Written By
Ted Nicolaou
During the Making of Subspecies
September – December 1990
NOV 26 — Mon — Continued: I rush up the marble staircase to the executive floor. I can hear angry shouting down the hall. Adjacent to the dressing rooms is a green room with a small bar and a conference table in the middle for the actors to hang out, eat, and drink tea. Michael and Anders have been drinking — not tea, but wine all afternoon. They’re slurring, stumbling drunk. And we’re shooting the sword fight today. Anders is raging about the treatment he’s received from Production: his plane ticket; travel to and from the set; per-diems; having to pay for his Nescafes. Michael is melting down about everything from his personal treatment to the way Production is abusing the crew. The splintered remains of a chair lie scattered on the floor. Broken glass from a hurled lamp sparkles across the floor and table. The poor cleaning woman responsible for the green room gapes at me in horror. Brenna is bawling. Michael sobs as he screams about the crew not getting food or water or overtime pay. Anders bellows that the crew’s problems are not the issue. It’s his own contract he’s talking about. They’re both right and they’re both completely insane.
I say “what the fuck’s going on?” And they turn their fury on me. Anders yells that I’m not doing a damn thing to protect my cast from the production problems. Michael screams that I have no conscience. How can I sleep at night, being a part of this cruel exploitation of the crew. They’re both so apoplectic I can’t believe the executives of Buftea whose offices are down the hall, haven’t come running. Michael cries, twisting himself in torment like a vampire James Dean. Brenna wails, begging them to calm down.
I explode. Yelling at Anders I’ve done a hell of a lot of shielding people from problems -- more than they even know. We’re all in this nightmare together, and everyone’s problems weigh on me. I tell Michael that I’ve done more to protect the crew than he’s done. That when he leaves, he’ll leave them feeling worse about themselves, from his behaving like a monster in front of them.
Michael charges at me wild eyed (this is the Michael Watson who’s bragged that he’s on parole in Washington for assault and battery, who loves to beat people to a pulp, growling at me nose to nose, “FUCK YOU, TED. You know why I say fuck you? Because what I’d really like to do is snap your scrawny little neck. And I could do it, too.” I stare back at him as calmly as I can, though my knees are knocking, and say in a voice I hope is not trembling, “I’m sure you could.”
At this point I’m ready to tell them all to go fuck themselves. I’ve been trying since the beginning to improve conditions here. But it’s almost impossible to change anything in the dysfunctional system left behind by communism. All you can do is nudge things in the right direction, inspire people in their work, and treat them decently. I care about and feel protective over everyone who’s contributing to the film. But my overriding responsibility here is to finish the film come hell or high water.
It’s now five o’clock and the crew downstairs is growing restless. Eventually, everyone calms down. Laura begs them to go back to work. Michael apologizes for the things he said to me, saying their anger is directed at the production, not me. I just happened to walk into the crossfire.
Now the problem is how drunk these guys are in relation to the dangers of the sword fight. We can’t go forward if there’s a chance of them getting hurt with the saw edged swords. I make them come out to the hallway and walk a straight line. Anders does fairly well, though I wouldn’t trust him swinging a sword at my head. Michael reels down the line. There’s no way we can do the sword fight today.
Viorel, the stunt coordinator lays a hand on my shoulder and assures me that it’s good for the sword fight if the actors are a little drunk. I tell him he’s crazy, it’s dangerous, and we’re not doing it. He keeps on encouraging us to do it. I can smell the alcohol on his breath too. I say forget it. We’re cancelling the scene today. He goes to Michael and tries to convince him to do the scene. Michael’s ready to do it, but I insist there’s no fucking way.
Michael and I go to his dressing room to talk for a while. I tell him after all we’ve been through he has to be responsible and help us finish the film. Now that things have calmed down, he’s a little more rational. This production is making everyone crazy.
By 6:30, we return to the stage and re-do a few shots to get Michele off the staircase to make the new ending work, then we move into the Sleeping Chamber to shoot the resolution scene, Michele begging Stefan to drink her blood and Stefan laying her to rest in the coffin..
Anders’ makeup is finished. He’s lying on the bed in the Throne Room. I’ve told him we’ll shoot the shot of him sinking his teeth into Michele’s neck for the revised ending, so his hours in makeup today won’t be totally in vain.
In spite of everything I like Anders a lot, and I love his depraved portrayal of Radu. I tell him that I really do enjoy working with him, in spite of all the horrible things he’s said to me. Underneath his bluster and rage beats a warm, sensitive heart. He knows when he’s wrong, but he can’t control his explosive temper. He says the same goes for him, and he hopes someday we can work together under happier circumstances. (note from 2026 – we did that many times in the years after, some of them almost as crazy)
As we wrap for the night Vlad and I discuss shooting the sword fight first thing tomorrow. I’m sure Vlad thinks we’re all crazy pains in the ass. I warn Michael and Anders not to drink until we’re finished. Tomorrow, Michael’s last day, will be a day from hell, with many scenes to wrap up. As if today wasn’t a day from hell. And most of the days before it.
I get back to the hotel starving. Order salami sandwiches from room service. Albert calls from LA to check on our progress. I try to explain to him what’s going on. Somehow, words fail to capture the madness. As I speak, I realize I sound like a whining little weenie or else a raving lunatic. Anders and Keith knock on my door, interrupting the call. They come in, we sit and talk for a while. We’re like the most fucked up family you can imagine. Somehow, not matter how awful things get, we end up laughing at the absurdity of our situation.
STILL MORE TO COME. . .
Thanks for reading. If you’re enjoying the journal, please take a moment to hit the “like” button, tell your friends, and come back for more. I promise - the worst is yet to come.
Ted Nicolaou
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