Filming persisted within the washed-out skies of Massachusetts. Spring rains do that. They come at odd times, which by itself makes it hard to schedule. The Providence, Rhode Island, location moved from the church to an old colonial home on the outskirts of town that stood eerily unoccupied with dust disturbed only by their feet on the floorboards. It was the kind of location that did not really need any set design. The rot was already there.
Harry stood with Wally Pfister as they adjusted the shot through the cracked door frame. "Let's tighten up the frame," Harry said slowly. "The wallpaper coming undone. I want that claustrophobic feel."
"Like it's closing in on him?" Wally asked from behind the camera.
"Right," said Harry.
But not all went as planned. On their fourth day, at the house, a power generator malfunctioned while the crew was setting up a critical interior night scene. Half of the crew stood outside in the drizzle waiting. Javier Bardem was in a folding chair, reading his script; and Daniel, listening to music, was pacing next to the van.
Gregory came over to Harry with a grin that didn't quite fit his face. "They're working on it but we'll lose the light before they get it fixed. We might have to skip the dinner scene."
Harry surveyed the dimming sky, lips pressed together. He remained silent for a moment. Then, "Move the bedroom scene forward — that can be done handheld inside as a natural light."
Gregory blinked back at him. "You serious?"
Harry gave a tired nod. "We're not losing a whole day."
Amy was rerouting the crew, and Wally was adjusting. No complaints. Just movement. The results were not as clean as they could have been, but usable, and Harry was learning fast — about compromise, about timing, and the overwhelming sense of not having enough hours in the day.
Later that night, he was back in the production house, sipping lukewarm coffee while looking over notes for the next day's schedule. His phone chimed with a new text from Lisa: Sparky barked at the neighbour's cat again. You owe Maria an apology.
Harry smiled slightly and texted back: Tell Maria I'll get her a new mop, or a dog whistle.
Gregory knocked softly and pushed the door open into the small living room they were using as a production office. "I heard some news," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "Chris Nolan is going to WB."
"Really?" Harry looked up.
"Yeah. They offered him a project. A bigger one. I think Jonah said the title of the script is Insomnia. They want Al Pacino and Robin Williams."
Harry let out a low whistle. "Not bad for a guy who used to hand-staple his storyboards together."
"WB's got money and connections," Gregory said. "For him, this could be the break into studio pictures."
"Good for him," Harry said after a pause, though something flickered on his face. Not jealousy exactly. But a reminder of how fast things move when the door opens.
The following week on Providence had more than a few tests.
The bathroom scene was almost scrapped altogether when the props department forgot to replace a broken tile that could seriously injure the actor. Harry didn't raise his voice, but disappointment was evident enough to freeze the team. "We can't cut corners on the details," he told the group. "This is a small movie. If we don't get the details right, we don't have anything."
A more personal trial came later while shooting an emotionally charged scene between Daniel and Javier. The tension wasn't happening. Take after take, it felt flat.
Harry sat in silence following the fifth attempt with his head down.
Then he walked over to Daniel and quietly took him aside. "You're playing this like you're confused by him. But your character knows. He just doesn't want to admit it. That denial – it's not fear, it's fatigue. Try it that way."
Daniel nodded, took a breath and went back.
The sixth take worked. Not perfect, but better.
"Keep that one," Harry said quietly to Amy.
------
Back at the house one night, Harry was writing new notes, tightening transitions, and writing mental edits for the final cut. He was tired—more tired than he imagined he would be, but he wasn't exhausted. Just stretched.
One night, he took Sparky for a walk around the neighborhood. It was quiet. Leaves in the wind. When he returned, he could hear Maria in the kitchen.
Lisa was in the living room, on the phone, speaking quietly and very seriously.
When she got off and looked at Harry, she said, "Sandy and Gail say Fox wants to see a cut when it's done, but no hiccups."
Harry laughed. "There's always hiccups."
Lisa was looking at him, "You just don't act like it."
Meanwhile, Memento had closed. Final numbers came in just shy of $56 million in the U.S. (five times its budget). International made its way to somewhere just below $40 million. Not a blockbuster, for sure, but for a neo-noir with a reverse chronology? That feels like a statement.
More importantly, it was a career-maker.
Especially if you consider the meagre $5 million budget and ten extra spent on marketing.
Chris had flown back to LA, to begin pre-production meetings with Warner Bros. Jonah was staying back for a couple of weeks to continue working on the rewrite of Providence, suggesting some adjustments to the structure and the pacing.
Harry met him one night in the production office, script pages littered across the table.
"You're doing great work," Harry said, sincerely.
Jonah shrugged. "Still don't know how you are balancing all of this. Directing is not essentially a part time job."
"Neither is running a company. Or owning a dog, apparently," Harry replied.
Jonah laughed. "Well, enjoy it. Most people don't get to trade stress for a pile of money."
"Yeah," Harry muttered. "Real gift."