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Authors: Leah McLaren
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and made so many detailed notes on it, divided it into eighths (for scheduling purposes,
all scripts were organized this way—Meredith’s job was to keep track of the shooting times of each eighth of a page) and numbered
all the scenes and shots, that she felt she could recite the thing by heart. Nevertheless, she now studied the scene once
more.
Act 1, Scene 6
Int. Empty Victorian garment factory—the scene of the crime.
The voices of Celia and David can be heard off camera as they make their way up the stairs.
CELIA (OFFSCREEN)
Once again, Inspector, I’m not sure what you think you’re going to find here that the police already haven’t.
Int. stairwell.
David is helping Celia up the rickety steps.
She struggles a bit and tears her petticoat on a nail.
CELIA
Good heavens.
DAVID
Are you all right, miss?
CELIA (IRRITATED)
Yes, yes, fine. To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I’d be a great deal better if I was back at the morgue doing some useful
work.
DAVID
My dear Miss Hornby, thank you again for your skepticism, but surely as a doctor you must agree that no hair can be left unturned,
particularly when lives are at stake.
Just this snippet, Meredith knew, would take most of the morning to get on film. First a camera setup for the interior of
the factory, then another for the stairwell. They would shoot the interior scenes of the factory first, and likely get to
the stairwell segment later. Meredith made a mental note to ensure the wardrobe people had provided a visibly ripped petticoat
for Celia in the interior garment factory scenes.
The truth was, for all her copious work and attention to detail, few directors or editors even looked at the continuity notes
anymore. Schedules could be generated by computer. The log was kept more out of tradition and protocol than genuine need.
The bulk of Meredith’s job was to record the difference between what was on the page and what was shot. If dialogue was added
or cut, Meredith made note. If an actor strayed into an unscripted moment of genius or folly, she noted that too. If anything
changed from the original plan, she was on it. Her first loyalty, as continuity girl, was to the script.
She removed a ruler from her case and darkened the dividing lines of eighths using her sharpest pencil. Then she flipped forward
in her binder to the Daily Continuity Log sheet, on which she would take careful note of the setup, scene and slate (the clappy
board) number, as well as shot time, pages shot and, most important, which take of which shots the director wanted the lab
to print and send out to the editor. With her Polaroid camera, digital stopwatch, binder and sharpened pencil, Meredith would
record and keep track of even the most seemingly unimportant detail on the set, from the exact time (down to a quarter of
a second) the crew broke for lunch, to the precise measurement of the rip on the hem of the actress’s petticoat. She would
keep notes for the assistant editor in a daily log, recording the scene, slate, time and print numbers for him to note when
he looked over the rushes in the following days.
Meredith was the editor’s eye on set. They were in it together, she and he (in this case, a grumpy little Glaswegian named
Rowan, who lived and worked in a dark suite deep in the Hammersmith riverbed). As the rest of the crew busily manufactured
random narrative fragments out of time and out of context, Meredith kept the order in her daily logbooks so that the editor
could put the story back together again.
The grips were setting up a camera across the room, wheeling around dollies, taping down wires and trading lame jokes. No
sign of Richard. Meredith took the moment of calm to take stock of her kit—opened her black nylon pack and accounted for its
contents by touch.
Script in script binder—
check.
Book light for night scenes—
check.
Wite-Out—
check.
Victorian slang dictionary—
check.
Polaroid
camera
all scripts were organized this way—Meredith’s job was to keep track of the shooting times of each eighth of a page) and numbered
all the scenes and shots, that she felt she could recite the thing by heart. Nevertheless, she now studied the scene once
more.
Act 1, Scene 6
Int. Empty Victorian garment factory—the scene of the crime.
The voices of Celia and David can be heard off camera as they make their way up the stairs.
CELIA (OFFSCREEN)
Once again, Inspector, I’m not sure what you think you’re going to find here that the police already haven’t.
Int. stairwell.
David is helping Celia up the rickety steps.
She struggles a bit and tears her petticoat on a nail.
CELIA
Good heavens.
DAVID
Are you all right, miss?
CELIA (IRRITATED)
Yes, yes, fine. To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I’d be a great deal better if I was back at the morgue doing some useful
work.
DAVID
My dear Miss Hornby, thank you again for your skepticism, but surely as a doctor you must agree that no hair can be left unturned,
particularly when lives are at stake.
Just this snippet, Meredith knew, would take most of the morning to get on film. First a camera setup for the interior of
the factory, then another for the stairwell. They would shoot the interior scenes of the factory first, and likely get to
the stairwell segment later. Meredith made a mental note to ensure the wardrobe people had provided a visibly ripped petticoat
for Celia in the interior garment factory scenes.
The truth was, for all her copious work and attention to detail, few directors or editors even looked at the continuity notes
anymore. Schedules could be generated by computer. The log was kept more out of tradition and protocol than genuine need.
The bulk of Meredith’s job was to record the difference between what was on the page and what was shot. If dialogue was added
or cut, Meredith made note. If an actor strayed into an unscripted moment of genius or folly, she noted that too. If anything
changed from the original plan, she was on it. Her first loyalty, as continuity girl, was to the script.
She removed a ruler from her case and darkened the dividing lines of eighths using her sharpest pencil. Then she flipped forward
in her binder to the Daily Continuity Log sheet, on which she would take careful note of the setup, scene and slate (the clappy
board) number, as well as shot time, pages shot and, most important, which take of which shots the director wanted the lab
to print and send out to the editor. With her Polaroid camera, digital stopwatch, binder and sharpened pencil, Meredith would
record and keep track of even the most seemingly unimportant detail on the set, from the exact time (down to a quarter of
a second) the crew broke for lunch, to the precise measurement of the rip on the hem of the actress’s petticoat. She would
keep notes for the assistant editor in a daily log, recording the scene, slate, time and print numbers for him to note when
he looked over the rushes in the following days.
Meredith was the editor’s eye on set. They were in it together, she and he (in this case, a grumpy little Glaswegian named
Rowan, who lived and worked in a dark suite deep in the Hammersmith riverbed). As the rest of the crew busily manufactured
random narrative fragments out of time and out of context, Meredith kept the order in her daily logbooks so that the editor
could put the story back together again.
The grips were setting up a camera across the room, wheeling around dollies, taping down wires and trading lame jokes. No
sign of Richard. Meredith took the moment of calm to take stock of her kit—opened her black nylon pack and accounted for its
contents by touch.
Script in script binder—
check.
Book light for night scenes—
check.
Wite-Out—
check.
Victorian slang dictionary—
check.
Polaroid
camera
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