The Exec is proud to present Mission Impossible Undercover Report. The Exec’s intrepid reporter, Miles Cravat has masqueraded as a lowly runner on the set of the upcoming Tom Cruise blockbuster. He now brings us this breathtaking expose of life on the set of one of the most anticipated films in years. He has travelled into the heart of darkness, at great risk to not only his health but also his sanity to bring us this two part Mission Impossible undercover report.
Mission Impossible Undercover Report – Apocalypse Cruise
The Exec Bungalow, shit, I’m still only in The Exec Bungalow. Everyone gets everything they want. I wanted an assignment, and for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service. It was a real choice assignment. When it was over, I’d never want another one. I gotta stop listening to The Doors. If you’re not 14 years old or stoned, they’re terrible.
Never Get Out Of The Bungalow
I reported to The Exec’s main office at the Bungalow. He ground his cigar in his teeth as he spoke of rumors that Cruise was filming out there without any decent restraint. Totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct. I was to pick up his trail at Warner Bros Studios in Hertfordshire, about 20 clicks north of London. I wondered why The Exec was eating roast beef on such a hot day, but he told me to concentrate and keep my damned fingers off his roasted potatoes.
With Extreme Prejudice
I took a job as an Assistant Location Manager for the Mission Impossible location production office in leafy Hertfordshire. I was pretty sure someone could hook me up with an on-set runner’s job, so I could get in the shit. It was there that I met Sally Kilgore. She had been promoted from 2nd Unit Production Supervisor to Assistant Script Supervisor. Kilgore got the re-writes from McQuarrie’s office and was responsible for distribution. She was airborne man. Airborne, those crazy motherfuckers could get you in anywhere they goddamned pleased. They’d drop in rewrites that would screw everything up. They didn’t care about anything; catering, logistics, not a damned thing. As long as they could fly in and drop their shit on everyone, they were happy. And Sally Kilgore was the happiest of them all.
Smells Like… Catering Trucks
Kilgore said she could get me on set as a runner, but it would mean going up the M1 motorway. The shit can get pretty heavy where the M1 meets the M25. But Kilgore said she’d get us through. You could tell she really thrived on productions. Her eyes lit up at the thought of last minute changes to shooting schedules, corralling the extras or rewrites. She loved the rewrites. And she knew how to get us through the traffic, weaving in and out of the queueing vehicles. She would lean out of the window and shout ‘GET SOME’ as we flew by. She didn’t give a shit if it was Full Metal Jacket or Apocalypse Now, she was insane.
Not The Redux
We stopped for gas at a service station about 2 clicks north of Luton. A real shit hole. It was there we met a French guy who talked for hours and hours about colonial legacies. What a drag. We’ll skip that bit and save it for the Redux. We then left the M1 and headed into deepest darkest Buckinghamshire. There were rumors of Cruise turning up there and setting up camp. We headed into the heart of darkness.