Amy Brashear - The Incredible True Story of the Making of the Eve of Destruction

“You’ll enjoy tomorrow. Sloppy joes,” said a scruffy-looking man. His gray hair went every which way, his beard was unkempt and looked like a Dalmatian’s, and the dark circles under his eyes were large but were slightly covered by huge black-rimmed glasses. “I’m Dylan Paige,” he said. “Cinematographer. You’ll see me around. Usually with a handheld.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“You too,” he said. “You two seem to have manners, unlike some people.” He looked over his shoulder down the lane toward the trailers. “But I’ve been around worse.”

“How many movies have you worked on?” Terrence asked.

“Thirty or so,” he said. “But I’ve only been on this job for the last five or so in my career.”

“That’s impressive, man.”

“Well, I did take a pay cut to work on WarGames .”

“So you’ve met Matthew Broderick and Ally Sheedy?”

He nodded. “I was hoping that they’d be in this too instead of the talent we have,” he muttered quietly. “They’ve got attitude problems.”

“Yeah, they’re not that friendly,” I said.

“Except Freddy,” Terrence said.

“Oh, yeah, Freddy’s nice,” Dylan said. “And Owen at least keeps to himself… But the girl.” He shook his head. “Sometimes stereotypes are true. We’re already taking bets on how many takes it will take for Astrid to die. I’ve got my money on six. You want in?”

Terrence and I looked at each other and nodded. We decided to go in on eight.

By the time we got back from lunch, we were already behind schedule according to Tyson, who kept on relaying that message from Norman, the director. Well, I guessed he could be annoyed. It was his picture, after all. But Astrid was in a mood and took it out on anyone she came in contact with. (Kitty, Raymond, Eddie—even Norman. They could do no wrong, but she was right. All the time, or so she claimed. A lot.) Like the guides say to tourists on African safaris, don’t make eye contact. She was a predator and we were her prey.

But like the tabloids screamed with their headlines, Astrid Ogilvie was an entitled whiner with unreasonable expectations for life. I rolled my eyes but didn’t move anything else for fear of decapitation. I looked like a fool sitting here in my pink dress and Miss Atomic Bomb crown. Astrid didn’t. She wore white—or, as she called it, virginal white.

“It pays to come in second place,” she said, snickering.

I wanted to lean over and send the full force of my mushroom cloud over her head. But I didn’t. I had self-control, and my body physically wouldn’t allow it without doing bodily harm to myself.

We sat in a bus at the end of “Main Street,” which in real life was Sixth Street. Terrence sat beside Freddy. Astrid didn’t want to sit by me, but it being the only seat, she had to. Sometimes we had to do things we didn’t want to do to get from point A to point B.

Astrid and I didn’t talk. I tried talking to her, but she didn’t find the need or the desire to. When Astrid got on the bus she made it all about her. She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Owen has jumped the shark [49] Meaning to show how brave he was or how hard he was trying. Like how the Fonz wore swim trunks and his trademark leather jacket and literally jumped over a shark while on water skis. Two thumbs up. Ayyy. It was absurd because Fonzie already proved how brave he was by jumping over tons of barrels with his motorcycle in a previous episode. Honestly, I was only watching Happy Days because of how cute Ron Howard is. He has great thick red hair. Though I stopped watching when Ron left the show in 1980. The show was never the same again. It was canceled back in September. as a human being.”

I laughed, and she did too. That would be our only interaction.

Owen wasn’t in this scene technically. He had one shot where he was seen from the crowd. The crowd. Extras were lined up and down the blocks. They were dressed in attire from the 1950s. Stereotypical clothing: white blouses, poodle skirts, house dresses, ladies’ suits, low heels, black-and-white saddle shoes, and the bad-boy leather jackets, jeans rolled up, short-sleeved shirts—it was June, of course.

Terrence was in the scene as well, in the crowd on the opposite side as Freddy to give the illusion of a diverse town. It was Pikesville, after all, but Pikesville did look a lot like Griffin Flat.

Half the school was here. But Max wasn’t. He thought this movie-making business in our town was stupid and wouldn’t end well.

Kitty came up behind me and literally used a whole aerosol can of Aqua Net before she pulled another can of Aqua Net out of her utility belt, shook it, and sprayed my beehive into place.

Then she touched up my makeup. And Raymond straightened my pink dress and buffed my white leather Mary Jane shoes. I looked like an overgrown toddler.

“Laura,” Astrid said.

“Hey, you got my name right.”

She looked at me like I was stupid. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she said, smiling and waving occasionally to the crowd.

“Quiet on the set. Quiet on the set.”

“And action!”

This area is being used to photograph and record video and film footage in connection with the promotional and publicity campaign of the movie Eve of Destruction . By your presence in this area, you acknowledge that you have been informed that you may be photographed and recorded as part of the release in home video and/or any media now known or hereafter devised, in perpetuity throughout the universe and the advertising and publicity thereof. Further, by your presence here, you grant your permission for your likeness and voice to be included therein without compensation, credit, or other consideration. If you do not wish to be photographed or recorded, or appear under these conditions, you should leave this area immediately. You will be reminded of this on each day of shooting. Thank you for your cooperation.

EXT.CITY—AFTERNOON

It is a bright, crisp southern day in June 1954, and the small-town Miss Atomic Bomb parade could be something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Main Street is lined with townspeople applauding as the Miss Atomic Bomb, HELEN ALLEN, and runner-up, MARTHA WELLS, are driven in a bright cherry-red 1954 Chevrolet convertible. They wave to the crowd, smiling, laughing, and having a great time.

HELEN sees HANK. HELEN smiles.

No one knew her. Helen Allen wasn’t popular and certainly did not have the eye of the boys at Jefferson High. But she saw one boy with a twinkle in his eye. The way he smiled. The way he said her name when she would accidentally on purpose rush pass him in the hall. “Excuse me. I apologize,” she would say.

He would counter with, “No problem, Helen.”

Helen’s heart skipped a beat. She would do anything for him.

That night as she sat with a mushroom cloud on her head, as she was crowned Miss Atomic Bomb in the back of a convertible, waving to an adoring crowd that barely knew her name, she saw him. Hank. She was in love. And it took an atom bomb for him to realize the lengths she would go to for him.

It was a lot different from what I thought it would be. Confined to one central location, doing the same part over and over again, repeating the one line over and over again. “Let’s do it one more time… One final take… Just like that… Okay one last time… That will do… Cut.”