I have a week to do so - a stretch for sure, but it's doable, especially if I have the help that my friends say they will provide. Conceptualize. Shoot. Edit. No time to waste.
Originally I wanted to do a stop motion piece with a person wondering a vacant town, but after sitting down and drawing a rough beat pattern to the song to use for editing purposes, I estimated how many photos I would need to take.
a = number of photos needed per second
b = seconds in song
c = number of photos needed for entire video
a x b = c a=2 b=284
2 photo's a second x 284 seconds = 568 photo's. Not possible in a week once editing to is thrown in.
I'll do my best to complete this project and keep you posted on how it is coming/if it gets finished.
In the mean time, here's a short I wrote for a class at school.
Part 1 of many...
Night Vision
The hangar sits empty, dark, barren. A silhouette floats in the center of the smooth concrete floor, ominous, silent, waiting. The F-117 Stealth Nighthawk is barley visible among the dark outlines of the hangar and the translucent blue shadows thrown across the floor by the moon. It’s exterior is smooth, pristine, organic; black as night. Above the plane amongst the rafters clings a family of bats, They sit, waiting. Their blind beady eyes look vacantly into the black, ears perched. In the doorway of the hanger, a fluorescent light flickers, throwing harsh green light off the smooth concrete floor, illuminating several moths circling the light, drunk off its glow. Even at their great distance, the bats notice the moths’ movement. First one drops, then two more drop away from their high rise on the girder, opening their leathery wings, catching the air. They glide hungrily towards the flittering morsels on the other side of the hangar, their chittering, high-pitched chirps echo in the empty hangar. As they approach the F-117, their flight path remains constant. Then something very strange happens: two of the bats slam into the Nighthawk’s fuselage, one, into the aircraft’s tail. They fall to the concrete with dull slaps, necks broken, twitching as the two remaining bats ambush the moths.
Three men enter the hangar dressed in bulky suits. They carry buckets in each hand, tools on their waists, shuffling and waddling to the best of their ability; maneuverability is limited in their HAZMAT suits. They three kneel next to the Night Hawk, peeling off the lids of the bucket, thick strands of goop stretch from its opening, connected to the lid. A think vapor drifts from the mouth of the bucket, wafting into the air. Dropping their paintbrushes into the dark brackish sludge, the three crewmen make minute and careful repairs to the radar-absorbent coating on the F-117. Looking to his left, one of the crewmen stops and leans down. Standing up, he holds one of the dead bats in his gloved hands.
Morgan is suiting up alone in the locker room. He has already donned his g-suit and is strapping on his harness and other gear—all sixty pounds of it. In his locker sits a framed picture of a woman and a small girl. The smile of the woman seems translucent, pressed, worried. She knows what her husband does. The look of joy on the little girl however, is genuine: she knows her daddy is a hero. He checks his watch. The glowing numerals read 20:27. He looks at the picture. Closing his eyes and sighing, with a little effort, he pulls of his wedding ring and places it next to the frame. He starts to close the locker, but stops, eyeing the Gameboy and bag of peanut M&M’s lying on the middle shelf. He quickly grabs them and shuts the locker.
Emerging from the black of night, Morgan enters the hangar, approaching the Nighthawk. The chaplain of the base stands in front of the plane, reciting from his prayer book.
“We pray, O God, that we might be granted safely from the hostile fire and all the devices of the enemy.”
Climbing the ladder into the cockpit, Morgan doesn’t stop to look around at the activities taking place below him; the crew moving under the fuselage to assist two munitions crewman with the loading of cluster bombs. All around the Nighthawk lay vast cashes of several hundred, geometrically arrayed, GBU-27 guided bomb units, each on its own wheeled rack; an explosive army, waiting for its call.
Lowering himself into the seat, Morgan begins his pre-mission routine. His fingers run over the gauges and knobs gracefully, gliding amongst the lights and levers. His fingers play, he flips numerous switches in the process, eyes taking in the whole console, never focusing on one single area. As the systems check continues, more and more gauges begin to light up, illuminating his face with and eerie green glow. Above his head is a row of a dozen, small, smart missile stencils have been painted beneath the lettering of his name—signifying the amount of missions he has completed in the Nighthawk. As his helmet sits in his lap, Morgan reaches into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit gingerly and pulls out a smaller version of the picture in his locker. Holding it up before his face, he smiles and mouths, “I miss you”; words he knows they can’t hear, but he says them anyway. He attaches the picture to the visor above him. The two women of his life look down upon him, smiling. Flexing his neck and back, cracks rifle from his loosened joints. Attaching the air mask to his face Morgan takes a deep, echoing breath. The air flows cleanly into his mouth, sucking away all present moisture. He helmet follows suit.
Sitting on the end of the runway, Morgan waits poised for flight, the cockpit lights reflected in his goggles. Through his helmet and night vision goggle, the world glows and eerie iridescent green. The lights of the runway are blown out, blaring white spheres of light. Squinting, he sees a man on the runway drop his arms. Morgan hits the throttle. The twin engines explode with thrust. In the black of night, the flames are almost invisible, scorching the air and sizzling the asphalt of the runway. The brilliance of the burn brightly illuminates the ground crew, destroying all noticeable features; all that is left is their silhouettes. The F-117 rips down the short runway and is in the air in seconds. For a long moment, the F-117 is visible, then suddenly disappears into the horizon, enveloped by the black. The runway is silent, the night swallowing all noise except for the chirping of the bats hunting in the air.
To be continued next time...
