HANNA

The crew worked out of a Fiat van. One of a kind, bought cheap. If it broke down, wait a lifetime for parts, but it worked OK for them. It had space enough for camera and sound gear plus a couple lights. Flags and cards for bounce were set in a makeshift rack slotted along the side without the door. Good for talking head stuff. That was about all. It was Tommy. He had reinvented the Fiat from a mobile crash pad into a production vehicle. A small one but set up well enough to service the crew.

Uncomplicated. It was uncomplicated in those days. Hanna was the boom-op, the PA, the runner, sometimes second camera. Anything, she’d do anything back then. And love too, that meant something; everything seemed to revolve around it.  

That first indie project. 

With a new class starting her mind always walked itself back to Florida - hot all the time - and the geriatric snowbirds waiting for the reaper. That’s what it seemed like. Their cosseted community. Shuffleboard and golf carts. Walkers and melanoma. But they were wrong. They found the story. Golden girls with support hose cruising sans-a-belt wearing gents - just a little help with the front porch.

An American second act. It was Hanna call, she named it: “Second Act”.

Made it from film scraps and short ends scavenged from the station. They’d dump what they shot in with the news dailies. Tommy’d bribe the developing tech with pot and junk food. The guy had a thing for moon pies, Fresca.