Content Warning: This piece contains violence and explicit language.
Disclaimer: The author has changed some names in this piece to protect the identities of those involved.
Listen to the story:
One mid-July evening last year, after a busy summer of work with the Gimli Film Festival and on two film productions, I sunk into my green polyester couch and scrolled past posts flooding my Instagram feed. One post caught my eye. It contained four screenshots from the notes section of a phone posted on an account called @IA_stories. I swiped through screenshots of an anonymous story from a film crew member who developed metatarsalgia, “a painful inflammation from the toes to the arch of the foot,” after walking hundreds of miles in a week on set. This condition is caused by physical stress and is often only found in athletes after intense training or activity.
I clicked the @IA_Stories handle, which invited film workers to share their anonymous stories about work environments, and scrolled through hundreds of posts. The page had already grown to 36,000 followers — this was a movement.
As I read more horror stories, I couldn’t help but think of my own awful experience as a production assistant (PA) days prior and some of the things my friends working in Manitoba’s film industry had been through over the years.
My Story
The sun started to dip behind the thick trees surrounding the white, ratty motel along the Trans-Canada Highway. I looked toward Angela, a hardworking props department crew member who was my supervisor for the night. Although I knew nothing about the department, I felt obligated to work hard because I received this job through a friend’s referral. I didn’t want to stir up any conflict by asking too many questions, but something about this situation felt wrong to me.
“They want to have a scene with a fire back here,” said Angela as she pointed toward a rough path through a thick set of trees. “So, we need to douse the area with water to make sure nothing catches.”
I froze with anxiety. Manitoba was in a province-wide fire ban because of the drought.
People starting fires were getting fined hundreds of dollars. Would I be responsible if a fire broke out? I stared back at Angela and at the rusty metal bucket in her hands.
“You can fill this bucket in the motel,” she said, pointing toward the dated building.
My eyes widened and my hands started to sweat.
“We’re in the middle of a fire ban,” I said with a sharp voice. “Is this safe?” I thought I could see a glint of reluctance in Angela. I don’t think she wanted to start a fire either.
“It’s what the producer wants,” Angela replied defeatedly and pointed to our feet. “I already dosed this area off. Just in case they want to have a fire here too.”
I grabbed the old rusty bucket from her hands and walked toward the motel’s kitchen to fill it up.
***
Earlier that day, I took a long drag from a freshly lit cigarette and walked to the Craft Service tent, an area loaded with snack food and drinks for actors. I felt lost. I didn’t know who to talk to or what to do next, but I walked with confidence toward the tent surrounded by actors.
“Hello, I’m Drew,” I said passing by the actors. “If you need any snacks, let me know!” Fake it till you make it, right?
As I finished replenishing the snacks and drinks, a woman dressed in all black with a walkie-talkie and headset approached me.
“Are you Drew?” she asked cheerfully.
“Yes, nice to meet you,” I replied, extending my fist to bump. “Are you Janet? The one I spoke with on the phone earlier?”
“No, I’m Angela, with the props department,” she said with a smile in her eye. “Janet is still picking up actors. I was told you’re working with me tonight.”
The props department is crucial for making any scene in film or television feel like a place you’d see in your day-to-day life. Every object, from telephones, pencils, papers, to pictures are carefully selected and positioned in a scene to help bring the shot to life.
I had no clue where things belonged in this film or what props to use because I hadn’t seen the script. All I had was a call sheet, which contains general on-set information, so it was useless in this situation.
Regardless, I followed Angela behind the motel to a small field with long overgrown grass. She passed me a walkie-talkie to use, as well as an old rusty bucket. I stared at the bucket and then at Angela in confusion.
Nancy
The winter wind whipped against Nancy’s thick coat as she inspected the BNC cable. The end of the video cable looked fine, but she was still convinced something was wrong.
As she looked up from the video monitor, dozens of other crew workers busied themselves around the impressive Wellington crescent property. As a camera assistant, Nancy was excited for the opportunity to learn more about the camera department and gain her union status. She looked back over at the monitor and tried connecting the cable again.
A buzz rang through the air and up her arm like a swarm of angry bees.
“Lance,” she said through clenched teeth. “There’s definitely something wrong with the cable.”
“I’ve got some personal stuff I need to take care of right now,” Lance replied. “So just figure it out.” He walked back to the massive mansion and disappeared into the blinding production lights.
Nancy ran her hands down the cable, looking for a possible kink. She wondered if it could be snagged on one of the large evergreen trees on the property. As she traced the cable in both hands, a sharp pain shot throughout her entire body.
She stumbled back, dropping it to her feet. Her body lit up like the lights on a plugged-in Christmas tree. The BNC cable electrocuted her, and the slushy ice water below was the perfect conductor.
***
Earlier that day, PAs had salted the ice around the Wellington Cres. property, creating a slush of dirt, water, and snow. The set was huge and filled with actors Nancy never imagined she’d see anywhere but the big screen. She couldn’t believe she was working with them.
Her head whipped back and forth as she looked around the large yard for something to do. Her right hand tapped the walkie-talkie strapped to her belt. Two days ago, two lighting technicians were fired for screwing up. The producer’s patience was thin — and so was the margin for error.
As Nancy tapped her hand on the walkie, a man’s voice buzzed into her earpiece.
“Lance for Nancy,” the man said.
“Go for Nancy,” she replied.
“We need a video monitor hardwired on the street nearby” Lance continued. “So, the crew can see what’s going on.”
“Copy,” Nancy said confidently.
Nancy trudged through the slushy concoction of snow, water, and mud to a nearby street with a video monitor to begin connecting the wire.
She twisted the black BNC cable’s end into the monitor.
A loud buzzing vibration pierced the winter air.
Nancy jolted away. Her fingertips felt warm, and her hand tingled a bit. She hesitated before reaching for the walkie-talkie on her belt. She didn’t want to ask for help, but she was sure something was wrong with the cable.
“Nancy to Lance,” she called over the radio.
“Go for Lance,” Lance replied.
“The monitor’s buzzing when I plug it in,” Nancy stated. “I think there’s something wrong.”
Lance walked over to the trailer and grabbed the unconnected cable from her hands.
“Sometimes dirt gets on the end of it,” he remarked, holding the cable up. “Just blow on it like this.”
Lance blew on the cable like an old Super Nintendo cartridge before passing it back to Nancy.
“Here you go,” he said.
Nancy took the cable from Lance’s hands, inspected it, and began to connect the monitor once more.
Leena
Leena didn’t mind working for the locations department. At times, being alone to secure an access point to set was peaceful. She could catch up on reading or rehearse for upcoming auditions. But that wasn’t always the case.
As Leena rocked back in the black plastic chair against the darkness of Logan Avenue, she thought of the night a production company left her to secure a rural field location alone. That night her phone died, and the walkie-talkie lost reception — tonight felt oddly similar.
Without a walkie-talkie to communicate to set, Leena hoped her phone battery would last the night.
A sharp scream shattered the silent shadowy street. Leena’s eyes snapped toward the sound, locking in on a lit window six or so houses down. It was a woman.
Another voice echoed through the darkness from the lit window, this time a man’s. Venom spat from his words in a slurred flurry.
“Get the fuck outta here,” he yelled over a slamming door.
A woman staggered out of the house and into the light of a streetlamp.
Her head whipped around back toward the house as she shouted, “Fuck you!”
Leena’s body locked in place. Her clammy hands gripped the flimsy chair as she looked around the street for someone to help her. No one else was here. The sobbing woman disappeared down the street and into the darkness.
My Story
Still starring at Angela in disbelief, I hesitantly grabbed the old bucket from her hands. It had a small spout and a wiry handle — it looked at least 30 years-old. The sun set quickly behind the thick forest and visibility was getting worse.
The campfire was set up around 200 feet away. The path forged by busy body crew members was narrow, but I snaked my way through, dodging the senior crew.
In the film industry, the seniority rule is very strong. It’s common for new crew members looking to become cameramen, directors, and/or producers to work as assistants for many hours until they are even given the smallest chance to work in one of these positions. I often felt a divide between senior and newer crew members while working on set as both an actor and crew member.
The water from the bucket splashed against my bare calves and soaked my socks as I stepped out of the way from an assistant director — dry and leafless branches smacked my face.
The campfire area wasn’t large, but neither was the bucket. After about an hour of going back and forth from the motel to the fire, my fingers on my right hand were swollen, but I was finished. The damp dirt ground underneath my feet squished and gurgled as I walked back toward the motel.
Angela quietly made her way around the crew on the path and stopped me halfway. Actors began to set up in front of the unlit campfire.
“How many trips did you make?” she asked smiling through her mask.
“I’m not sure, I lost count,” I replied, tapping my toe on the ground. “But it feels pretty wet.” My black Vans sneakers sunk a bit into the dark soil. These shoes would be trashed by the end of tonight.
“Okay, well they actually want to do the campfire here now,” Angela said with a wince, pointing back toward a circular fire pit behind the motel. “I already soaked most of it. So, maybe just a couple more trips to be safe?”
Are you fucking kidding me? is what I wanted to say, but I could see Angela didn’t want to do this either. The dark circles of exhaustion around her eyes said enough — she was just following the director’s orders. After days of sleeping in the motel, Angela wanted to go home, and she didn’t want to make her stay any longer by complaining.
I picked up the bucket from the ground and began another 20 or so trips in and out of the motel. I felt like one of those brooms from Fantasia controlled by Mickey Mouse’s blue, pointy, wizard hat. Thankfully, the new campfire scene sat directly behind the motel, so the trips were shorter. After another hour of filling and emptying the bucket, I had finally “fireproofed” the campfire scene.
As the sun fully disappeared and night began to set in, Angela and I finished setting the scene with blankets, coolers, beer bottles filled with root beer, marshmallows, hotdogs, and sticks for roasting. Fifteen actors aged 10 to 50 dressed in warm pajamas shuffled over to the unlit campfire in a huddle.
The director, who was also lead actor, signaled to everyone he was ready to roll camera. Angela lit the fire pit.
According to the Health and Safety Guidelines of Manitoba, medical providers with advanced first-aid certification must be present at all performances with an open flame and open flames must be controlled by a person equipped and trained in the use of a fire extinguisher.
Appropriate fire and government authorities must also be contacted for approval before an open flame is created.
As I stood shoulder to shoulder with other crew members 20 or so feet away from the scene in complete darkness, I hoped there was a fire extinguisher nearby that someone knew about. I hadn’t seen one on my trips in and out of the motel and there weren’t any fire authorities on set that I knew about.
After about three or four takes, one of the male leads got up from his position in front of the fire and approached me.
“Are you sure we’re okay to do this, Drew?” His eyes strained with concern at me and then the bucket in my hands. I could see the tension in his brow against the flickering of the flame.
“We’ve got it under control,” I replied, trying to convince myself everything was okay. I couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Nancy
After feeling the electricity run through her body, Nancy paced the large Wellington Cres. yard in a panic.
“I have to keep working,” Nancy repeatedly muttered under short gasps for air.
Her body perpetually bounced from one spot to the next, like a swinging pendulum.
A passing crew member saw Nancy and approached her. “You should go to first-aid,” they said with concern.
Nancy walked in shock to the first-aid tent where a nurse was waiting.
“You’re having a panic attack. You need to go to the hospital, so they can check for an irregular heart rhythm,” the nurse said softly. “Do you know where the closest one is?”
Nancy stared forward; her mind felt like it was in a thick fog of confusion. She slowly shook her head from side to side.
“The Misericordia Health Centre is closest,” the nurse spoke gently. “You should go now.”
Nancy slowly got up out of the first-aid tent and made her way to her car.
She doesn’t remember driving to the hospital, but she did because no one was waiting for her when her visit with the doctor was over. As she walked to her parked car, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for leaving the set early and causing a scene. She thought of the two Gaffers who were fired days before and wondered if she would also face the same consequence.
Nancy slowly drove back to the film set. The stress of losing her job felt like it outweighed the doctor’s order for her to rest. She repeatedly recited a speech of what she would say to her supervisors in her head. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, as her knuckles turned white. But when she arrived on set, Nancy didn’t need her speech. She stayed in a camera trailer to rest for the remainder of her shift.
Upon returning to set the next day, Nancy inspected the BNC cable that had sent her to the hospital. She traced her way along the unplugged cable and found a giant, foot-and-a-half gouge — it was clearly damaged. According to Manitoba Health and Safety Standards electrical equipment must be field inspected and clear for use, as well all electrical installations maintained, tested, repaired, inspected, and serviced in accordance with CSA Standards.
Leena
After she heard the yelling, Leena stared into the darkness of Logan Ave., frozen in fear. After what felt like an eternity, Leena fumbled for her phone that she wedged into her pocket. She frantically scrolled through the texts on her phone until she found her supervisor for the film shoot.
Her thumbs typed in a fury — spelling didn’t matter.
“A domestic abuse situation just happened next to me. I don’t feel comfortable staying here alone anymore and I want to come back to set right now.”
Leena looked back at the lit window. The porch light was now on, and a man’s silhouette painted the front of the house. It got smaller as he walked toward Leena.
“Got a cigarette,” the shirtless man asked.
“No, sorry,” Leena said backing up. “I don’t smoke.”
“Why the fuck are you even out here,” the man hissed. “You don’t live here!”
Leena kept walking backward until the light from a nearby streetlamp surrounded her like a spotlight. Her heart raced. An unsteady jumble of words tumbled from her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” her voice wavered as she pointed to her phone. “I don’t have a cigarette and my ride is here.”
With a huff, the shirtless man walked back to his lit porch light and slammed the front door. There was silence once more, but Leena didn’t feel comfortable now.
Her phone buzzed, startling her out of the shock. She peered at the bright screen.
“Hey, a driver will be right there! Someone will take over for you don’t worry.”
Moments later, a van Leena recognized from the film set pulled up. They rolled down their window.
“Hey,” the man waved Leena over with a friendly smile. “I’m here to take you back to set.”
Another man climbed out of the van and walked toward Leena.
“Leena! I hope you’re okay,” the man said with concern. “I can take over for you now.”
Leena climbed into the van and the driver drove back to set.
My Story
The bright light of the fire danced against the old, wooden motel. As the scene continued and the fire raged, so did the director’s temper.
“Hey,” he screamed at an assistant director whispering mid-scene. “Can’t you see we’re trying to fucking act here!”
The awkward silence flooded the set. The cracks of the firewood echoed as we stood by awaiting the next move.
After two or three hours of filming, we finished for the day. Angela dosed the campfire with the water from the rusty bucket and walked toward the motel to clean up the lobby from an earlier scene. Smoke rose toward the stars as the surrounding crew packed up the lights and camera gear.
I looked around the motel grounds with heavy eyes. I wondered when I would get to go home. I glanced at my phone, and I realized my 10-hour shift had turned into 14 hours. I wanted to go to bed, but I felt guilty that I wanted to leave without helping pack up. Only Angela and a few others were tasked with cleaning up and resetting the motel back to its original form. My body ached and my eyes fought to stay open, but I began to pack up the marshmallows, hotdogs, and other props from the campfire scene. I loaded one of the large trucks with the rest of the props from outside and headed inside the motel to help Angela.
The Future of Manitoba’s Film Industry
Since its creation in mid-July 2021, the @IA_Stories page has amassed 160,000 followers. The thousands of anonymous stories helped to create a community of solidarity and raise awareness about the common hazards film workers face daily. It was influential in sparking a movement toward successful contract negotiations in November 2021 between IATSE (International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees) and the AMPTP (Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers).
The new contract includes a 10-hour turnaround time in between shifts, as well as a 54-hour work weekend, but many film workers are still unsatisfied by the result. Almost half (49.7 per cent) of members voted against the proposed contract and many more continue to speak out anonymously on the @IA_Stories page.
One anonymous post pointed out “A 54-hour weekend plus 10-hour turnaround four nights a week comes out to 94 hours for sleep and ourselves. This leaves 74-hour workweeks. That’s it. The contract is for a 74-hour workweek. Why would we want that?”
Not only are work weeks long, but work environments can be dangerous. The most recent on-set death of cinematographer Halyna Hutchins, who was shot and killed by a faulty firearm in October, happened amidst the new contract negotiations, further underlining the need for accountability.
Concerns with safety arise from the mentality that anything is possible in a film, Manitoba chief lighting technician Joao Holowka echoed in a CTV article. Far too often film crew members are sacrificed to create movie magic. This is one of the main reasons for the creation of the Manitoba Media Production Industry Working Group in Manitoba (MMPIWG)
The MMPIWG formed in April 2019 and is a collaboration between many Manitoba film entities in Manitoba like Film Training Manitoba, ACTRA Manitoba, and Manitoba’s local IATSE union IATSE 856. The group strives to highlight consistent and safe work guidelines for all media production sets in Manitoba. The group also collaborates with non-film related entities like SAFE Work Manitoba and Manitoba Workplace Safety and Health to incorporate existing guidelines that specifically benefit film sets.
Although the MMPIWG has released a safety guideline manual annually since its launch in 2019, they are missing a vital collaboration that could lower the risk of danger on set. The Construction Safety Association of Manitoba (CSAM) offers “Practical solutions for a safer workplace,” which has earned them a respected reputation as a leader and pioneer in Manitoba’s safety scene.
On top of dozens of training resources for power tools, equipment, and possibly dangerous scenarios, CSAM also provides a Certificate of Recognition Program or COR Program which, “Provides industry employers with effective tools to develop, implement, assess, and promote continual improvement of their safety and health management system to prevent or mitigate incidents and injuries as well as their associated human and financial costs.”
The COR Program is already endorsed by the Workplace Health and Safety, as well as SAFE Work Manitoba, so a collaboration between the MMPIWG and CSAM wouldn’t be farfetched. Like construction, film sets are filled with much of the same dangerous equipment and scenarios that put workers at risk.
The Manitoba film industry is slowly making strides to provide a safer workplace for all members, but more needs to be done to protect workers like Leena and Nancy. Until crew members are offered better working hours and conditions, adequate training, fair wages, and security on set, they will continue to be chewed up by a toxic system. The film community can and must do better. For an industry that makes magic onscreen, a culture shift is possible.