Page 21 of The Cut

Max was detouring back from Thousand Oaks, after a very frustrating day.

It was all over a badly received note he’d given on an edit.

He had driven two hours to meet the director, only to find a bull-pen of bewildered casting assistants thumbing through a diary with no evidence of a meeting.

LA was like that sometimes; piss people off and they would screw you over in a thousand tiny ways.

But the thought of his time with Charlie had cast a ray of sunshine over the dark clouds furrowing his brow as he drove.

Every other Friday afternoon, Charlie was all his for the weekend.

His ex, Brandon, lived in a remote part of Topanga Canyon.

The plaid shirts and rough hands of the woodsman had appealed to him once, but their lives had become complicated.

Off-grid living with oil lamps and shitting in an outhouse wasn’t really conducive to the high-tech demands of film production.

So, a detour had occurred. He often felt like he was on an eternal detour.

But the route from Thousand Oaks via Topanga and back towards Hollywood was one of those tedious drives made a million times better with his son riding shotgun.

They could stop at Patrick’s Roadhouse by Ginger Rogers Beach for a surf burger; Charlie’s favourite with mushrooms and Jack cheese, to go.

He would drop the roof while Charlie ran in for a pee, before getting a head start on the traffic, cutting through Brentwood and up on to West Sunset towards Laurel Canyon.

It was longer and windier but with the radio on and Charlie’s shoulders shimmying along to the Beach Boys, everything was OK with the world.

‘I need to brush.’ A sleepy-eyed face peeked out of the deep pillow as Max laid Charlie down. Cocoa stirred in his bed, then sleepily hopped up on to Charlie’s and snuggled in, wrapping his front paws over Charlie’s feet, like he always did. A lifelong friend.

‘I’ll bring it in.’ By the time Max had returned with a toothbrush and a glass of water, Charlie was out for the count. The window was cracked ajar and the mosquito net adjusted. The cicadas clicked and brushed their metronome pulse as Charlie blew out a tired bubble from red flushed cheeks.

Max removed his sneakers and moved on silent socked feet out of the bedroom and down into the basement of this mid-century cantilevered box set into the canyon cliffs.

The soundproof suite wouldn’t disturb his sleeping baby boy.

The door closed with a vacuum suction and the electric blackouts sealed in the darkness from the light pollution outside.

The note from Foxcatcher read:

Pre-lap. Opening establishing shot. We meet the main characters.

‘Roll A001 Scene 6 Take 1a. Mark it!’

The figure on screen moved slowly through a gate, hesitated, then turned into the narrow pathway lined with high metal fences.

The shaky video was handheld; someone was following close behind.

It was real and intimate. The first few dailies were always nerve-racking to watch; it was the earliest impression of how the film would look and feel.

Max liked what he saw. Karine Mickelsen 120 wasn’t a multi-award-winning director for nothing. The shot was dripping with atmosphere.

The frame panned up slowly into the face of a boy wearing a dark-green hoodie.

There was just a glimpse of his profile as he glanced furtively over his shoulder; he was carrying something heavy slung over his back.

A body in a bag, perhaps? The shot suddenly cut to a close-up of his face as he recorded himself.

Clever: she must have gained access to his iPhone already.

His pace quickened, eyes darting nervously around as the shadow of The Cut swallowed him. He was up to something.

A different angle now, from a distance, higher quality and well framed.

The long lens with a narrow field of vision felt like surveillance.

This was her master shot. The camera was framed up on a gap between two red-brick houses, a larch lap fence and the footpath that skirted the perimeter of the vast gardens.

The frame pushed in close on three figures leaning against the fence at the end of the lane.

They were waiting for him. As the shot pulled back wider, the three figures slowly stood up and the boy carrying the body bag halted.

The timing was exact, almost robotic, as the three of them moved in perfect synchronicity, barricading his path.

It was a stand-off. As he turned away, another form entered the frame from behind.

This was an ambush: he had nowhere to turn, he was trapped.

The boy dropped what he was carrying and braced himself.

Max already knew what was coming. He paused the film and made a note.

At 5.36 remove 10 frames, consider delaying the reveal for more impact.

The close-up selfie on Nathan’s iPhone suddenly whipped around as the three boys charged at him out of the shadows in a 121 sudden flurry of movement. From afar, it was like a pack of wolves devouring their prey: fists flew and clothing was ripped apart.

The handwriting on the notepad became scrawled and shaky.

Use a 90-degree lens effect here, if possible, for maximum dynamic.

Max breathed deeply, trying to steady himself. The fight was brutal.

A harrowing scream ripped through the silence.

The kid was getting beaten black and blue.

Max was used to all kinds of blood and gore; it was the currency of the horror genre, but this was savage.

Kids against kids. It sent a wave of nausea through him.

The shot pulled back to the master and faded out to the sound of boots thudding against flesh, accompanied by the screams of pain. The screen dissolved to black.

‘Dada?’ He was hearing things. He rubbed his eyes, inhaled deeply and tried to focus.

The second assembly began in the same way: ‘Roll A004 Scene 6 Take 2. Mark it!’

The time code ran down and the screen faded up to the same path and the silhouette of Nathan in the distance.

It was the same scene but from a different point of view and this time the boys waiting in the dark had weapons.

Fingers closed on the handle of a baseball bat as the camera travelled at speed towards Nate, chasing behind the three thugs as they pounced.

Jump cuts now into close-up shots of boots kicking into ribs and knuckles on a crowbar as it swung high in the air, about to descend with force and smash into his skull.

‘Dada? NO!’

Max hit pause and the screen froze on that terrified screaming face. The image was bleached out by the stark light bleeding from the open door. 122

‘Charlie, what are you doing up?’

‘What’s happening to him?’ Charlie was trembling, as if awoken from a nightmare. Max stood up and gathered his son into his arms. ‘It’s OK, Chol. It’s just a film. Something Dada’s working on.’

‘Don’t let them hurt him.’ Charlie’s tiny balled fists screwed into sleepy eyes.

Max carried his son up to his room and tucked him in, popping Sonic the Hedgehog under his arm.

He stood by the bed for a moment, watching over him.

Kids were like sponges at this age, vulnerable and open, listening to everything and absorbing the smallest of details.

Max flinched as a jolt of nausea surged from his stomach to his throat.

The thought of his little boy suffering at the hands of a school bully was frightening.

Max knew he had the capacity to kill anyone who dared to lay a finger on his kid.

The overwhelming love and protective instincts were strong within him, as fierce as a furnace.

Over the years, most of Max’s storytelling instincts had been allegories of David and Goliath type battles between good and evil.

It was his signature, and this one would be no different.

The scene he had just witnessed was hard to watch. She had thrust the viewer directly into the place of the victim. It was visceral and almost too much to bear.

But this was just the tip of the iceberg.