by Sam Hutchins

The liquor store looked like a possible Kar Wai location. It was a gas station built for the original blue line highways that predated the interstate system. Better, it had been sloppily and gaudily repurposed with no historical regard, and even had its own fleabag motel out back. Perhaps the perfect Kar Wai honeypot.

Walking in, we were engulfed by the hurricane that was Ma Ma. She was a Korean woman of a certain age. Of what age I am not certain, but let’s say 60 would be a conservative guess. A guess which would be the last acquaintance we would have with the concept of “conservative” that morning. She wore a tightly fit black velvet top over leopard skin stretch pants. Chunky black Cha-Cha heels and a yellow silk scarf completed the look. Her personality was even more outgoing than her garb.

“Hey, what you doing here, Chinese man? You want some tea? Hahaha.”

Kar wai warmed up to her like he very rarely does with a person.

“I would, thank you very much. Actually, if you just have some hot water, I would like to serve you a special tea I brought from Hong Kong.”

“Yee-haa, that sounds good! Tell you what, you do that and I’ll make you some noodles I have special from Korea.”

“Oh, very good. I have not had breakfast yet.”

“Come, come. I make for you. No charge! Hahahaha!”

Everything she said was enunciated as a borderline yell, particularly this last bit. It was punctuated by her cackling laughter, as was every other sentence or so that came out of her mouth. She nodded at me.

“None for him, though. He too fat!”

“Don’t worry, he hates Asian food,” Kar Wai said of me. How did he get that idea?

“He should eat some noodles, maybe not be so fat. Hahahahaha!”

“I would like some, if that ees okay,” Darius chimed in.

“No noodles for you. Only noodles for handsome here.” She nodded at Kar Wai.

I started to ask her about taking pictures but Kar Wai cut me off and discreetly shook his head no. I suppose the interior wasn’t that great. White pegboard covered the walls and it was overly bright. Still, it seemed like his sort of place. I wandered outside and took pictures of the mountains, but the view was largely blocked by scattered ugly buildings. A billiard hall, a dusty furniture store, that sort of thing. Nothing with the slightest bit of character aside from Ma Ma’s liquor store.

When I stepped back in, Ma Ma had Kar Wai cornered. She was haranguing him about filming in her place. He had gone from warm to obviously uncomfortable. I did my duty and stepped in.

“We can’t shoot here, Ma Ma. You’re too sexy, you’ll make the starlets jealous.”

“Hahaha, you bullshit me. I no sexy, I no want to be in movie. I want you to film here, pay me lots of money, hahahaha!”

“Okay, the place looks great, but we have other places to see. Besides, we really don’t have much money.”

“Make me offer, hahaha!”

She really had Kar Wai pinned in the corner. I had to take her arm and pull her away so he could slip past. As soon as he had a clear path to the door he stepped quickly towards it. He called over his shoulder as he left.

“Thanks for the noodles, Ma Ma, they were very tasty. See you soon.”

She wasn’t done yet.

“Anything you want, I can get you.” She winked lustily. “Anything.”

My God. Even as we pulled away in the truck she stood on the sidewalk yelling and cackling at us.

“When you come back hahaha? I be here waiting hahaha! Plenty more noodles for you! Make you a good deal!”

I checked the rear view to make sure she wasn’t running down the street after us. Seeing our escape was successful I put the big question to Kar Wai.

“So, we filming there?”

“Location is great, but she is too much too handle.” He gave it a long pause. “Maybe when we film there we say Stephane is the Director.”

We all had a nice laugh and that broke the tension between Stephane and Kar Wai.

I love history, and read it voraciously. A few years ago while reading one of Ambrose’s oral histories of World War II I came across an absolutely amazing story. In the mop-up operations after D-Day American soldiers were registering German prisoners. I forget which beach it was, but it was someplace where Hitler had been certain would not be a landing site. The soldiers there were the dregs of the Wermacht. Amongst them were a few Korean men who did not speak a word of German, let alone English. Subsequent investigation revealed that they had fought the Japanese, been captured and impressed to fight for the Emperor. As Japanese conscripts they fought the Russians, were captured, and agreed to fight the Germans. The Germans captured them and shipped them all the way west were they wound up in a pillbox defending the Continent. I imagined Ma Ma had arrived here by some equally strange chain of events. She was clearly a survivor. What forces of history had washed her up on this mountain where we found her? I pondered this as we descended into the mountain basin where Ely proper sat.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

We wrapped things up at Majors Station with the promise of returning. I knew that we would. It was too great and weird a place not too. The owner had pointed us in the direction of Ely, a town further up the road. Apparently it featured the oldest full service hotel in Nevada as well as a few casinos. Sounded exactly like what we were searching for. Although still before nine in the morning, I had recovered enough to get behind the wheel again. The high elevation and cold mountain air proved a remarkable restorative. As we prepared to load up, Darius surprised us all.

“Eef you do not mind, I would like to drive now.”

How odd. Tens of thousands of miles into the trip he suddenly asked to drive for the first time. No one took issue with it, so he took a turn piloting the truck.

Majors Station sits at the far end of a broad basin high in the mountains. The road rises behind it, ascending sharply up and over the next ridge. Darius kicked up gravel getting out of the lot and muscled the truck up the road. We were halfway through second gear and starting to gain speed when Kar Wai commanded him to stop not 100 yards up the road so we could get additional shots of the location from above. I greatly enjoyed Darius frustration at this. Pictures taken, we set out again. The road was a series of sharp switchbacks and S-curves, blind turns and sheer cliffs often unprotected by guardrails. With no exaggeration, a wrong move could mean a fiery death for all of us. Darius reacted by driving like he was on the Autobahn and running late for dinner.

Adrenaline and sheer terror quickly elbowed the last remaining vestiges of my hangover aside. Glancing over quickly, I saw that even Stephane was not his typically oblivious self. We were both clutching the armrests and looking terrified. Only Kar Wai maintained his composure. As we burned around another corner with the tires squealing and narrowly missed sideswiping a truck loaded with hogs Kar Wai calmly spoke.

“Darius, we are in no hurry, you know.”

“Don’t worry, I am a good driver. Besides, you are supposed to accelerate through the turns. It gives you more control.”

Fortunately we topped the range and came out on a long straightaway running through another high desert plateau. A distant highway crossing was staked down by a very modern gas station/convenience store/taco shop combination. Approaching it, Kar Wai asked that we stop so he could make some tea. Exiting the car, he gently removed the keys from Darius’ hand and passed them off to Stephane. They tracked down some hot water and brewed tea while I scarfed down a giant extra-spicy breakfast burrito. If I’m going to stare down death I’m doing it on a stomach full of greasy, delicious food.

I attempted to look at the map with Stephane but he wasn’t interested.

“The lady said it ees these way, so these way is the way to go.”

Stephane is a great guy, but also quite stubborn at times. Something about Vegas really turned him ugly. Working in film situations can get pretty intense and heated, and it is not uncommon for tempers to flare. The key to being successful is learning how to forget. You yell at someone, they yell at you. You have to put the yelling behind you because in the next moment another problem will arise that requires collaboration to solve it. There’s no room for the holding of grudges. Seems he had not learned the lesson, though, as his anger held.

He was clearly upset as we continued up the road. Turning right where we should have gone left, I held my tongue. We passed a few recently built structures and soon were in the open desert again. Had we gone left we would be in Ely, but Stephane didn’t want to hear it so I wasn’t telling him again. Eventually Kar Wai spoke up.

“Stephane, you went the wrong way. Turn around.”

“This is the right way. I think Ely is just ahead.”

“No, it’s not. Turn around.”

Ignoring him, Stephane continued driving. We continued seeing nothing but wide-open spaces. It became increasingly obvious that we really were going the wrong direction. Kar Wai tried again

“Stephane–“

Stephane violently jerked the wheel over and screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust. Springing from the driver’s seat, he stomped off down the roadside kicking at the dirt and cursing in French. We all exchanged glances before I volunteered to chase him down. Kar Wai insisted on doing it himself, though, and set out after him. They stopped twenty yards or so down the road and proceeded to have a loud and very ugly argument. I couldn’t make out most of it but it wasn’t pretty. No kid likes to hear his parents get upset. After a lengthy exchange Darius turned to me in the truck.

“I think Stephane might be angry about something.”

My God, what a beautiful thing, to go through life so blissfully unaware. I almost envied him. Eventually we all were back in the truck, and I turned us around and headed for Ely as Stephane quietly brooded in the back. It was still early and we’d already had an eventful day.

Passing the crossroads where we had made the wrong turn, we rounded a bend and saw a great looking combination liquor store and motel. There were a few defunct gas pumps out front, and the building’s structure suggested that it had begun life as a gas station many years ago. It was built exactly like the old one-pump structures we had seen on Rte. 66. The road we were on was called Old Highway 50 , which only reinforced my hunch. Stepping into the place we met a character none of us will ever forget.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

I’m sure being stabbed in the head is uncomfortable, but it can’t feel much worse than I did when my alarm went off at five.  I sprung out of bed, caught my leg in the sheets and fell face first on the floor.  Thrashing my way out of the tangle, I scrambled across the floor in a panic.  Springing to my feet, I tensed up in a karate attack pose, which would probably be more helpful if I knew karate.   I stopped and forced myself to hold still, take a deep breath and assess the situation.  No immediate threat is apparent.  I’m alone in a hotel room.  It is dark, it is Vegas.  That’s right, I’m in the Luxor.  It’s all coming together for me.  Unable to properly focus my eyes.  My God, I’m still drunk.  Then the panic hits.  Shit, I’m late, need to go.  Need to get out of here.  Can’t be late.  Drinking cannot prevent me from doing my job.

Turning up the lights in the room didn’t help my eyes focus, it only made everything bright and blurry.  Dimming them to a slightly less painful level, I felt my way around the place, shoving everything that wasn’t bolted down into my suitcase.  Dunking my face in a sink full of water didn’t help the stink of booze come off me, but I didn’t know if I’d survive a shower.  Maintaining a standing posture seemed unlikely at best.  Can’t risk it.  Despite a careful idiot check, I wound up leaving several critical cords and chargers behind.  So be it.

I really, really didn’t want to be late.  Although I was ambushed with the early call time, I still had a job to do.  When at work I’m more dependable than the U.S. Mail.  My slogan might swap out something about booze for rain or snow, but I’ll retain the “dark of night” bit.  Hustling down the endless corridors, I saw they were littered with the detritus of other people’s long nights.  Disgusting.  Caesars would never allow a mess like this in the halls.  By the time I got to the front door I had a light sweat working.  I don’t imagine I smelled very pleasant.

Being Vegas, the valet didn’t bat an eye when a wild-eyed guy reeking of booze handed him a ticket and told him to hurry the hell up with the truck.  I greased him generously for his discretion.  After popping the hatch and loading my gear I realized I was the only one there.  The hell?  Where were my partners?  Feeling too unsteady to navigate the hotel again I shrugged my shoulders and climbed behind the wheel.  Cranking up the AC to maximum I reclined the seat and closed my eyes.

When I was young we once drove to Disney World as a family.  We had stopped for gas in West Virginia in the middle of the night.  I remember waking, Sissy and I snuggled in the back of the station wagon, and feeling comforted by the vibrations of the car.  As I drifted back towards sleep, “Under the Boardwalk” played on the radio.  We started heading south again and all was right in my world.  Something about being in the truck brought this to mind, and the world was fuzzy and soft around the edges as I drifted off with the engine running once again.  The guys found me passed out in the truck and eased me into the backseat where I gladly returned to my dreams.

A few hours later I woke up in a small town called Caliente, Nevada.  We were parked at a western diner and Stephane was shaking me awake.

“Would you like some coffee, man?”

“Huh?  Where are we?  What the hell?”

“We had to wake you, man.  You were snoring like a big bear.”

Darius joined in, laughing.

“Ooh, look, the bear is out of his cave.”

“Seriously man, you were snoring like an animal.  We thought you were hibernating.”

Heading inside, I was terrified at the thought we might want to scout the place.  I was in no shape to pitch anyone at the moment.  Mercifully, Kar Wai was not interested.  Taking my dopp kit, I went into the bathroom, filled the sink and took a whore’s bath.  Feeling just refreshed enough to pass out again, I headed back to the truck.  Kar Wai was giggling and plugging quarters into a slot machine as I passed.  He might have gone around the bend, but I couldn’t worry about it just yet.  Climbing in the back seat I drifted off.

When I woke again I was confronted by the bones of a thousand dead animals.  I heard the gravel crunch under the tires as the truck pulled to a stop.  We were parked in front of a large cabin of sorts.  The land behind it was fenced in, and every inch of the enclosure was topped by the bleached-out bones of game successfully brought down.  I was too disoriented to be scared, but a little disgust did manage to creep in.  A very parochially urban outlook on the situation to be sure, but like Popeye or the scorpion I am what I am.

Climbing out of the truck and stretching, I felt at least half-human again.  The cold, crisp air helped.  Looking around, I tried to get my bearings.  Although still a little bleary and worse for wear, I could see we were on a plateau pretty high in the mountains.  According to the sign on the cabin we were someplace called Majors Place.  Kar Wai asked me to see if they were open.

The place was locked up and there were no hours posted on the door, so I rattled it for a while.  Eventually an older woman came and opened up.  It seemed like she was expecting us.

“Come in, come in, I just put on a pot of coffee.  It’ll just be a minute.  Unless you want something stronger?”

We assured her that just the coffee would be fine.  I started explaining who we were and what we were up to while the guys poked around.  The place seemed to have a bit of everything.  There was a pool table, a few slot machines, and a table for card games.  Whiskey bottles lined the back bar and a basic food menu was thumbtacked to the wall.  Taxidermied animal heads and more bleached bones kept the general “death” theme consistent with what we saw outside.  She reacted as though she was approached by film scouts from Hollywood all the time; that is without the slightest surprise or excitement.

As it turns out, she was one in a long line of proprietors who were used to unusual visitors to Majors Station.  It was the site of one of the earliest trading posts in the state, eventually being used as a Pony Express stop.  The name came from a fellow named Alexander Majors, who was the main architect of the Northern route of the Pony Express, which ran from St. Joseph to San Francisco.  This place had been host to oddballs dropping in for over a hundred and fifty years now, which explained her lack of surprise.  We were just another group of travelers passing through.

Once again I marveled at what I do for a living.  My current office was a cup of coffee on a bar in an old pony express stop.  I snapped a picture of the scene in front of me before taking my coffee out to the front porch.  The air was damned cold but it didn’t bother me.  I sat, sipped my coffee, and enjoyed the view.  Saying a short prayer for the animals whose bones lay before me, I hoped that their deaths had served a good purpose and their spirits had been honored properly.
….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

I was planning on dinner at Nobu, but Kar Wai surprised me by asking for a steak. Very uncharacteristic of him. Fortunately my friends at The Palm were more than happy to oblige. Rare strip steaks, trays full of oysters and many glasses of cold vodka laid the base for a great night. Fully sated, we stayed at Caesar’s for a few drinks and some more uptight white cover band music at Cleopatra’s barge. More white, uptight cover songs and some dry-ice smoke made nice accompaniment for a game of guess which girls are working. As usual at Cleopatra’s Barge, the answer was “all of them.”

From there the evening went rapidly downhill, and I mean that in the best possible way. We headed over to The Wynn and scored a table in the little basement nook overlooking the private lagoon. Darius graciously bought us a lovely bottle of Champagne to share. Many glasses were raised and smiles exchanged. Darius taught Kar Wai the proper French way to toast. Getting into our cups a bit we headed to Circus Circus so we could drink at the Carousel Bar. We meandered ever deeper into the gutter, eventually throwing down shots with an Elvis impersonator in a punk bar downtown. My mission to entertain Wong Kar Wai was more than successful.

Late in the evening I remembered a place I needed to take them. Jumping a cab, we headed up the strip to The Peppermill. If you have never been, all I can do is urge you to do so. The Peppermill is many different things, all of them fun when the sun is down. At heart it’s a diner, but calling it that is like describing the Taj Mahal as a nice gravestone. While it is at heart one of those diners with a twenty-page menu, the décor is astounding. Neon lights run floor to ceiling and everywhere else. The waitresses are all showgirls and the uniforms emphasize their best assets. It has a full bar and if you order a drink it comes old Vegas style. That is, in a large and very full glass. They do not stint on the alcohol. The perfect place to finish an evening.

It was many hours since we had dinner, so we ordered some food to go with our cocktails. Kar Wai was swooning over the place, and went to town with his camera. While he wandered around grinning and shooting pictures, Darius worked his magic on the waitress. Amazing how good this guy is. If he weren’t married he would be damned dangerous. Before long we were a foursome in the booth, laughing, drinking, and about as far away from the previous evening as it was possible to be.

I saved the best for last, however. Finishing our snack we took our drinks mobile and headed for the fireside lounge section of the establishment. You may have seen it in the opening of the film “Casino”. Right there, on the seedier end of the strip, in a diner wallpapered in neon, is a pit in the floor. The pit is ringed by upholstered sectional seating like you would find in an Aspen lodge in the 70’s. The seating wraps around…wait for it…a flaming fountain. God I love that town. Drinks in hand, seated by the column of fire, I was just drunk enough to tell them about a recent experience I had in that very spot.

When I was first called to do the job I was in Vegas for the weekend. I had gone there with a crazy, curvy Swedish gal I met in New Orleans. Feeling lonely in New York, I arranged to meet her at Caesar’s. An exceptionally fun evening was wrapping up at that very fountain. We were drunkenly making out fireside when our waitress arrived with another round. She did that classic “Bunny Dip” they first taught at the Playboy Club in Chicago, easily lowering herself almost to the floor to serve us our drinks in our little sunken bunker. While doing so she made a dangerous comment.

“Well now, that certainly looks like fun.”

Bound by no sense of propriety, I engaged.

“Why don’t you join us then?”

With a smile and a quick glance around she leaned in and kissed my date. More than casually. Now here’s a story I’m familiar with. Leaning in, I gently separated them and tried to get involved. In my mind the three of us started an increasingly heated makeout session that ended with us all skinny-dipping back at Caesars. The reality, alas, was slightly different. What actually happened was that my move caught them both off-guard. The waitress yelped briefly as she lost her balance and tumbled ass-over-teakettle, doing a complete flip before landing screaming in my lap. The drinks flew off her tray and shattered against the wall and her leg briefly lingered in the fire. Not long, but long enough for the smell of burning nylons to fill the air.

Pressing what I perceived as my advantage, I attempted to continue the kiss. Somehow my perceptions differed from everyone else’s, a fact made clear by the waitress’ crying, the managers’ yelling, and the security guard bouncing my head off the floor as he dragged me out to the parking lot. Needless to say, there was no threesome happening that night.

Finishing the story, I had Kar Wai and Darius absolutely tearing up with laughter. Glad to be of service. What I had forgotten was Kar Wai’s deep perverse streak. The laughter trickling off, he turned on me.

“You think you really had a chance at both?”

“At the time I certainly thought so.”

“Interesting,” he nodded at a passing server. “Was that her?”

Despite my assurance that I had been drunk and could not pick her out of a lineup he proceeded to ask the same about every waitress that we saw. Being well into the evening, he asked about a few of the women several times. At that point I was realizing just how lit up I was as well. With my wealth of experience in the area, if I notice that I’m drunk that means I have really, really drank a lot. I decided it was time to wrap it up.

“Guys, it’s almost three in the morning. We should call it a night.”

Kar Wai flat-out giggled.

“Oh boy, is Stephane going to be mad.”

“Yeah, he missed a good night.”

“No, not that. I promised him we would leave early.”

“What time is early?”

“Five A.M.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t leave in two hours. I’m wasted.”

“Don’t worry, Stephane will drive.”

He couldn’t stop laughing as we crawled back to the Luxor. I set my alarm for two hours in the future before the bed swallowed me whole.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

Checking in was a nightmare. I had spoken to our office and asked that they put us in Caesars but rooms were once again too expensive. I could have called my rep there and gotten my suite comped and discounts on the other rooms had I known, but no one thought to ask me. Instead, upon hearing the rack rate at Caesars, they had booked us into the Luxor. I had stayed there before when it first opened and had a good time but that was twenty years ago. What had been a suitably fun and kitschy pyramid and tower had added several new buildings. Ancient Eqypt suffered from urban sprawl. The injury of waiting forty-five minutes to register was compounded by the insult of then walking approximately thirteen miles to find our rooms.

I quickly rebounded once I had a nice hot shower and a massage. A few phone calls to arrange the evening later, I was sipping from a water glass full of Stoli on the rocks in a lounge. Waiting for a local friend to arrive, I lost myself in the combo playing the room. Vegas is full of acts like this, talented musicians who have smoothed all the edges off their performances. They still bring the energy, but in the safest and most acceptable way possible. Hearing stuff like this anywhere else in the world would horrify me, but in Vegas it is exactly right. I wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest to be rocking out to a soulless, ultrawhite cover of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” when my guy showed up.

Visit concluded, I was reaching lofty heights when Stephane showed up and seriously brought me down. Just seeing him angered me, as he had not cleaned up or gotten dressed. He looked nothing but annoyed as he joined me at my table.

“What are we doing here? This place is terrible.”

“What are you talking about? This is great. Get your ass cleaned up, we’re hitting the town.”

I signaled the waitress who came right over. The tips I was throwing around guaranteed that. Stephane didn’t even register her presence.

“Hey, buddy, snap out of it. What are you having?”

“Nothing,” he said petulantly, “There is nothing here that I want.”

I rolled my eyes at the waitress before draining a few gulps of icy cold vodka and raising my empty glass. It went down well.

“Well I could use another.”

She headed off to fill me up and I turned back to my companion.

“Quit getting all French with me. Kar Wai wants to blow off a little steam. Fucking relax and enjoy yourself.”

Then the volcano erupted.

“I will not relax! I will not have fun! You can’t make me! This hotel is terrible. I hate this city. My bed was dirty and I want to leave. This isn’t the movie I want to make. This isn’t the movie I signed up to make. I’m going to find Kar Wai and get us out of here.”

I felt my insides tightening up as he stormed off. Life is hard, and I’ll take a break when it comes my way. Yet some people just refuse to enjoy themselves. I felt pretty certain that Stephane would happily join in the festivities were it his town, or he were somehow the center of attention. Not having the spotlight really bothered him. Wherever we go in life, some of us are still fighting for Daddy’s attention. Me, I’ll take my therapy in a rocks glass.

My fresh drink arrived, and I signed it to my room while checking to make sure I still held the valet ticket. I did, indeed, so no one was going anywhere without me. Let him have his little tantrum. He already pissed all over another city I love when we were in New Orleans. I wasn’t letting him ruin another good time. Soon enough Darius and Kar Wai joined me.

“Guys, you see Stephane? He’s pretty upset.”

Kar Wai waved me off.

“Yes, he will not be joining us tonight. Now I need a whiskey and some trouble.”

Coming right up, my friend, coming right up.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

We limped into Phoenix after midnight. Little was said in the time since Kar Wai made the revelations about his past. Even if we were comfortable enough to speak out, when he was in that state it was useless. And if we could get through to him, what to say? Sorry Chairman Mao’s thugs tore your family apart? Don’t think Hallmark makes the appropriate card for that one.

It’s probably for the best that there was no bar in the hotel. Or across the street, around the corner, or on any of the surrounding blocks, for that matter. After my brief, fruitless search I returned to the hotel and my room. Still, even absent the booze, I felt hungover in the morning. Perhaps an emotional hangover? We were all getting road-weary and the last few days had been pretty intense.

Kar Wai appeared and was just as lost as when we last saw him. No smiles, no greetings, no breakfast. He went to the truck wordlessly, sat down and buckled in. Darius, Stephane and I all had the same intent, which was to do our best to bring him back to a good place mentally. For once, their solution was to work harder. While I felt them, my experience teaches me that scouting smart is more effective than scouting angry. They wanted to explore Phoenix. I’ve spent time there and didn’t think it had much to offer us. My solution was to bust ass straight to Vegas and have a good time, blow off some steam then get back at it fresh. My faith in the healing power of debauchery remained unshaken. As I lost the vote, we began grid-searching the town.

A couple hours worth of strip malls, mini-marts, blinding sunlight and disappointment later, they agreed with me. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. Darius and Stephane bemoaned the lack of “there” there while I drove the car and held my tongue. Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot to love about Phoenix. I’ve done some

lovely camping in the deserts and mountains outside town. One of the best days of my life was spent in and out of a cool mountain spring that flows through the red rocks of Sedona. My first successful bar crawl using a fake ID took place in Tempe. However, our film stood nothing to gain from the area, and I was glad to put it behind us.

We pulled into Vegas in the early afternoon. By then Kar Wai had at least partially checked back in. The four of us had scouted Vegas on an earlier trip and found some things there to our liking. A couple of the seedy motels and casinos downtown were promising, and Kar Wai inexplicably loved a seriously run-down convenience store deep in the North Vegas ghetto. He had no interest in revisiting them but was not ready for the hotel, either, so we rolled around a bit. The man had gotten very interested in poker and was hoping we could find an appropriately dingy card room to scout. The big casinos had pretty successfully taken over all the action on poker, though, and it makes sense. Why do you need an underground game when gambling is legal?

****

Kar Wai and I had hit a mob-run poker game before we left New York. Our “poker consultant”, a former WSOP finalist, had hipped us to it. The three of us met in a Soho bar one night for a martini before making our way to a nondescript building on the edge of Little Italy. Stopping outside, the consultant got a little jumpy. Fair enough, as he didn’t know me and was trusting Kar Wai on reputation alone.

“There’s no messing around in there. These guys are serious,” he warned us.

“Don’t worry, I know these guys. If not, I know people they know,” I reassured him. He gave me a long look before making up his mind, then pushed the buzzer. The normal looking front entrance opened into a tight vestibule facing a reinforced steel door. We three squeezed in together and raised our faces to let the security camera have a good look at us. After an uncomfortably long pause we were buzzed inside.

Half a dozen tables filled the room, which appeared to be a hastily converted woodworking shop. Low level wiseguys played with slick-looking Chinese and an occasional asshole white guy with a doofy fedora or wraparound sunglasses. An entire room full of stereotypes. A platter of cold cuts sat unmolested on a sideboard. The house used a rolling locked tool chest as a bank. My eyes were drawn to a ridiculously hot blond broad who sat behind a large and growing stack of chips. As a younger man I would have been all over that, but having lived through that movie and its resultant misery a wiser me took her measure and put her out of my mind.

Our guide couldn’t play, which I understood. His rep at the tables was serious enough that sitting down was laying out a challenge that would have been met. Kar Wai is more about observing than participating, so it fell on my shoulders. Taking an open seat, I laid five hundred on the table and joined the game. Once again I found myself wondering what sort of receipt I could submit for this if I lost. Have to worry about that later and concentrate on the cards now, my game isn’t that sharp. Fortunately, I managed to tread water for an hour or so. Eventually Kar Wai leaned in and tapped me on the shoulder between hands.

“I’ve seen enough. We can go now.”

We gave each other a long look.

“Are you going to scout anyplace else…?”

He didn’t let me finish, but smiled widely.

“Yes, you can stay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck.”

****

Now it was months later and we were on the streets of Vegas. Kar Wai turned to me and I was pleased to see the return of that smile.

“Enough work. I think you need to show me how to have a good time in Vegas.”

My smile easily equaled his. Yes, my friend, you have come to the right place and you are with the right guy.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

The four of us returned to the car wordlessly. Sharing that sunset was one of those unforgettable moments in life, and the raw emotion of Darius’s statement settled over us. I learned long ago that you don’t have to like someone to love them, and this is as illustrative example as any I could provide. We each had a litany of complaints regarding the travel habits and petty selfishness of the rest of us yet there were no others I’d rather be with at that moment.

I took the wheel and blasted through the darkness. In a rare lack of foresight, I’d lost track of the next move. Usually I had mapped out each possible choice and done my best to be prepared for whatever decision we came to. Fixated as I was on making the sunset at White Sands I hadn’t been able to see past it. Now it was dark and we were in the wilderness, screaming westward down the roadway. At least our direction was decided, as the options were to continue west or cross into Mexico.

My choice would have been to drive until we were exhausted, then find a fleabag motel to crash in. Hell, given my druthers I’d have us pitching tents and camping in the desert. Had we done that we would not only make better time, we would have so much more memorable a trip. The closer you are to the ground the better you can tell the story. I’m reasonable, and could see us alternating between camping and sleeping indoors so as to keep the truck from stinking too awfully. But my companions would not dream of such a move. They required a certain comfort level, and wanted to stop and figure our accommodations out.

So against my objections we looked around Las Cruces for a place to grab some coffee. Not seeing a Starbucks by the time we reached the far edge of town, we pulled into a small strip mall. Light from a small storefront café beckoned to us. The sign read “Atomic Diner” and had the symbol for the Atom on it. What an odd thing to take pride in and a name from.

Maybe it was all the time spent with my companions, but the place seemed so utterly and inexorably foreign to me, for lack of a better word. I felt like I was in a David Lynch film, only with brighter lighting. The place was stark white, bright, and completely spotless. Its owner was aggressively friendly and slightly effeminate, a Mexican-American fellow with plucked eyebrows and what appeared to be traces of eye makeup on. He grinned like an idiot the entire time we were there and insisted that we try the pie. We lied and told him it was good. It wasn’t. All of it felt like a fever dream and I was eager to put some distance between us and the weirdness of the place. It was decided that we would press on to Phoenix even though it meant arriving late at night. I surrendered my objections in order to facilitate as quick a departure from the place as possible. I wasn’t sure if the proprietor was about to hack us up with a knife or perform an elaborate lip-synch number to Leslie Gore but I knew the next scene in that particular movie was grotesque.

Though I’d been driving hard all day I continued behind the wheel. Feeling energized by events I had no problem pushing us west on I-10. No one played any music, no one spoke. Our soundtrack was the wind buffeting the truck as we sped into the inky black night. Then, from nowhere, Kar Wai opened up.

“I lived in Shanghai when I was young. Very good childhood. My parents were very good to me. Dad was distant, but that is normal for our culture. My mother made up for it by loving me very, very much. My sister and I were very close, but my older brother was my hero. He was the coolest guy I’ve ever known.”

I was shocked by the words pouring out of him. Glancing at the rearview mirror I could see that Darius was as fixated as I was. So much so that he didn’t even meet my eyes but instead had his gaze locked on Kar Wai. I couldn’t see Stephane but could only hope he was hearing this as well.

“My Brother was very fashionable. He wore tailored suits wherever he went. He always had the prettiest girlfriends and all the guys worshipped him. He had the greatest, thickest hair. A pompadour, like Elvis. I wanted to be him when I grew up. Then the Cultural Revolution came.
“I was young, so I didn’t really understand what was going on. My parents tried to comfort me but I was very afraid. Suddenly it was dangerous to be noticed and everyone had to be quiet. The thing that scared me most was when I saw my brother did not wear his suits any more. I knew something bad was going on.”

Kar Wai was staring off in the distance and letting the words fall out of him as if by gravity. He often went into his little fugues, but never spoke and always smiled when in one. He wasn’t smiling now, but he sure was talking.

“One day they came to our house. They were there for my sister. Every family had to sacrifice for the common good, and they needed her. It was not uncommon. My brother fought them, though. He refused to let her go, even though my father was allowing it. Finally, and I don’t know how he did this, my brother convinced them to take him instead. He left with them and my sister and I got to stay.”

“What became of him?”

“I never saw him again. Just a picture, once. Years later someone who had survived the camps smuggled out a picture. It was taken a year after he left Shanghai and went to the countryside. His hair was all gone, he was bald. That’s the thing that really upset me. No more suit, he was naked from the waist up, bent over working in a rice paddy. His face had aged twenty years and all the laughter had left his eyes. That’s the last I ever saw or heard of him. Shortly after that my Mother and I moved to Hong Kong.”

Now openly staring at him, I was completely overcome with emotion. A few sniffles emanated from the back seat. What an absolutely soul-crushing experience. I couldn’t imagine living through something like he had. Yet his visage remained stoic, and he stared impassively into the darkness as we pressed on. Ultimately that’s all you can do, right? Just keep going, if you can.

We went.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

By the time the guys returned to the truck I was itching to go.  The idea of Roswell had amused me but the reality was depressing.  We loaded up and headed west on Main Street.  As we neared the end of the main run things opened up and turned into a more traditional new American town.  The old storefronts gave way to strip malls and Aliens lost out to Applebees and Dunkin Donuts.  We passed Roswell High School.  How odd it must be to grow up in a place that attracts UFO tourists.  I was a little surprised by the scope of the sprawl.  Roswell was a much bigger town than I realized.  Soon we saw a Starbucks and I didn’t need to be told, but pulled in and parked.

The Starbucks fixation was a funny thing.  Stephane and Darius were hung up on authenticity and local, unique experiences.  Yet when it came to coffee they were happy to embrace a homogenized national chain like this.  When I teased them about it Darius curtly replied that they made good coffee.  I could tell he was philosophically uncomfortable with his coffee choice, so of course I continued mentioning it every so often.  Kar Wai couldn’t care less; he was a tea man all the way.  He never had a Starbucks tea, but instead purchased cups of hot water that he used to brew his own.  He carried a briefcase neatly organized with dozens of different teas, each with its own purpose.  One extremely hung-over morning he prepared a special brew that he insisted I drink.  It tasted like tree bark and left me with the intensely irritating sensation of having my throat coated with dirt.  If the thought was to make me miserable enough otherwise to distract from the hangover then mission: accomplished.

Waiting in line for coffee I had one a weird, transportive moment.  As usual, it involved a woman – a young woman, a very cute blonde who had one of those smiles that just blinds you with its happiness.  She was with friends, laughing sweetly, and never even noticed me.  I got lost in that smile.  Saw myself approaching her, politely interrupting and saying hello.  From there we chatted, she showed me around, and the conversation never stopped.  I discovered her world and told her all about mine.  Her family had some of the nicest people you could hope to meet, and I wound up going to work for her father.  The job was good and we saved for our marriage, kids and house.  It was that sweet of a smile that I could see all of this reflected in it.  So many different possible lives out there to be led.  As sweet as the vision was, I wasn’t nearly ready to get off the road yet.  I took my coffee to go and left a little piece of myself behind.

We banged down the road west-southwest.  The land started to get really lovely, and I loved the rhythm of the town names.  Ruidoso just rolls off the tongue, as does Mescalero, Alomogordo, La Luz.  It wasn’t my scene, but the natural beauty around here was so great that I could see the attraction I suppose.  We made good time on the largely empty back roads, Kar Wai going into another of his wordless reveries.  Seeing that White Sands National Monument was just within striking distance I made it my mission to get there while some daylight was left.  I quietly pushed it pretty hard.  As usual Kar Wai and Darius were too lost in their own heads to notice but Stephane caught on.  Catching my eye, he silently looked at the speedometer and back at me while raising an eyebrow.  I smiled, looked away, and pushed a little harder topping 95 mph.  The truck was well built and cooperated without so much as a rattle or shimmy.

The sun was low in the sky when we reached the entrance to White Sands.  The blissful ignorance of my companions which had so frustrated me initially had reached the point of absurd comedy, as manifested in Darius response to arriving at the Monument.

“Oh, hey, White Sands.  We should look around.”

That right there is the trip in a nutshell.  Hours ago I had noticed White Sands on a map and decided to check it out.  I had set course and navigated there without help from my three passengers, nearly doubling the speed limit most of the way. I resisted a few stops the others had suggested making in order to arrive in time.  Now that we were actually pulling past the ranger station Darius noticed the sign and decided we should have a look.  Thanks for the suggestion, pal, we’re already here.  As Mr. McManus says, I used to be disgusted; now I’m just amused.

One other car passed us on the way out as we went in.  Otherwise the place was empty.  We climbed up on the most beautiful dunes I’ve seen outside of St. Bart’s and watched as the sun made its descent.  Darius and I simultaneously pulled out bottles of whiskey and we passed them amongst us as we watched.  It was an almost holy moment, it was so beautiful.  Maybe I should appreciate New Mexico a little more.  No matter what you have been through, a sunset as lovely as this will put a lot of pain behind you.  Taking a long belt Darius turned and addressed us.

“My friends, we began this journey as four strangers.  We have been through so much together now, this can never be taken away from us.  We have a bond.  For the rest of our lives we shall share these memories.  We are brothers now, brothers of the road.”

Okay, fine, maybe I teared up a little.  It was such a beautiful and unexpected statement.  We stood in the dunes and silently sipped whiskey as the sun kissed us goodbye for the night.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.

by Sam Hutchins

New Mexico is a very odd place.  It has some of the earliest Indian settlements we know of in the States.  The Anaszi people were living there as early as the 1500’s.  This brings only one thought to mind: why?  There are certainly some lovely natural features, but it’s hard to make dinner out of turquoise and quartz.  The landscape is frightfully harsh and barren, and even the best times there must have been hardscrabble.  Still the Indian (or First Nations, if you will) presence remains significant to this day.

There’s also a significant Hispanic population in the state.  To be fair, the territory didn’t always carry the prefix “New.”  Before we swiped it from Mexico it was not heavily settled and remained largely unpopulated frontier territory.  Much of the current Hispanic populace can be directly attributed to economic hardships south of the border.  Sadly enough a line in the sand can represent the difference between prosperity and hardship.  Understandably many Mexican citizens made the move northward into New Mexico, doing their utmost to become former Mexican citizens.

The question that vexes one is why the European Americans would migrate there.  The best answer I have is that many were just too weird to fit in comfortably anyplace else.  New Mexico seems to be a magnet for new age mystics, nutjobs who think they can assimilate themselves into the First Nations culture through the creation of bad artwork, and others who favor a hideous stone like turquoise.  It’s an ugly, garish, milky stone yet some people become fixated on it.  Odder still are the UFO fanatics.  Setting a southeasterly course, we headed straight for their Mecca.

As we pulled into Roswell I could see that it had indeed been overrun by aliens.  The entire town was alien-themed.  What I saw was perhaps stranger than an actual extraterrestrial landing.  Roswell was once a charming old American town.  The Main Street there was as classic as one will find anywhere.  One and two story stone buildings line the blocks, fronted by old-fashioned streetlights.  Close your eyes and you can see what it once was.  Clearly there was once here a Woolworth’s, a soda fountain, a Szabo shoe store, etc.  Now, however it had been forever altered by alien life forms.  Without exception the storefronts had been converted to tourist traps catering to the UFO-whackjob crowd.  (Some more earnest than others, but all con artists in the end.)  Even the streetlights had alien features affixed to them.

We wandered into a store and bought some gear like good tourists.  I got a shirt with a drawing of an alien on it for my sister.  She enjoys science fiction, but is smart enough not to take this crap too seriously.  Stephane bought an “I believe” t-shirt and put it on immediately.  He was getting much too much pleasure out of these people.  For my part I was just horrified.  People really buy into this garbage?  But I knew they did before ever getting to Roswell.

A few years earlier I had been home in Cleveland for the holidays.  I made the acquaintance of a young woman and brought her home for the night.  Breakfast was a wee bit awkward as I was staying at my father’s house.  It quickly moved from awkward to painfully uncomfortable when my new friend told us, quite earnestly, of the time she had been visited by aliens.  It was clear that she absolutely believed that it had happened to her.  My father is the nicest guy in the world, but he couldn’t resist a few good-natured jokes at her expense.  She got angry, things got ugly, and I was mercifully able to get her out of the house and my life.

Now we had found the place where all of these lunatics converged.  Somehow I found the place incredibly depressing.   Stephane led Darius and Kar Wai off to meet flakey Americans that they could feel superior to.   Splitting off, I wandered around until I found a liquor store.  Had a quick belt of whiskey and stashed the bottle in my bag.  Getting back to the truck I realized that one of the guys had the keys and I was locked out.  I sat on the curb drinking whiskey, taking pictures of the flies smashed on the license plate, and growling at anyone who got too close to me.  I wanted out of this city and this state.

….

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE SCOUTING LIFE.

Sam Hutchins has been working in film production for twenty years. He started as overnight security on the set of “Working Girl” while attending film school at NYU. Since 1995 he has been a location manager for some of the top names in the business. He’ll be blogging from a unique insider’s perspective on the filmmaking process, as well as speaking to his colleagues in the production community to share their experiences with you.