Noah Buschel [repack] Info

“You are, baby. If you write it. Small budget. Sixteen days. We shoot in December in that diner off the 5 that smells like regret and burnt coffee.”

“A diner. Two old friends. One night. That’s it. No flashbacks, no gimmicks. Just… conversation.” noah buschel

“Noah, baby,” said Marv Kessler, a producer whose tan was the color of over-toasted bagels and whose sincerity was the texture of same. “I’ve got something for you. A real human being thing. No explosions. No superheroes. Just people talking.” “You are, baby

Noah set up the first shot. A two-shot of Frank and Dennis in the booth. No coverage. No inserts. Just the two of them, the camera, and the long, patient stare of a lens that didn’t care about their careers. Sixteen days

There was no car chase.

His office was a converted janitor’s closet on the Paramount lot, which he preferred because it had no window. A window meant distraction. Distraction meant hope. And hope, in Hollywood, was just disappointment in a party dress. On his desk sat a single framed photograph: his late father, a jazz drummer who’d played on exactly one famous record before fading into session work and bitterness. Noah had inherited the bitterness but not the rhythm.