The staffer, following Brian De Palma's instructions, picked one of the copied Lola Run dailies at random, loaded it into the projector, hit play, and everyone turned to the big screen on the wall.
On the screen, after the clapperboard, the first image was an empty shot.
From a fixed low-angle perspective, bright golden sunlight streamed in through a window hung with half-open bamboo curtains.
Under the intense light, the patterns on the curtains, the Barbie doll in the corner, the wilted bouquet on the windowsill—all the elements created a sense of quiet, perfect harmony.
The quality of a film shot is basically judged by elements like composition, color, and camera movement.
The shot before them was impeccable in composition, color, and lighting.
There wasn't a single outsider in the screening room who didn't know film, so even though no actors appeared right away, this simple empty shot drew silent admiration from everyone: Beautiful.
The roughly five-second fixed empty shot repeated three times.
Then the second shot was another empty one.
But this time, it wasn't fixed—it was a slow push-in.
In the frame: a photo of Lola and her boyfriend, a red card with radiating hearts, scattered clutter on the table—the lighting and composition equally outstanding.
Next, the third shot, still empty, but now the frame had movement.
Lola's green plaid pant leg on the left, a black beer bottle on the right, and in between, a slow-crawling turtle. Compared to the first two empties, this one felt more intriguing, subtly conveying a restless unease.
By now, everyone realized this was a sequence of continuous empty shots.
But three shots, three completely different compositions, each brimming with imagination, showcasing the creator's deep aesthetic foundation.
After the empty sequence, Lola herself finally appeared on screen.
Seeing her bold color scheme—fiery red hair, blue tank top, green pants—those encountering the film for the first time in the room felt a slight surprise. This avant-garde look, almost like a cartoon character, was rare in Hollywood films. But thanks to the perfect empty shots laying the groundwork, they instinctively saw this eccentricity as innovation.
The dailies from the raw negative, of course, had no sound.
The silent footage played for over two minutes, and reactions in the room varied.
Lola Run's producer, Ron McMillan, was completely at ease now. After years in Hollywood, Ron could easily tell good footage from bad, and Simon's shots were infinitely better than he'd dared hope.
Clearly, Simon's unconventional directing style these past few days wasn't some act—this was a young man with exceptional filmmaking talent.
Katherine Bigelow had seen Simon's various extraordinary gifts more than once, so she'd had faith in him from the start. Now she just savored the dailies along with everyone else.
David Giler simply thought: I was right about that kid.
As for Brian De Palma.
He was probably the most professionally attuned in the room.
Robert Redford and Katherine Bigelow had some directing experience, but their credentials were shallow.
Given his expertise, as the dailies played, Brian De Palma grew increasingly astonished.
After Simon ditched the Orion deal, Brian hadn't withdrawn his offer to be executive producer on Lola Run—he genuinely admired the young man.
But he hadn't been without concerns.
In the industry, writers turning director was common, but it was usually a gradual process.
Simon's screenwriting creds had just caught Hollywood's eye, and he was already jumping to direct—Brian thought that was unwise.
So while he'd promised, if the final cut of Lola Run turned out disastrous, Brian absolutely wouldn't let his name appear in the credits.
But now, he'd completely dropped those worries.
The very first empty shot on screen earned a high mark from him.
Technically speaking, strong backlighting could easily cause flaws like flare or haze if mishandled, but Simon's shot showed none.
If it were just one perfect shot, no big deal. But the series of backlit shots with Lola at the window phoning were flawless from every technical angle—that was impressive.
And Brian approved of Simon's warm yellow tone for the film; it's one of the most relaxing and comforting palettes, giving it a real cinematic feel.
Moreover, in this four-and-a-half-minute reel, the varied shooting techniques demonstrated Simon's superb shot orchestration. Especially the last tracking shot following Lola out of the room, turning to her mother's bedroom, then pivoting to the TV screen—the camera path was wildly inventive.
Yet.
None of that was what surprised Brian De Palma the most.
As soon as the four-and-a-half-minute daily wrapped, he turned to Ron McMillan on the other side, a bit uncertain. "Ron, has this print already been color-timed?"
In the film era, dailies printed from the original negative showed variations in color, exposure, etc., due to differences in lighting, sets, even film stock quality. So after editing, a pro colorist had to tweak each shot individually, creating custom schemes, then the lab processed accordingly.
Most films needed at least three color passes to reach the final screen look.
It's easy to imagine how tedious that was for movies with thousands of shots. Even in the digital era years later, no film escaped complex color grading.
But.
Just now.
Brian De Palma had noticed that in Lola Run's four-and-a-half-minute dailies, the shots showed minimal differences in exposure, tone, etc.
Sure, they were all in one scene, but each shot's color, lighting, etc., varied completely. So with over twenty shots total, including repeats, achieving such uniform color and exposure without any grading was practically a miracle.
Ron McMillan blinked at Brian's sudden question, puzzled. "Mr. De Palma, isn't color timing done after editing?"
Hearing their exchange, David Giler—who'd been discussing the last tracking shot's camera work with Robert Redford—suddenly caught on. He glanced at the darkened screen, then turned to the staffer by the projector. "Quick, play that daily again."
The screen lit up soon after.
Now that they'd clued in, everyone fixed their eyes on the wall screen.
With shifted focus, on the rewatch, they spotted some color variances between shots.
But everyone had to admit, they were minimal.
If not for the clapperboards at each shot's start, the whole reel felt basically like watching a finished film.
It was clear: if all the film's shots hit this level, post-edit, it might need just one simple color pass for a perfect final cut.
Had a proper Hollywood commercial film ever needed only one color pass?
Yes.
It had.
That film was The Godfather.
But The Godfather's cinematographer was Gordon Willis, a Hollywood master of lighting and sets. And its single pass was partly due to rushed deadlines, beyond the shots' quality.
Now, a newbie film with a few hundred grand budget, based on dailies alone, suggested it might need just one easy color pass for completion.
How was that not a miracle?
After the four-and-a-half-minute daily, David Giler immediately had the staff play the other reels.
Twenty-odd minutes later.
As the screening room screen went dark again, everyone sat in silence for a moment.
Then Robert Redford turned straight to Ron McMillan, his tone edged with urgency. "Ron, introduce me to this film's cinematographer, gaffer, and set designer. I have to get them for my next movie."
Hearing Redford, David Giler and Brian De Palma also looked at Ron.
They weren't about to miss out on talent like that. Busy with The Butterfly Effect, they weren't up on Lola Run's crew details.
Ron, stared down by the three big shots, couldn't help twitching his mouth.
This request.
It might be a bit challenging.
The cinematographer? The director doubled as that.
Sets? Director handled those too.
As for the gaffer.
Um.
Well.
Who was the gaffer again?