Take One (Jul 15, 1979)

house scene. There were fifty or so extras from the nearest town with a shopping plaza (about 100 miles away) who played the rich snobby parents of the rival campers. And there were over 400 real White Pine campers and staff. Except for the campers and local extras, we all stayed the seven weeks of location shooting at the Hunter’s Horn Lodge on a lake about 15 miles from the camp itself. At seven every morning we piled into rented vehicles to drive the seemingly endless dirt road to the camp. This is the part of the shoot I remember most fondly: those lyrical cavalcades at dawn, the mists rising from the swamps and lakes as we passed, blue herons silhouetted against the reeds, the village of Haliburton asleep as we roared along through the rosy sunrise. Leading the parade in the rented green Dodge was chipper Mary Guilfoyle, the Production Secretary. Following her a blue Econoline van filled with the young principles, always harmonizing (usually old Beatles songs— even right after breakfast). Then another Econoline bus, then twenty other assorted vehicles. As we neared the turn into the camp, we were joined by Ivan Reitman, The Director, and Bill Murray, The Star, arriving in different directions from their chalets on more exclusive lakes. Every day the caravan drove along the beautiful mile-long entrance road to the camp and every day I cringed in fear. Would the campers hate us even more today than they had yesterday? Would the campus who had promised to get up early to stand around for fours hours before they got to walk through a scene as “camp background” show up after all? Or would I have to run up and down that 1600 acres of camp another fifty times before I rounded up replacement extras who would then clamber after me, incessantly asking when they would get to show the movie cameras their special trick, or sing the song they'd practised so long or do their fancy widescreen dive. They didn’t get to sing their songs or do their photogenic dives. The smart ones figured out soon enough that they weren't getting any close-ups and that that was what really mattered. No close-ups, then no show as camp background. Then the kids started stealing production T-shirts or just not showing up for scenes they had promised to be in. By about the third day of shooting we were close to a state of seige. They never gave the T-shirts back. Hundreds of Camp Mohawk and hundreds of Camp North Star T-shirts were silk-screened and they all disappeared. As shooting went on, retaliatory measures heightened. In the last weeks of camp we had to post guards at night to prevent out-and-out sabotage. The hydrogenfilled dolly wheels were deflated more than once; grip equipment became featured decor in the cabins of the older ‘b et If this photo were in your high school yearbook, the copy underneath would probably read, “‘A Close Shave.” We'll go with that. kids. And I came close to quitting on the afternoon of the second day. It was blazing hot, the peak of summer and about fifteen of the cutest little 8year-old campers had sat all afternoon on the beach while one of the 8-year-old Toronto professional actors did a trick in the water over and over again. The “spectators” hadn't been allowed to move, not an inch, because everyone knew that they wouldn't find their proper places again and the scriptgirl had enough on her hands with the exploding beachball. So these cherubs sat in one spot for three hours on the promise that they would be featured in a potato sack race to be shot immediately after. As soon as the beach scene was finished, I rushed the little girls to their cabins to change from their bathing suits, got them divided into rival teams and positioned them on the starting line ready for the cameras to roll. After they'd waited another hour and even missed their snack, Gord Robinson, the Assistant Director, came quietly over and drew me aside: “Ivan wants bigger kids.” Mother of millions already on my second day on the job, my heart broke for them. “No. These kids have been waiting all afternoon for their chance. You can’t do this to them.” Gord was insistent: “Ivan wants bigger kids.” “You tell them,” I said, and walked away. About half an hour later (the crew were still setting up) I came back again and Gord said again, “Ivan wants bigger kids.” “Let him tell them,” I said and walked away again (lucky I didn’t get fired for this), this time taking a slightly bigger T-shirt from the wardrobe box. Finally everything was ready and Ivan stepped forward, clapping his hands like a Little League coach, and said cheerily, “Now where are my potato sack racers?” “Right here,” I said, my arms around all fifteen of them at once, all of them about three feet high and jumping up and down in ecstatic anticipation. “They need to be bigger,” Ivan said. “Here's a big one,” I smiled, and firmly pushed forward one golden-haired 3 1/2 foot beauty. “OK,” said Ivan, “Now here’s what I want you kids to do.” The day was won. Fennerman’s Revenge Anything not wanted on a movie set is handled with a shout from the Assistant Director: “Kill that motorboat” or “Kill that stupid hat.” Then somebody (actually a slave/Production Assistant) takes off on the run to quell whatever it is. Richard Lightstone, location Sound Mixer, had brought his beautiful dog Fennerman along to summer camp. Usually Fennerman responded to the A.D.’s shout of “Quiet on the set” by lying down at the Lightstone’s feet. One day the dog forgot and tore across the set after a bird in the middle of a take. This time it was Reitman, the Director, who immediately yelled ‘Kill that dog!” Two days later, Lightstone got his revenge. Reitman had brought his wife, dog and infant son Jason to watch the shoot. In the middle of a take, Jason let out a howl. But of course: Lightstone crowed “Kill that baby!” Both baby and dog lived—quietly ever after. TAKE ONE 21