Mike Wells

in Miami
The London-based HLA producer was in Miami to produce Simon Ratigan's new Sony spot, Foam City. Having survived a car crash on the first day, the production team counted their blessings on a complicated shoot.

1 March 2008

Downtown Miami at 10pm on a Saturday night. The first day's shooting is done. It's always a relief to get day one out of the way on a shoot like this. It's logistically challenging and we're dealing with an entirely unknown quantity (no foam yet, just huge, beautiful bubbles). We decide to find a restaurant for a quick debrief and a look ahead to tomorrow.

We all pile into a minivan: Simon, me, DP Bob Pendar-Hughes, line producer Ira Brooks, production manager Dan Carter, First AD Jon Mintz and editor Bruce Townend. With our adrenalin still running after a day's packed schedule, there's noisy chat - then someone screams. There's a split second (but, strangely, enough time to wonder 'why the scream?') before a massive, crunching, deafening impact to my left. Glass is flying everywhere. It seems as though everything has gone black, but we are still moving. Then another impact, from the front this time.

There's complete silence. Bob groans from the front seat. Some of us are moving, while others seem completely dazed and are still coming round. My side door (away from the impact) slides open and we roll out into the street. Jon is mumbling "Call 911, call 911, give them the cross street," behind me. He's far more compos mentis than I am at this point - typical first AD. Slowly my mind starts to come back to me and I'm able to realise that my phone is somewhere in the back of the vehicle.

By this time other cars are stopping and people are calling the emergency services. Both front doors of the van are jammed shut so neither Bob nor Ira can get out. The rest of us stand or crouch, dazed, on the sidewalk, clutching various parts of our anatomies.

We have come to rest under the skirt of a tall building, neatly slotted between the steel upright that holds up the traffic-light gantry and a concrete post that supports the building. Two massive concrete planters have impeded our progress and have prevented a direct head-on through the plate-glass window of the building. That was the second impact. The cause of the first - a huge Ford 4x4 truck with a mashed front - is lying sideways-on next to the minivan, with a third vehicle behind; it had obviously piled into the rear of the Ford. Thank god we didn't roll, or hit either of those uprights, or it would have been a very different story.

Now the emergency services arrive. The police mutter something about being surprised at not having to use a body bag or two. As there is only one ambulance, which is allowed to transport only one casualty, they suggest that the rest of us should use our "own transportation" to get to A&E. Hmmm, interesting, considering that our minivan is smashed into the massive concrete planters. Happily, a PA leaving the set happens by at just that moment. With Bob in the ambulance (unable to walk due to a badly swollen, possibly broken, ankle), the rest of us gingerly (and with some reluctance) ease ourselves into a minivan that's identical to the one we've just been travelling in. Just as we are about to pull away, having each implored the driver to take it very gently, we realise that we are all sitting in exactly the same seats as before. We agree that it's too much like tempting providence, so we get out and change seats, shuffling around in a slow-motion, aching dance.

I don't recommend Cedars Hospital in central Miami at around midnight on a Saturday. Bob arrives as an emergency case and is hurried through to be sorted out. The rest of us arrive as walking wounded and take our place in line, along with the rest of the jetsam and flotsam that such a city can produce - as well as others who seemed to be expiring before our eyes. Everything is still very slo-mo. After 30 minutes, and with no sign of anyone getting seen within the next day or two, we decide to leave and take our chances at the hospital in Coral Gables, closer to the hotel.

It's a very different story there: we are immediately assessed by a triage nurse and are taken through to a series of rooms and wards where we lie waiting for attention. As the night progresses, we are each seen in turn and, thankfully, discharged after being given CAT scans, X-rays and painkillers. I am the last through X-ray. By this time I am longing for a bed where I can get some real sleep, when the radiologist works out that he is from the same neighbourhood in Brooklyn as Jon, who is being treated ahead of me. For god's sake stop talking about bloody Brooklyn and get me out of here!

The radiologist then discloses that not only is he an ex-actor, he is also deeply interested in photography. Can he come to the set and have a look at what we are doing? He would be fascinated, it would be wonderful . . . Yes, yes, yes - just give me the bloody X-ray and let us out!

2 March 2008
At 7am we get back to the hotel. We will meet at 10am. No decisions till then. I can't see any of us getting to breakfast, let alone shooting today.

At 10am we are all there. There are lots of grimaces, no sudden movements, and constant winces - especially when getting up out of a chair. But basically we are all in one piece. Bob's ankle is not broken but very badly contused and in a brace; he is not to put any weight on it for a while. Jon's nose is broken. He also has severe bruising along with possibly broken ribs on the left side, as do Bruce, Simon and I. It seems that none of us can turn our heads. Ira's left arm has glass embedded in it, though most of it has been removed the night before. In addition, Bruce's glasses are irretrievably broken, leaving him all but blind for the moment - not ideal for an editor. Dan seems to have escaped with the least pain, but frankly it would be just like him not to let on anyway, and I suspect that is exactly what he is doing. While the rest of us milk all the attention we can from hotel staff and anyone else who will listen, he is doing the listening and looking after the rest of us - good old Dan.

Okay: what's it to be then? We look at each other and the prospect of sitting around in the hotel fills us all with dread. We will go to the set, try to start the day and see how it goes. After today we have a week to edit before filming for a further five days, so the task doesn't seem too daunting. However, if we don't complete today's shoot the ramifications for the onward schedule are a nightmare.

So off we go for a midday call. Shooting abroad and working all hours in very intense circumstances is a bonding experience for a crew; time seems to both compress and extend, giving the impression that you've known local individuals for much longer than the week or so that's really the case. In addition, our car crash experience seems to bring out the best in everyone right across the crew. There is a real desire to get as much enjoyment as possible from this most extraordinary of productions. We receive lots of gifts of Arnica to mix with the cocktail of muscle relaxants and painkillers dispensed by the hospital. Arnica pills, Arnica gel, Arnica drops - everything but suppositories.

3-25 March 2008

The detail of this diary covers only two days out of the 25 we spent on location. I could go on from here but I would only bore you with the usual run-of-the-mill, seat-of-the-pants production stories that everyone is so familiar with.

I could tell you about the Public Works inspector who insisted that all sewers and storm drains in a three-block radius be sealed "for the duration of shooting but never overnight", and that all foam residue be "corralled and removed". I could recount the story of the City Hall scientist who insisted not only on knowing all about the chemical constituents of the foam, but also made a point of analysing an over-the-counter sealant used for sealing the drains and made the shoot contingent on that being acceptable.

I could tell you about the Jesuit priest who changed his mind on a location fee three days before shooting ($3000 upped to $20,000). He then saw the error of his ways, accepted the $3000 and promptly disappeared - only for his "management company" to appear and demand another $20,000. I could go into the logistical nightmare of creating millions of litres of foam on a daily basis and lifting tonnes of water onto roof tops. I could describe John Coller's mammoth foam machines, that are capable of blowing a million litres of air per minute. I could go on and on . . .

Most of all, though, I should tell you that, barring a nasty car crash, it was great, great fun and reminded me why I enjoy this ridiculous business.