Diary from set - Abruzzo

When I was told we were moving to a remote location to film the latter part of the movie, I didn't really think it was going to be that remote. But actually, I have come to learn that some parts of this land are still incorrupt. Virgin. And far removed. Extrasolar far removed in some cases.

I initially imagined myself walking the snaking cobble-stoned alleys of a quaint medieval Abruzzo village perched on a high windy mountaintop, with little old ladies dressed in black nodding as we city slickers passed by, and elegant gents wearing their hats before a shot of grappa and a smoky hand of briscola. And Castel del Monte is all that. And much more, thankfully. But it is remote as remote gets.

We are surrounded by beauty and nature as far as the eye can see. Fast racing clouds chase the sunlight over the rolling hills and valleys below. High, barren mountains of neolithic matter loom above us, shining brightly in the thin air and brightest of sunlights. Where forests cloak elevated surfaces, the autumn leaves show off their auburn colors with flamboyant pride. The earth shakes every once in a while, reminding us of the April tragedy that has changed the people around here forever.

The air smells clean. I wake to chirping birds in the early morning. And yesterday we spotted a pack of wolves behind the restaurant during lunch break. The skies have been benevolent and have not rained (or snowed) upon us too bitterly. The town folk is friendly and politely astonished at our barbaric invasion. The everyday food and wine is Out of This World, and hanging out with a fun crew makes the hard work a little easier.

But there is no Internet.
Very little cell phone coverage.
No cable TV.

The only Wi-fi available is in the main Production office, which is a public place I can have access to after a 12-hour day and for a limited time frame. Oftentimes the choice between blogging or catching up on my electornic mail and a hot shower falls for the latter. And so I have failed to keep up. I fearfully open my flooding inbox once a week when I return home for the weekend. I have a hard time responding to all those who seek a word with me. Even spam is beginning to give up on me. Haven't chatted on Skype in eons. Blog etiquette out the window. Readers perplexed. Those spoiled by my thrice-weekly posts have not heard of me in months. The weekly appointments with my guest chefs at Be my guest are at a standstill.

I am home for a long weekend, and the playtime, bathtime and cuddletime with my son is momentarily on hold (he's snoring). So I take advantage of this little moment before slipping into bed next to him and inhaling his sweet smell before falling asleep under the covers of my bed–and not the hotel bed I am calling home for most of the week–to apologize for the long silence. And to ask you to bear with me.

I am eating astounding local and unusual things, learning of new interesting Abruzzo wines, traditions and food lore for my journal. And I am keeping notes. I will return to blogging routinely in 3 weeks when the film's principal photography will come to halt before taking off again for another chapter after the holiday season.

In three weeks I promise I will make up for the lost time on these pages and pledge to tickle your appetite again soon.




For now you'll have to make do with my Archive.
Scusatemi!

Filming The Life Aquatic with Steve ZIssou in Anzio

Daybreak at Anzio, 2003

This photo was taken on a chilly December morning on the Anzio coastline during a day filming. Part of the reduced crew I was working with and I were waiting for the Belafonte ship to sail by for a second unit shot. We sat there in awe of this beautiful sky, hoping the moment could be extended.

During the filming of Wes Anderson's The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, this sunrise on the calm Anzio waters is among the fondest memories of those busy days.

Tiny Heroes

The Florence American Cemetery and Memorial site covers 70 acres, chiefly on the west side of the Greve stream. The wooded hills that frame its west limit rise several hundred feet. Between the two entrance buildings, a bridge leads to the burial area where the headstones of 4,402 military dead resting here are arrayed in symmetrical curved rows upon the hillside. They represent 39% of the U.S. Fifth Army burials originally made between Rome and the Alps. Most died in the fighting that occurred after the capture of Rome in June 1944. Included among them are casualties of the heavy fighting in the Tuscan Apennines shortly before the war's end.
In the fall of 2007 I worked on a film that narrated those very events. Miracle at St. Anna follows four African-American soldiers of the 92nd Infantry Division – known as the Buffalo Soldiers – who find themselves caught behind enemy lines and surrounded by German soldiers after one of them risks his life to save an Italian boy. They take refuge in a small Italian village on the Gothic Line, that has been temporarily vacated by the Germans during the Italian Campaign of WWII. In their company is Angelo, the small boy, shell-shocked and feverish, who seems only to speak to his invisible friend Arturo.

The story is inspired by the August 1944 Sant'Anna di Stazzema massacre perpetrated by the Waffen-SS. On May 2, 1945, the enemy troops in northern Italy surrendered. Shortly before withdrawing, the Nazi left a wake of horror, atrocity and devastation behind them. The manic rush of violence and mad killing that followed as the enemy fled these lands, accounted for the vast majority of casualties and mass-murders on the Italian peninsula.

On August 12, 1944, retreating SS men of the II Battalion of the 16th SS-Panzergrenadier Division, commanded by Hauptsturmführer Anton Galler, rounded up 560 civilans between villagers and refugees – mostly women, children and older men – brutally shot them in cold blood and then burned their bodies on the holy ground in front of the town's small church.

When we arrived in Sant'Anna on the day we were to film the massacre scene, the dawn sun was shining, much like on that dreadful mid-August morning. Young extras in period costume were shivering by the craft service table, blowing into their steaming cups of early morning coffee, and trying to get a glimpse of Hollywood. Children played football by the trailer base camp, in their 1944 attire, oblivious and giggly.

We respectfully brought about our daily chores and duties, and commenced our filming day as usual, busily organizing the first shot. It involved two simultaneous tracking dollies and a wide angle crane shot. As the grips and gaffers built the tracks and the camera department assembled their gear, I took a little stroll. I met a few silent glances from my colleagues and continued on, respectful of the place's history and aware of the stagnant negative energy surrounding me. It felt so strange to be walking on the very spot where 62 years before, such horror had occurred by the hands of other men.

I entered the church at my own risk. I had been warned by the sound engineer, my friend Maurizio. He had gone in minutes prior and exited sniffling. He's usually a big smile person, so a sad face on him stood out. I wanted to go in nonetheless, to say a little prayer for those 560 people that died on a morning not unlike that one.

The entire east-facing wall of the tiny chapel was covered floor to ceiling with small plaques, faded photos, scribbled inscriptions and epitaphs. The age of the oldest victim honored on that wall was 16. The youngest was a 2-week old infant. That wall was the children's memorial section, and the images of those 110 innocent faces staring back at me gripped my throat like a tight Nazi fist. The majority of the victims of the massacre that took place in Sant'Anna di Stazzema were children and young women. The men were either fighting, dead or hiding in the mountains surrounding the town. The few invalid elders in Sant'Anna died by the same two MG34 machine-guns that swept the church ground that day.

A sign by the exit read that the church organ was riddled with machine-gun bullets and the christening font completely destroyed by a grenade. The pews were then used for a bonfire to burn bodies. Many of the corpses were doused with petrol and then set alight. When the SS unit ran out of petrol, they used phosphorous.

As the day progressed, we reenacted the horrible events that took place on that day. I couldn't get the image of those children out of my eyes and had a very hard time trying to stay focused and do my job correctly that day. I was never that close to a war as on that sunny autumn day. I had never really understood what it must have felt like to be living it. I never quite caught the true meaning of a day to celebrate the memory of the military. Until then.

...

Italian war veterans are celebrated on June 2, on the Day of the Republic. On the Last Monday in May, I salute all the American soldiers that gave their life with valour during battle here in Italy. Besides Florence, the city of Nettuno also is home to another monumental American war cemetery. I've been there recently and it is a peaceful, incredibly quiet place by the sea, where a carpet of white stone crosses blankets the closely mowed lawn.

But today it is for those 110 children and 450 innocent victims of Sant'Anna that my Memorial Day thoughts go to. They too are heroes, and I wish to remember them because they too fought a battle on their last day. They faced fear and death with honour. They are not buried in a cemetery. They do not rest with their beloved or in holy soil. They nonetheless deserve to be mentioned and celebrated on this day. Those 560 represent the many faceless civilian victims of our wars that in each combat, give their life for no cause. For no apparent reason.

The youngest victims of the August 12, 1944 massacre

Diary from the set, part IV

Here are 2 more photos I forgot to upload after my return from the recent location shoot.

These were taken at the Medieval Abbey of Casamari, where many scenes from the film were shot over the last 4 days.



The story we are telling is the interesting life of an Italian poet living in France in the tumultuous times immediately following the demise of King Charles V. The poet's name was Cristina da Pizzano, or Christine de Pizan (1363–c.1434) she - to quote Wikipedia - "was a woman of the medieval era who strongly challenged misogyny and stereotypes that were prevalent in the male-dominated realm of the arts. Cristina became well-known and highly regarded in her own day, she was born in Venice but spent most of her childhood and all of her adult life primarily in Paris and then the abbey at Poissy, and wrote entirely in her adoptive tongue of Middle French. Her early courtly poetry is marked by her knowledge of aristocratic custom and fashion of the day, particularly involving women and the practice of chivalry; her early and later allegorical and didactic treatises reflect both autobiographical information about her life and views and also her own individualized and protofeminist approach to the scholastic learned tradition of mythology, legend, and history she inherited from clerical scholars and to the genres and courtly or scholastic subjects of contemporary French and Italian poets she admired.Supported and encouraged by important royal French and English patrons, Christine had a profound influence on fifteenth-century English poetry. Pizan completed forty-one pieces during her thirty-year career (1399–1429). She earned her accolade as Europe’s first professional woman writer."

She wrote in defense of the poor, of women and the destitute victims of political oppression and struck a mighty pen at the tyrants of the time. In our romanticized version of history, we have Cristina maintain an epistolary and platonic affair with an ordained prelate to whom she remains a loyal friend until the end, and with whom she co-wrote many interesting essays , one of which on the figure of Joan of Arc.

On Friday we wrap our third week of photography and the next three will be on a sound stage in Cinecittà, Rome's leading film studios. I will post photos of the constructions built especially for the film and capture more images of my days "behind the scenes," sharing my thoughts and my days with you.

Ciao.

Diary from the set, part III

I leave in a few hours, I'm posting my last journal entry from last week as I set off for 3 more days abroad. Hopefully no more hotel/food horror stories...

Day 3 - Wednesday April 29th - sunset

This is the view I moved to today. The previous days' Overlook hotel was so noisy and brutally smelly that the few of us crew members staying there provoked a Bounty-like mutiny and demanded we change. So here we are.

A small agriturismo (working farm with b&b-style rooms) overlooking the splendid Lepini hills of the Frosinone region. Quiet, cozy and clean. Downstairs the signora is simmering asparagus for the ravioli filling and I can’t wait to tie an apron around my ample hips and lend a hand in her country kitchen. Outside in the yard, a suckling calf is scampering around its mother, cowbell ding-aling-ing along. The thundering sunset is offering up a spectacular skyscape.

My child spoke to me on the phone and closed our overlapping conversation with a heartwarming ti voglio bene, mamma – "I love you mommy" which made me melt with happiness. Tomorrow at this time I will be racing back into his arms, waking him from his sleep if need be to kiss his face, his wee sweaty hairline, his tiny chub hands, his feet.

This is where we shot today, and where we'll return after the long weekend home. A Cistercian abbey perched on top of a hill in the small town of Casamari.





Ciao amici miei, thanks for reading!

Diary from the set, part II

Today I am one year older than yesterday. It doesn't feel any different. Unless you count the apricot-sized lump in my throat every time I softly pronounce age to self. Looking in the mirror, I can see the expression lines creeping around my eyes. Too many smiles have left their mark. A handful of silver threads in my hair and my pear-shaped body remind me every day that the spring season is ending, my oak leaves turning tawny.

But not today. Today I feel young and free. Lighthearted and happy. I am with a special boy who grabs my hand and kisses my cheek at the supermarket. He picks out the mortadella from the deli counter and decides for the olive oil crackers, I smell the melons and teach him the word "ananas," Italian for pineapple.

He's becoming too heavy for the seat behind the handlebar, and I had to give in to purhcasing a plastic Pluto doll, despite the fact we have one already. E's eyes sparkle in the Roman sunlight and the warm wind toustles his fine ash blond hair. he looks up at me and says, ero triste mamma, finalmente sei qui - I was sad, mommy, finally you're here.

Am I or not the luckiest birthday girl alive?


Whenever I flush the toilet, the pipes play a deep trombone note that wakes my entire floor. The new hotel is closer to the new filming locations and thankfully doesn't smell like smoke. It is curiously however somehow connected by some bizarre vent system, to the kitchen. So this morning my acute sense of smell was not tickled by coffee and warm croissants but rather by yesterday's minestrone. Not exactly the best wake up call. As I said, not all that glitters is gold. The movie business, and all things connected to it, housing arrangements and food included, can get quite stank at times like these.

It's hard to go back to basics and live in a place with no wireless connection, poor cell reception and cable TV. I've always dreamt of the benefits of living the simple life, but now I can't blog nor be reachable other that on the 3-star hotel land line. Having left my small child in the care of my elderly osteoporotic mother and a non-native nanny, phone communication makes me feel safer. It also cuts down on the guilt factor if I can call my son and coo for a few minutes listening to his stories of lions, dragons and powerful diggers.

The crew's been scattered among 3 different hotels varying in distance from the locations. I’m 5km away, some are a 10-minute drive away, some have to travel a half-hour. But the inverse proportion is closer-crappier, distant-deluxe. For some reason I got stuck with the former. The fun, younger crowd is enjoying saunas and excellent meals 50km away. I'm writing this not sure I can post it before I return home on Friday. And the food here has yet to jolt my tastebuds out of apathy.

Sermoneta, castle 

Yestarday's rain and curvy roads to get here added nausea to the chill.

But this is what must be done, this is what it means to work as a single parent. I'm the breadwinner. The working girl. The sole provider. I’m so tired and worn out, though. I'd like to be home now, snuggled up to my sleeping child and not here in a squallid hotel, with torn towels and noisy pipes. I don't care for luxury, I don't mind the smell after all, I'm easy and I'm flexible. But sometimes I feel I'm giving so much more than I'm getting back. And right now the lonliess and lack of love is making me cry.

The shower towel in my bathroom...

I have to pack my script bag and shlep it to set now, because the call time is on. Today we shoot in a Medieval abbey, I'll take pictures and hopefully post them in my next update.

Ciao.

Diary from the set, part I

I lied. I said I would post from the road, but I did not.

I'm home for the weekend. On a National holiday the crew gets May 1st off, European Labor Day. I've just returned to my desk from a lovely picnic with friends. We spent the morning playing football and chasing butterflies, the park was noisy with kids' laughter, jaws crunching on fava beans and Pecorino, our posse drunk on Roman sun and strawberry Prosecco.

The work week was good, quite productive despite the unforgiving rain and the usual difficulties of location shooting. The living conditions were tough, the food horrid but the setting was very pretty. I wrote every day, hoping to be able to post, unsuccessfully. I kept drafts and decided to blog them now, one day at a time. I am loyal to my friends and readers, so a promise is a promise where I come from. My wish is to include you in a retroactive journey to the places and feelings I lived in, over the last 4 days.

...

Here's what I would have posted, had there been a chance. They are more like journal entries than posts. A list of laments in many cases:

Day 1: Monday, April 27th - after a very bad dinner experience

The room smells like old cigarettes despite the no smoking sign. At the hotel restaurant I waited close to 2 hours to be served a plate of cold pasta with nondescript meat sauce immediately followed by a dry breast of roasted chicken onto which an entire pepper mill had been spilled. I'm in a rusty mood because I can't understand bad restoration, but contrary to the current predicament, my day did start well. I spent the morning filming in a gorgeous setting, surrounded by lush vegetation, breathtaking vistas and in good company.

Our lead actress and 3 extras in full costume during a bucolic scene.

The garden of Ninfa is a fairytale haven, esconced at the foot of a sheer limestone mountainside, only a few miles from the sea. Monarch butterfiles and sparrows shared the air surrounding us; we walked amid clusters of snow white roses and languid albino wisteria, 6ft shrubs of laurel and sage lining the gravel paths that crept around the citrus groves and 7 natural springs that snaked around the garden. Being the flora-freak and frustrated garden-less green thumb that I am, I felt like I was in paradise.

In the half-hour necessary to build the track and the crane used for the first shot of the day, I wandered around the property shooting pictures, smelling the perfumy flowers and taking in the surrounding beauty, drinking it in overflowing gulps. The stony, half crumbled Medieval structures stood standing like empty masks, lay forgotten on a pristine lawn. The beads of dew dotting the yellow acacia blossoms and the Japanese camelia flowers glistened in the pale morning sun, the birdsong sang to my heart notes of peaceful melody. I was ecstatic. These are the days in which I realize how lucky I am to do what I do. My job gives me the opportunity to visit wonders the existence of which I otherwise never would’ve known.


Things started to take on a bad fold when at luchtime, we had to fight for silence after a large group of school kids on a field trip began screaming and racing around the gardens in headless chicken manner. Soon after, dark clouds began to gather overhead and a strong wind began to howl furiously, shaking flowered shrubs and lifting billowing clouds of dust. Trying to take notes and keep track of dialogue and film stock use, continuity and camera reports while marking a 90-page script in a twister-like storm is not easy. I sat on my usual applebox by the wide angle lens camera and was nearly swept off my ample derriere by a strong gust, while the second camera, operating on a steadicam had to give up on a leading shot down a tree-lined path beacuse the wind was so strong, it threw the 300 lb operator+rig off balance. I hate the rain when I’m stuck in it, and the show must go on.


We wrapped the day after completing our 10-hour shift, slapped by violent buckets of chilled water and aggressive gales. After a curvy drive uphill, I walked Marcel Marceau-style into the musty hotel reception, grabbed my key and made for the shower. I must say the little cubicle washing enclosure did restore heat to my limbs. It was a mystic experience. At no less than 110°, I scorched my skin and stood chin to chest under its strong jet for something like 20 minutes, singing the aria "All'alba vincerò" at full lung capacity.

Face flushed by the searing ablution, skin balmed with almond oil and hair wet due to malfunctioning hairdryer, I wafted down to the reception to check my email in the small internet point (a desk in a corner of a dimly lit room). Unfortunately that's all I could do. 25 people in line and no time to log onto Blogger. Too lazy to go out again, discouraged by all the rain that had soaked my bones and that kept pouring in sheets, I opted for a meal in the hotel. Big Mistake. Long wait. Bad food = bad mood. I apologize for the tone, but I am fuming as I write this, knowing it will not be posted.

It's late now, and my eyes are closing. I will try and steer my dreams back to that idyllic garden and like a bee, travel from flower to flower. I’ll transform into a Kafkian bug or a nimble lizard and slip from rock to grass in rapid bursts of cold blooded energy. I'll become a sparrow, diving down from my corner nest barely touching the surface of a stream down below. I'll be a carp, under the surface of the lagoon, calmly observing humans above the shimmering surface in their dry aquariums.

I'll wake tomorrow to another day in a beautiful place. It's Sermoneta domani, where we shoot a crowd scene in the Medieval town's stone alleys. The weather forecast isn't promising, but at least we'll find mushrooms.


Buonanotte.