Scream All Night

by Derek Milman

  Ferdinand returns to the farm and finds his parents still there, only slightly more decayed, still almost as young as they were when they sent him away more than a half century ago. Recognizing him, even though he’s an old man now, they all embrace. It’s a beautiful reunion. Neither Abigail nor Alastair gets a chance to attack and eat Ferdinand. He dies in their arms a day later.

  Alastair and Abigail bury their son in back of the farm, where he used to play as a little kid, and where all of them, at least for a short while, were the happiest, and I guess the most human. That night, Alastair and Abigail cuddle lovingly in bed one last time. Knowing they’ll grieve forever, and that they’ll never really die, they devour each other until there’s nothing left of them but bits of bone and dust.

  And that’s how the movie ends. But it’s not the last scene we shoot.

  There’s still one scene left, and I swear it’s going to be the goddamn death of me. It’s the scene where Alastair and Abigail banish Ferdinand from the farm so he’ll survive. It’s one of the most powerful moments in the film, and I can’t pretend this scene about having to leave home doesn’t have deep personal meaning for me.

  I write five drafts of the scene, but none of them work. I realize it’s not about the dialogue or the way the shots will be composed; it’s about the raw emotion, especially on the part of Ferdinand. And that’s where we run into trouble.

  I didn’t know what to expect from Gavin, but his general demeanor—which I can only describe as a sludge of slowly degrading hopefulness—gives a level of truth to Ferdinand I never thought we’d achieve. It’s literally jaw-dropping to behold. It’s luck.

  But Gavin freezes during the filming of this one crucial scene. We spend nearly six hours shooting as I try to coax out his performance, pushing him to give me more more more. But it doesn’t come. And that’s the first time I get tense, remembering what it was like for me when I was a kid filming Zombie Children. Standing there for hours in the cold, not knowing what my dad wanted from me, and then him just berating me and hitting me until he finally declared: Yeah, we got it.

  I feel the pressure to get this right—the pressure on me, the pressure on Gavin, like we’re bound together during a deep-sea dive, our ears madly popping.

  “I need you to be heartbroken, completely despondent,” I tell him, acting totally cavalier, like this is all whatever.

  “I am,” says Gavin, not really understanding.

  “Right now you’re reading apathetic.” I try to phrase this in a way he’ll connect to. “Think about what’s happening in the scene. Ferdinand is being forced to say good-bye to his parents forever. We need to nail this now.” I point up. “We’re losing the light.”

  But he chokes. And then it’s too late, and we have to wrap for the day.

  That night, I have a terrible dream.

  My bathroom door swings open, and in the watery light I see my father drowning Aida in the bathtub—she’s floating lifelessly, her eyes open. He’s whispering in her ear like he’s spooling the remaining life out of her body with his words. He looks up at me and grins in this sadistic way. “You know what to do.”

  “I won’t,” I tell him.

  He shrugs and kicks the bathroom door closed.

  The next day we start super-early in the morning but run into the same problem again. Gavin is stoic, when I need him to feel betrayed by his zombie parents, who are essentially telling him they can’t love him anymore. But he can’t get himself there. We film for four hours, probably over twenty takes, a few different setups, but then it starts to rain and we have to wrap early.

  That’s when I start imagining my dad lurking around the set wearing that same white tuxedo he was buried in, shaking his head at me in disappointment.

  And that night I have another awful dream.

  This time, my hands are around Gavin’s throat. And I’m screaming at him:

  “We all have to give something of ourselves to keep this place afloat! We all have to sacrifice something!” I start throttling him until I see his tears flying into the air. I hear a clicking sound and realize it’s his teeth.

  The next day doesn’t go any better. Gavin is actually getting worse as he loses what’s left of his confidence, and starts unconsciously sabotaging himself.

  He was always terrified to do this role, and now the cracks are starting to show.

  I look over and see my dad sitting in the director’s chair, lit cigar between his fingertips, laughing at me. Franklin catches me punching a wall as we head inside.

  That’s when an emergency production meeting is called.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Scream All Night

  I SIT AT A TABLE IN THE EMPTY COMMISSARY, MY HEAD IN MY HANDS. I’m joined by Franklin, Oren, Hayley, Jip, the first A.D., and Craig, our focus puller.

  I’m told we’re now behind schedule.

  “But this was going so well!” I cry into my hands.

  “There’s always one scene that becomes an albatross,” says Franklin. “In every movie. Your father would talk about it all the time.”

  “Okay,” I say, “so how would he solve it?”

  “He would rethink the scene,” says Franklin. “Which is what you need to do if you can’t get what you need out of Gavin.”

  “That scene is the emotional core of the movie! If this scene doesn’t work, the rest of the movie doesn’t work. This can’t be done halfway.”

  “Perhaps Gavin’s character just feels a muted sense of shock,” Franklin suggests.

  I shake my head. I’ve seen the dailies. “What he’s doing doesn’t read like shock.”

  “Yeah,” Jip concurs, explaining to Franklin that it reads like indifference.

  “And it needs to be super-emotional!” I say.

  “Then we switch the angle,” says Craig. He means the camera stays on Hayley and me, and registers our horror instead of Ferdinand’s. But I know that’s not right. We have to see Ferdinand’s pain because the rest of the movie is about Ferdinand, and him trying to overcome the tragedy of being ejected from his own family.

  “I think you should take one more day on this,” says Oren. “And then we wrap.”

  “If we spend any longer than that, we’ll be hurting the studio,” says Franklin.

  “And No Chance in Hell?” I shout. “How much time have we spent dealing with their VFX crap now?”

  “Too much time,” Franklin admits. “The reshoots were unnecessary, and now unfortunately that time has eaten into Alastair & Abigail’s production schedule. I agree with Oren. I think you should take one more day with this scene. Then we rethink.”

  “Oh, fuck this shit,” I snarl, leaving the table, banging my chair.

  I have a very bad night—my worst yet. I feel like I’m failing. I’ve become obsessed with getting this one scene right. I know it represents the soul of the movie, and it feels like everyone’s fighting me.

  I will myself not to have any more nightmares. But it doesn’t work.

  I’m drowning Gavin in that bathtub. He’s kicking, thrashing, eyes wide, begging, but I keep pushing him under, while my dad stands over me, encouraging me. “But I’m going to kill him,” I say, somehow unable to control my hands tightening around his throat.

  My dad crouches beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder, with a firm, fatherly squeeze. “A little part of us has to die for every movie that gets made here.”

  I look at him, tears pouring out my eyes. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “It’s the curse of Moldavia.”

  “I can’t destroy this kid just for the sake of the film.”

  “But it’s so easy,” he whispers into my ear. “This kid really believes his mom is coming back for him. All you have to do is tell him the truth.”

  He interlocks his hands with mine, applying more pressure, holding Gavin underwater. “But then who will I have become?” I ask.

  Of course I know the answer to that.

  “I know what you want,” he says, patting me on
the back. “You want your debut to be special—better than a typical Moldavia movie. It’s what I always wanted.”

  Gavin’s lungs are filling with water. “It has to be better if we’re going to survive,” I say. “But not this way.”

  My dad gives me a hard, questioning look—like I’m on the precipice of finally making him proud, or failing him again.

  “It’s the only way,” he says. “It’s what I would do.”

  My tears fall into the bathwater, vanishing into tiny craters. “But I’m not you.”

  Gavin is completely submerged. His eyes glass over. A final curlicue of bubbles streams out of his mouth as his face turns blue.

  “Who knows how long you have?” my dad says, his voice echoing, like he’s God.

  It rains all morning, so Jip suggests we film later in the day, when it’s supposed to clear up, during the magic hour that scrapes the sunset. This will create more stress, since it’s a slimmer window, but if we nail the scene it will be a beautiful thing. I agree, even though it’s a risk. I can’t pretend Moldavia isn’t trying to stoke some of my father’s ruthlessness everyone thinks is dormant inside me.

  Later, on set, there’s tension so thick you can taste it. Gavin looks shaky and pale, like he spent the whole night vomiting instead of sleeping. It works for his character, though. When we’re ready to roll, I walk over to him, knowing I already broke my promise to him by pretending this would be smooth sailing. “Hey there.”

  “Hey,” he says, in a choked voice.

  “So Gavin, the thing is . . . we haven’t really been getting what we need from you. And this is the last scene on the schedule. I need you to really go to that super-sad place.”

  “Okay.” He nods quickly. “I’m sorry about everything.”

  I take a breath. “Do you know what I mean, though?”

  “Yes,” he says, still nodding rapidly, like he’s been preparing, “I know.”

  The first take isn’t terrible but nowhere near what I need. The second take sucks. During the third take a light blows, but it doesn’t matter anyway, since Gavin is so nervous he messes up his lines. The fourth take is a major regression, the fifth take is even worse, and the sixth take is a wash because there’s a problem with sound. Hayley and I are totally spent, since we’re giving everything we have to the scene as well.

  The seventh take is flat. “Blasted,” someone whispers.

  That’s when my first A.D. tells me, looking at the sky, that we don’t have much time left. I worry the darkening sky is darkening my heart. I walk over to Gavin. I start to hear the hornets buzzing. I’m heading into a tailspin.

  “It’s better, right?” he says, shifting from one foot to the other, eyes wide, hoping.

  I open my mouth—not sure what’s going to come out. The crew grows still. I feel their eyes on us. I have the studio to consider, people’s livelihoods.

  But honestly, fuck Moldavia, and this stupid movie.

  Gavin is just a kid. He hasn’t figured out yet how cruel life can be. How it can take everything from you, dig in its sharp teeth and not let go. He still has hope. I can’t tarnish that. Moldavia isn’t worth that. This movie isn’t worth that.

  I look into his eyes, and I see my whole life reflected back at me: covered in blood and losing consciousness next to a mangled bike at the bottom of that cliff, the hospital, the lawyers, the judge, the therapy sessions, beating the shit out of goons at Keenan, the nightmares, closing people off . . .

  My father saunters over. He gives me a stony look and whispers in Gavin’s ear: Your childhood is over. Not only is it never coming back—it wasn’t what you thought it was. It was a mirage.

  I lead Gavin to a more secluded spot.

  My dad follows, whispering into Gavin’s ear: Your mom was an addict. She died of a drug overdose. She loved heroin more than you. She’s never coming back for you.

  “Aren’t you losing the light?” asks Gavin, nervously studying the sky.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I say.

  I sit on the ground. I motion for Gavin to sit beside me.

  My dad whispers to Gavin: And you’ll never get that kind of love back ever again. You’ll spend your whole life trying . . . looking for it . . . but you won’t ever find it again.

  But then Hugo comes over, wearing one of his ratty flannels. And he whispers in my ear: Remember what I told you, kiddo. You can either be defined by him or defined by everything you are that he could never be.

  “It’s just a movie,” I tell Gavin. “There shouldn’t be all this pressure. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, but . . . ,” says Gavin.

  “My dad cast me in Zombie Children because I was a sad, unloved kid and Alastair was sad and unloved. You read my journal—I was just sort of forgotten about.” I laugh, thinking again about what horror movies really are. “Isn’t it funny,” I tell him, “that in all these movies about monsters and vampires and things coming back from the dead, no one ever stops and says, Wow, you know what, this is kind of cool. There is an afterlife, there is something more than all this disappointment and loneliness!”

  Gavin smiles. “Yeah. They’re too busy running. Or screaming.”

  One of the camera ops starts wildly signaling to me that we’re losing the light. I give him the finger.

  “Did you want me to play Ferdinand because you think I’m sad and unloved?” Gavin asks me.

  “Actually, I don’t think you’re all that sad. And I think a lot of people here love you. I think my dad loved you too. I think I just identified with you over the mom thing.”

  “I know my mom isn’t coming back,” he says.

  That startles me. Did someone say something?

  “I just . . . know she’s not coming back for me,” he says. “Or she would have by now. But I like to pretend she will. You know?”

  “I know,” I tell him, nudging him with my shoulder. “Because I know my mom isn’t coming back either. I’m never getting her back the way she was.”

  “It just makes me feel better to think it,” he says, “even though it’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid.”

  He’s starting to tear up, which surprises me, because I had pretty much given up on that. “I guess that’s what this scene is about, right?” he says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Knowing you’re kind of on your own forever. I was afraid to think about that.”

  Gavin is a lot sharper than I knew. I underestimated him. Everyone here underestimates everyone else. It’s all about what use people have for the studio. No one stops to talk, or listen to anyone.

  I feel awful that I treated Gavin this way; that I fell into the same trap—trying to see what his pain could do for me, instead of listening to him, respecting his feelings. He’s had a rough road. And if anyone should understand that, and empathize, it’s me.

  Gavin laughs through his tears, and coughs a little. “I get it now, I get what the scene’s about.” He smiles to himself, sniffling, seeming to consider everything, this movie, and this moment. “I was just afraid. But I’m ready to do this. . . .”

  I hesitate. “I don’t want to film the scene if I’m just using your bad feelings . . . to make this movie better. I don’t want to exploit that. It’s not worth it to me.”

  Gavin’s seriously crying now, covering his nose and his eyes. “No, I want to do it for my mom. I want to do it for her. That’s the right choice. This’ll be for her.”

  I lay my hand on his wrist. “You sure?”

  Gavin, tears streaming out of his eyes, nods firmly.

  I stand up. I reach for him, and pull him up. I signal to Jip to roll camera.

  “ACTION!” I yell, running over to my mark.

  I always remembered what Aida and Hugo told me. So, over time, I let go of all that hurt and anger. They taught me that even in a never-ending sea of darkness, there’s always a lighthouse somewhere, casting a beam of light. That’s corny, but it’s totally true. I’ve always looked for the light ever since. T
here’s always someone who cares. And I know exactly what I have that my dad could never find in himself.

  Compassion.

  And, ironically, I have that because of him, because of everything I went through.

  Now everything begins to make more sense to me: Why Aida told me never to come back. Why my mother told me to leave. Why my dad willed Moldavia to me.

  Through his will, my dad was framing my future for me the same way he’d frame one of his shots—looking at me, and at everything I could be, through the small rectangle he’d make with his hands. His legacy would continue—through me. This was an attempted possession all along. My dad wasn’t evil. He was just deeply flawed. I gave him too much power all these years thinking he was something greater.

  We film the scene as written. Gavin gives me exactly what I need.

  “Scream all night,” I say, almost reverently, as I watch through the monitor.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rusty Blades

  I SKIP DINNER. LYING IN BED, I PUSH ASIDE ALL THE LOOSE PAGES OF screenplay, schedules, storyboard, sketches, and whatnot. I take out the Harvard brochure they sent me that I keep opening and closing and trying to forget about but can’t throw away.

  I’ve been keeping it under my bed like a dirty secret. I don’t know.

  The images of the campus are attractive—aggressively diverse groups of friends lounging together under blossoming trees in impossible sunlight. Students throwing Frisbees framed by Victorian Gothic architecture, poring over stacks of handsome old books speckled by light through stained glass. Students sitting in comfy-looking lecture rooms staring ahead, fascinated, pens between their fingers.

  I try to picture myself there: going to classes, typing on a MacBook during lectures on Milton and Chaucer, living in a dorm. Going to parties on Friday nights holding red plastic cups filled with warm keg beer; pretending I like hip-hop.

  I’ve had a hard time picturing myself at Harvard, probably because I can’t picture myself anywhere. My whole life has seemed temporal, one fast-moving train connecting to the next. I’ve made do with whatever reality was presented to me until I could move on again. But, I don’t know, I keep looking at the stupid brochure.