The Jeweled Robe
April 8th, 2024. It was early in the morning in what was to be the final day of shooting. Everything had been carefully planned out in advance. It had to be this way if this was to be done. Every action of the crew had to go off without a hitch, every movement had to be fast, smooth, and precise. No room could be made for error. Nature had dictated that even the smallest mistake would, with some certitude, derail the whole project. The site had been selected with careful deliberation, with consideration of the path of the sun and moon and an assurance so far as modern science allowed of clear skies. With the right knowledge, the day would take on a ritual tone, everything proceeding as if by divine plan. Without it, they would be lost. They would have three or four minutes in perfect light–the uncanny light, shaded yet with an excellent sharpness and unsurpassed clarity, eerie crisp shadows, the dark yet crystal light. Three or four minutes only. A bit longer in near-to perfect light would give them some leeway for the lesser shots, but for the apex moment of the day’s filming to come, three or four minutes only. Years, well over a decade, spent to this moment, chasing around the world, having but a few minutes to shoot each time. At long last it was nearing completion.
The director was a quiet man, private. Scholarly after a fashion, erudite and educated, but unpretentious in that way; he felt no need to impress anyone with his knowledge nor seemed as though he thought it impressive. He was unfailingly polite but did not tend toward much speaking, or to engage members of the cast or crew in casual conversation. Often he would give them books to read, sometimes fiction sometimes not, but invariably of an esoteric nature. Not only to the cast would he give them, but to those below the line. Pay close attention to this, it is essential to understanding what we are doing here, he would say to them, lead and grip alike. When it came to shooting scenes themselves, he would often change things on the day of the shoot, ignore the script as written, hand the actors note-cards with new direction. At first and for some time, they were lost. Despairing of each change, all had despaired more of the prospect of further changes, of what would be expected of them in the distant tomorrow. They had all had to learn to expect this from him and adjusted their approach to the craft accordingly. It would never have made it this far, could never have made it this far, if they had not been willing to play the game. There was a stranger hand at work, distant but beckoning them, if only they were willing to be drawn closer. Everyone understood. Everyone understood and tried to be willing.
Across the landscape, loyal crew busied themselves setting up for the day’s filming. On some level, they must have known what they were part of, even if it were only a vague sense of being part of something more, perhaps greater. The director flitted about, pointing where and when each shot was to be taken, the exact framing for each sequence, the exact moment in the day when it had to be undertaken. Such a strict schedule was of the utmost necessity. They would have only this brief moment to capture what was to come, only this brief moment on Earth to seize upon, to realize the vision before the dark. Only a brief moment yet it was everything; only a brief moment and it was nothing. A mere shadow passing across the Earth. A mere shadow and the time will have passed. Ephemera and eternity at once and not at all.
The Jeweled Robe. As it had been filmed over years in various locations, always under the same atmospheric conditions so far as possible, assembled and edited together it would seem as though the background was constantly shifting, the actors, though dressed the same as needed, subtly or not so subtly varying in age depending upon the chosen order of shots. The changing of their surroundings, its instability, its lack of permanence, even the irrelevance of the characters own physical bodies, never the same—these were an end sought, a reason for so many sundry choices the director had made. All had been accounted for in his designs and it fell to the rest to unite with the fullness of that vision.
Only two actors would be on set today, only two actors in the scenes left to film. Waiting in the wings as the hour neared for filming to begin, they sat in silence. There would be one line between the two of them today: the character of Anna would say to the character Mark, “And I forgot the pearl, on account of which my parents had sent me.” No more. Most of today’s scenes would be lingering silent shots, sometimes of one, sometimes the other, or of both. She would run from him. She would approach him. He would approach her. He would run from her. Stop to look up at the sky. Stop to look out over the landscape. A quiet moment together, head upon shoulder. A brief moment’s conversation, the one line passed between them. Elsewhere, a second camera crew would be on hand to film the sun and moon, shots to be interspersed when and where the director wished.
The sky had begun to darken as the moon began its journey across the face of the sun. It was time. Now was the moment they had been preparing for, here at last upon them the culmination of the great working. Cast and crew sprang into motion, clockwork, the machine-like precision drilled into them by a decade’s practice. They knew. It was time and time was short. A union felt between them and something more bound them, no longer isolated, no longer separate, but within a larger whole, the fullness—together they moved and together all would be completed and made whole. A mere shadow and the time will have passed. The stranger hand beckoned them, summoned them to itself, and they were willing, ready to take up the call when the director gave the word:
Action!