Hugh Taylor Birch State Park: The End Of The Shoot
FLORIDA
“It’s a wrap,” he said softly. Three magic words from one man and dozens of others sigh in relief that the shoot is finally over.
Speaking those words: Hank Redfeather, an Irish, German, 6 foot 4 Native American dressed in black cargo pants and black t-shirt. Around his neck, a silver stopwatch dangles from a silk cord. Perched on his head, a red baseball cap, its brim framing a cascade of black curls tied in a careless ponytail.
Releasing muscles tight as corkscrews, Redfeather slowly stretched his lean body until a production assistant interrupted with a steaming cup of coffee. “Cream, no sugar?” he asks. She smiles and nods in agreement.
The rest of the production crew stood alongside the road filling up at a white-covered table resplendent with mountains of sliced bananas, melons, and kiwi, seasoned with sweet, ripe strawberries. Two large silver servers at both ends of the table offered buttery, crisp hash browns and scrambled eggs peppered with thin strips of Swiss cheese. And from a high-tech traveling kitchen, smiling caterers delivered baskets of delicate jam-filled pastries and hot cinnamon buttered toast.
Redfeather lit a cigar, his ritual following the wrap of every commercial film shoot he directs; it is the only time he smokes. Feeling the slim Cuban contraband in his fingers seems to add finality to his work, the way a good Cognac punctuates an outstanding meal.
It had been a problematic shoot with child actors, wild animals, and a variety of locations. No dialogue, just action, and voice-over were not particularly his favorites. Redfeather was a “people” director and hated whiney, pouty children, especially when animals were on the set. No doubt, the extra tension contributed to the extra day for a re-shoot of the panther jumps.
Redfeather, relieved it is finally over, leans back against the tree, sipping his coffee and slowly smoking his cigar, drinking in the pure peace of the still chilly, early morning. His smoke infiltrates the yellow and hot pink hibiscus perfumery across the road—potted hibiscus planted haphazardly by the shoot producers to create a more tropical paradise.
Marvin P. Widdicomb hated Redfeather’s cigar smoke but was able to ignore it, having quite recently lost his sense of smell. He lay there hidden in the bushes behind the hibiscus, unblinking eyes staring at the sky, hands gripping the arrow that felled him. It appeared as if he froze, struggling to remove it, unfortunately, with no success.
Ignoring thoughts of Widdicomb, Redfeather smokes away until one of the grips calls out, “Hank, we’re all packed. You better grab some food before it’s all gone. You gonna come back with us to the hotel, or are you heading to the studio?”
“I think I’ll head back with you. I’ll look at the dailies tonight. Tell Marty I’ll ride with him.” He draws on his cigar, exhaling ever so slowly, then turns suddenly to join his crew, leaving Mr. Widdicomb in repose at the shoot’s final scene.
