge, preferences, and prejudices.
“I am very appreciative of you understanding profoundly the good vibes, and not only bombing and fighting,” he said. “It means so much, the story you want to tell about Libya.”
/> Tony had been itching to come here since the revolution broke out, and we had what was shaping up to be a pretty good show. Reda had helped me organize an impressive roster of mostly average kids turned soldiers who fought for freedom and toppled a brutally repressive regime. But we still had a few kinks to iron out in order to finalize the logistics of the shoot.
“Any updates on the Misrata barbeque scene?” I asked.
“I swear to you two hundred dollars is more money than anyone has ever paid before for a goat in Libya,” Reda said, rolling his eyes. “Hamid is blackmailing for a goat!”
“We should just pay the money,” I said. Reda and Hamid—one of our most important sidekicks—had disliked each other since meeting on the scout, and it seemed the relationship hadn’t improved. “We can’t let the entire production grind to a halt over two hundred dollars. We’ve all worked way too hard for that.”
LIBYA, SHOOT DAY ONE. I stopped to savor the moment. It was a beautiful day, bright sun, the crisp smell of sea air. I watched the camera crew load up the vans with equipment. This morning’s itinerary was intentionally light: b-roll first, then a scene in the evening. This was the best way to get everyone comfortable working together, ease into it before shit started to hit the fan. Which it always did once we started filming with Tony. I checked my phone and saw a message from Damien. “Collected Tony from the airport. He’s in good spirits, wants to know his call time for this afternoon.” Let the countdown begin, I thought.
Hitting the streets, what struck me was how extremely friendly everyone was. “How are you? Very good Libya!!! Welcome to Libya!!!” they said. Tripoli’s old city was a combination of traditional Libyan architecture with occasional colonial-era Italian buildings. The Libyan flag was painted on every surface possible. Almost as ubiquitous were murals honoring the martyrs who’d lost their lives in the fight to free Libya, most of whom barely looked fifteen.
“For the first time artist expression in Libya is free!” Reda said, referring to cartoonish graffiti depicting Gaddafi getting simultaneously punched in the face and kicked in the ass.
We rendezvoused with Tony at four p.m. for our first scene. As luck would have it, our first day was Magreb, the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday, and there was supposed to be a fireworks show at Martyrs’ Square.
“Did you shoot the graffiti making fun of Gaddafi?” Tony said, lighting a cigarette. “I love the ones where he looks like a sissy or a wimp. I saw one of him in prison uniform being brutally tortured on a medieval-style rack. That was some twisted shit.”
“I want one of those on the wall in my apartment,” Damien said.
“Copy that, I’ll add it to the b-roll list,” I said, anxious to keep us moving and make every minute count. “Okay, everyone, listen up! The plan is to walk through the medina and make our way to Martyrs’ Square where the celebrations are supposed to be. Let’s all stick together and make sure to stay out of frame. We’ll follow Reda.”
We began twisting through ancient, narrow, maze-like streets, populated mostly by kids. Some were playing with frighteningly realistic toy guns, others set off bottle rockets and cherry bombs, stamping them out with flip-flops when one dropped or threatened to misfire.
“There’s a good alley right over there,” I said to Tony. “Can you walk around that corner?”
“No,” he said. “Let’s just keep going.”
As always, Tony hated being the center of attention, in public at least. And to be fair, walking beats were a spectacle. Reda was leading the way, followed by the security guys making a human V to split traffic. Then came the production assistants humping bags of film gear. Josh was right behind them snapping production stills; I was next trying to look forward to see where we were going and back at Tony at the same time. After me, the two assistant cameras spotted Zach and Todd, who were walking backward filming. Last was Tony, who had to pretend he wasn’t being led by a stampede of thirteen people, half of whom were constantly shouting “CNN” every time we nearly knocked over a curious shop owner or stepped on an old lady. Low profile, we were not.
“Watch your back,” Tony said the instant before Todd crashed into a wall.
“Damn it!” Todd barked at his AC. “When I’m walking backwards you’ve got to let me know if I’m about to hit something!”
Todd was strong, barrel-chested, and had been working on the show since the beginning of No Reservations. He was known internationally as “Mr. Clumsy Man” ever since he accidentally took out a padang restaurant’s entire supply of food for the day. In the subsequent years he’d been responsible for countless camera-related mishaps. Off the top of my head I remember Todd breaking a UNESCO church in Mozambique, leveling a Santería shrine in Cuba, and getting punched for stepping on a devotee at an Uzbeki mosque. His foot went through the roof of a house in the favelas of Medellín, he caught fire in Hawaii, and wiped out a koto-roti restaurant in Sri Lanka. A generation of fuzzy yellow chicks were found in his bootprints at a village in the mountains of Laos, and he crushed a stroller in Bangkok. Thankfully, it was empty at the time. Todd broke our executive producer’s wrist and may have been responsible for the extinction of a species of lemur in Madagascar. Allegedly.
Large animals—bulls, oxen, and water buffalo in particular—seemed to get enraged whenever Todd was around, even if he hadn’t broken anything. I never figured that one out. But Todd could always be relied on in a pinch and had a good sense of humor about the wake of destruction that seemed to follow him around the world.
Zach, our other DP, sighed with disgust at the slowdown and scrambled off the ten-foot ledge he’d scaled. He was small and precise in an evil-genius-cat-meets-Inspector-Gadget sort of way, and at the moment he was dressed like Lawrence of Arabia to protect his fair skin from the sun. Before Steadicams were available to us, he’d developed a gyroscope device built from decommissioned military surplus. Zach really was a genius and could be impossibly rigid. He’d been around almost as long as Todd, and the pair couldn’t be more different, which sometimes caused friction. But they complemented each other marvelously. Tony considered them his original A-Team.
“Let’s keep moving,” I said. “Todd, I’ll spot you.” We started walking again and, momentarily distracted by a six-year-old with what appeared to be an AK-47, I led Todd directly into a stone pillar. The impact caused part of his camera to fall off and hit the ground with a sickening clatter.
As we got closer to Martyrs’ Square, the narrow streets filled with a mix of people. Women in full niqab, some wearing a headscarf, men in suits, others in long robes, and of course fatigues. There were more guns than I’d ever seen; they were practically a fashion statement. The crowd weaved through vegetable and trinket vendors set up in front of solemn murals and glossy makeup advertisements.
We arrived at sunset just as the call to prayer began. Martyrs’ Square was vast, lined by a mix of grand mid-century and historic arcaded structures, and to my disappointment, it was mostly empty of people. Blinking Christmas lights decorated lampposts and palm trees. A few spectators stood on the periphery, and here and there some kids set off bottle rockets. A lone motorcycle bounced over cobblestones playing American pop music.
“I think we got enough of this,” Zach said after a few minutes of filming Tony standing around looking bored.
I know it sounds strange considering we were in Libya, a place we’d worked so hard to get to, but keeping everyone engaged, especially Tony, was a concern. Gatherings or festivals such as this made for a welcome change to the typical sit-down meal scene, but they were much harder to pull off. If we didn’t get the timing right or if Tony decided we were wasting our time, he’d get anxious to head back to the hotel.
“Perhaps you have some sort of expository thought for the camera?” I asked. Tony just glared at me. My hopes of salvaging anything from the day were looking increasingly dubious.
“Okay, let’s get a big wide shot of Tony walking through the square,” I said, trying to buy some time. We set up the
shot, and Tony walked through the frame and off into infinity.
“He’s not coming back,” Zach said.
“Fuck!” I said and ran off to retrieve him. By the time we returned, the sun had fully set, and little by little a crowd was forming. Skater boys, Libyan hipsters, hip-hop kids, break dancers, and militia in fatigues with machine guns slung over their shoulders kept coming. Everyone was friendly; they wore huge smiles and made the victory symbol for the camera as they walked by. People in the crowd started setting off fireworks, lighting the night sky with a flurry of colorful sparks. I sent Todd, Josh, and Damien off to go get b-roll and kept Zach filming Tony.
The bursts grew to explosions, which soon transitioned into a battery of hearing damage–inducing artillery fire. Cars and motorcycles revved their engines, and burned rubber added to the smoky air, already heavy with the smell of cordite. A huge firework went off at a forty-five-degree angle, landed on the roof of a nearby building, and continued exploding. Other rockets misfired, shooting sideways directly into the crowd. Everyone cheered. The only problem was Tony wasn’t talking. By now the ever-increasing volley of fireworks was coming from all directions. Revelers held boxes of Roman candles in their hands as they shot up into the night sky. Cars spun around doing donuts while tossing fireworks from their windows. There was a deafening Ka-BANG-wfizz as a Roman candle shot from somewhere and exploded just near our feet. Everyone scattered while Zach and I screamed. Tony didn’t even flinch.
“That was good,” Tony said, laughing.
I was worried the security guys would consider such close proximity to explosive projectiles a health and safety violation, but they were having fun like everyone else. Everyone but Zach, that is.
“Let’s try and not get blown up…” he shouted. It was getting hard to hear over the nonstop barrage of ear-splitting whizzing, popping, and flash-banging explosions. Fire trucks and ambulances were stuck in gridlock traffic, the wail of their sirens mixing with blaring car alarms, laughter, and shouts from the increasingly rowdy throng all adding to the cacophony. I decided to check in with Josh over walkie to make sure Todd was getting everything.