Working on a production recently, we had the benefit on some really nice sound equipment run by actual sound professionals. We had a budget for such things, and therefore went for it, Why not? The thing we learned on this is that really nice sound equipment picks up sound really well. Some, for those who get frustrated by takes being blown by the smallest of things, were picked up too well.
We shot in what would typically be called a quiet neighborhood. It's the sort of place people say they move to in order to get away from all of the noise of city life. In this regard, we did not have to deal with gunshots, honking horns, or loud music. That said, there is apparently no such thing as a quiet town.
What follows is a list of things that provided sound issues we hadn't anticipated.
Lawn mowers. Weed whackers. Riding mowers. Any sort of lawn care devices. These are all lumped together in one big batch called "Don't film in the warm months." Every single neighbor had to keep their lawn immaculate. There is a community association that apparently keeps such things under observation, as one of our locations was contacted about unsightly growth. It had been two weeks. Anyway, there is constant mowing. Near, far, everywhere.
One person has a riding lawn mower for what amounted to about an eighth of an acre, counting the house, if we were exaggerating. It was small enough that the mower didn't quite go end to end on some sections. This person took about forty five minutes to finish. They kept hitting things on a lawn that was scannable by crossing it, say, from the back door to the shed that would contain a lawn mower. It sounded like rocks, twigs, logs, bottles, firecrackers, and perhaps a marble collection got sucked up.
Church bells. Did you know that not all churches follow a strict or predictable schedule for ringing their church bells? Did you know there are still churches that ring their church bells (pardon the pun) religiously? On the hour, during service, randomly throughout the day? One person joked at a particularly irregular sounding cadence that he thought they had tied a midget to the clapper and they were trying to fight free. We should go help them. A few moments later, no lie, a person of diminutive stature walked down the street. We all subtly looked for signs of struggle in case we needed to contact the authorities.
Ice cream trucks. It's a nice time to go out on a snack break, I suppose. The ice cream truck in this neighborhood had an eclectic play list. It primarily looped through Christmas carols. "Joy to the World" would be followed by "Silent Night," rounded out with "Old King Wenceslas" if I'm not mistaken. Oddly, the holiday theme, as relevant as it was this Memorial Day weekend, would be peppered by something like "La Cuccaracha." On one hand, the music is public domain. After all, one can't expect the Rolling Stones to sue an ice cream truck playing "Bittersweet Symphony" for 80% of the snack sales on any trip where that song may have been played, but why risk it? On the other hand, dialogue just doesn't cut well with one part "Turkey in the Straw," one part "Away in a Manger." Best not to risk it.
Pizza delivery. We were shooting an exterior, and in the middle of the shot were brought pizza. The car pulled into frame, the engine putting along, and the guy got out with a pie and a bag of sides. We cut and asked what was going on, as we had at least four scenes before a lunch break. Nobody in the cast or crew had ordered anything, nor had the location owners. Still, he had our address. After a few phone calls, he drove down two houses and delivered the meal. Drove. Two houses. Started his loud engine for roughly forty feet. We've run cable further just in case, no car needed.
Neighbors. One neighbor kept coming over and asking what we were working on. We'd answer politely. She'd wander back home. A little bit later she'd wander back and start talking, until she realized we were in a shot, then quietly mumble apologies to nobody about interrupting. She'd be holding a bundle of paper she didn't bother to show anyone, not that we asked to see it. She would go onto the IMDB and start looking around for our movie, find other things, then come ask us about them. Seeing as we're shooting a movie in Maryland, we likely know anyone else shooting a movie in Maryland. Sadly this is at least marginally true. In this case, though, she informed us of practically ever movie shot in the state we'd never heard of, then seemed disappointed we weren't the movie she had just read about.
Planes, trains, and automobiles. Cars drive by. No big deal. In this small town on a nice Saturday afternoon, no work to go to, cars drove by like they were organizing the world's smallest evacuation. Planes and helicopters flew overhead like we were Afghanistan, except I'm sure the flight logs are better. Trains came through, horns blaring, like stock footage metaphors for sexual intercourse. That is, regularly and predictably. A man rode a motorized bicycle down the street. Not a motorcycle, scooter, or anything short of a bicycle that had a loud, sputtering, spokes in the muffler engine on it.
People. Cast will chat. Actors love to have dialogue. Older women in motorized wheelchairs love to ride down the street screaming "Happy Memorial Day" after some well volumed gossip. This may not be universally true, but based on my survey of older women in thankfully quiet handicapable transports within one hundred feet of a live film set, this has so far proven 100% true.
Errata. Stomachs growl. Things fall over. Machinery hums. Fans blow. Porches have wind chimes. Dogs bark. Farts happen. The world is loud. Be patient, and shoot around having to synch dialogue if you haven't got a clean take by take three. More on the how next time.
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| Make Me Proud |
Every other Monday
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indie masterpiece.
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| Patrick Storck |
Patrick hails from Baltimore, MD, where playing by the rules is frowned upon. Only average things come from playing it safe.
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