With the film wrapped, Simon dove fully into post-production.
Next year's Sundance Film Festival started on January 16; from November 14, that left exactly two months for Lola Run's post.
To save costs, Simon disbanded the crew immediately after shooting.
In the following days, only Katherine and Janet stayed on to help with post-production; other needed behind-the-scenes roles were filled with temp hires.
Even with such penny-pinching, since Simon handled much of the original budget's roles like cinematographer, editor, and composer himself, Lola Run's funds were actually quite ample.
Janet had calculated it specifically: the $650,000 budget might not even reach $600,000 in the end.
But Simon didn't start spending lavishly because of that.
A film's success required excellent production on one hand and strong marketing on the other.
Simon had no plans to handle Lola Run's distribution solo—that was unrealistic for him now. But the extra tens of thousands of dollars would definitely come in handy during future promotion.
Having edited during shooting, Simon finished the rough cut of all footage in just two weeks after wrap. Entering December, while doing the fine cut, he also got busy with Lola Run's score.
Lola Run's music style was mainly fast-paced electronic; Simon could compose it, but actual recording needed a professional band. WMA represented a massive pool of musicians, so he faced no major obstacles there.
Busy like that, time slipped into year-end without notice.
Outside Simon's villa in the Montana district.
Today was already December 23.
Katherine parked curbside, approached the door to ring the bell—when it opened just then. Simon and a slightly chubby man in his early thirties appeared at the threshold, chatting quietly.
Nodding to Simon, Katherine greeted the man: "Afternoon, John—didn't expect you'd come today?"
The man, briefcase in hand, smiled and nodded. "Yeah, Ms. Bigelow—I'm just leaving. And tomorrow's Christmas Eve—happy holidays."
"You too, happy holidays."
With that, Katherine and Simon walked him to the curb, watched him drive off, then entered the villa together.
Last month, Lola Run's insert animations had all wrapped; everything was fine except Simon disliked the 2D title sequence of crowds forming 'Lola Run'—he wanted a 3D redo.
Few 3D animation firms existed back then.
After inquiries, Simon connected with a San Francisco studio—a famous one, Pixar. The man who'd just left was Pixar's VP, John Lasseter.
Pixar was originally Lucasfilm's animation division; George Lucas, hit by divorce, had to sell assets. Coincidentally, Steve Jobs—post-Apple, founding NeXT—liked Pixar and bought it early this year.
Jobs hoped Pixar's tech would boost NeXT graphics computer sales—but reality fell short. To sustain, Pixar took external animation ad gigs.
Simon had arranged a 10-second 3D opener with Pixar early in the month; John Lasseter had just delivered the final personally.
Into the living room, Katherine saw scattered docs and sketches on the coffee table and naturally started tidying. "I'm heading back to San Francisco later—you?"
Simon perched on the sofa arm, enjoying her busying, and smiled. "Or take me home—introduce me however."
Katherine rolled her eyes at Simon. "Janet wanted to take you to Australia days ago—why not go?"
"I'm scared of flying."
"I'm flying this time—couldn't get tickets last time."
"Oh, suddenly not so scared."
Katherine swatted his knee with the files but kept sorting. After a pause, though, she said softly: "You really want to come with me?"
Simon saw Katherine's tone turn serious, her cheeks faintly flushed, and quickly shook his head. "Nah, not ready yet."
Christmas was a time for Western family reunions; Simon knew he was far from the 'meet the family' stage with Katherine—it would be too abrupt.
Imagining Simon possibly alone tomorrow night, Katherine had softened. Hearing the refusal, she exhaled in relief but felt a faint disappointment.
Eyes averted from the young man beside her, Katherine stacked the sorted files on the table. "Then I might not be back till after New Year."
"Got it," Simon nodded, then solemnly: "And on the plane, ignore any chit-chat from seatmates."
Katherine glared but smiled. "You think everyone's a rogue like you?"
Janet had gone to Australia days ago; with Katherine leaving, L.A. suddenly felt empty.
Audio editing lately, but no work tomorrow.
Most were off—holing up in the studio would be too pitiful.
Busy morning decking the villa like the neighbors', even roof lights, bought a Christmas tree.
Got some Christmas invites—politely declined all.
Afternoon market run for supplies, even visited the motel from his early L.A. days, brought the Spanish old man a box of pumpkin pie.
The old man's kids were grown; just him and his wife for the holidays. He was pleased to see him, claimed he was awaiting his movie, opened the pie on the spot, and praised it lavishly.
So he joked it was a leftover from Halloween.
The old man dubiously almost spit it out—quickly corrected.
Actually, those giant Halloween pumpkins weren't wasted—processed into pies and shared with the crew.
This box was store-bought.
Fresh.
Stayed over an hour at the motel, chatting with the old man, playing guitar, then home.
Till dark.
But just a simple dinner alone—hated waste.
Full, bored with TV for a bit, then to the piano room, at the Steinway Janet had sent, tinkled a bit of Lola Run's final score.
The score was all done actually, satisfied—no changes planned.
Just killing time.
Tinkle tinkle, tinkle tinkle.
In a moment, recalled that night at Brian's party thought.
That movie.
A veteran crook, cautiously running his 'business', guarding his few brothers, occasionally dreaming of retirement, old age, relocating to an obscure Pacific isle to watch once-a-year glowing algae.
Suddenly meets a heart-stirring woman.
But holds back.
Insists.
Alone, but not lonely.
How could he not be lonely?
Tinkle tinkle, tinkle tinkle.
Ten o'clock, finally to bed—but the doorbell rang.
Ding-dong, ding-dong.
Hallucination probably.
Ringing persisted.
Hm.
Hallucinations don't last.
Left the piano room.
Opened the door.
Janet Johnston stood beaming outside, in a crop top, short shorts, fluffy blonde hair, flushed cheeks, long bare white legs, pink flats.
Like a Barbie doll.
Seeing his daze, she fluttered her long lashes habitually, eyes bright on him, husky little voice: "Little boy, were you just thinking, at this hour, whoever knocks is your girlfriend?"
He shook his head, smiled. "No—risky thought; what if it's a guy—disaster."
She laughed too.
Then.
She raised her arms: "Come, hug me."
No more hesitation, Simon stepped up, lifted the woman's light body.
Cool to the touch.
So some pity, mock-scolded: "It's winter—dressed like this, performance art?"
Janet clung to the man, feeling warm, but retorted: "Dummy, it's summer in Australia."
As she spoke, a wallet plopped from Janet's shorts pocket; Simon glanced down—passport, ticket scattered—but ignored, carried her straight to her bedroom.
Wrapped Janet in blankets, picked clothes from her closet, handed them over, ran to boil water.
After the fuss, Janet changed, held hot cocoa, still abed, looking content.
Simon sat bedside, gazing at her. "Why come now?"
"Worried you'd be too pitiful alone—see how good I am."
Simon smiled. "I'm used to being alone—fine. But you bolting on Christmas—your parents will be sad."
Janet heard Simon's casual 'always alone', her heart inexplicably tightened, reached to touch his cheek. "Saw Mom already; as for Dad, he won't be sad. Plus, plenty with them—missing one is fine."
Simon turned his face, stubble pricking Janet's palm. "Big family."
Janet pulled her hand back. "Yeah—two brothers, two younger; I'm the only girl. So if you bully me later, you'll get beat bad."
Simon laughed. "That—who beats who, uncertain."
Janet rolled her eyes, finished the cocoa, handed the empty cup to Simon. "Heard piano outside—you playing?"
Simon set the cup aside, nodded.
Janet perked suddenly, lifted her hand to Simon: "Carry me over—I suddenly want to hear you play."
Simon caught her pouncing into his arms, but said: "Changed clothes—can walk yourself?"
Janet wrapped around Simon: "Shoes are a hassle—quick quick."
Simon had to lift Janet again, to the piano room, set on the bench, sat beside.
Settled at the piano, Janet tinkled a bit expertly, then stopped. "You play."
"What?"
"Dunno—you pick."
Simon eyed Janet beside him, always a bit girlish, thought, said: "Sing—I'll play, you sing."
"Mm-hmm."
Simon keyed a gentle intro.
Janet listened, smiled, poked a finger to 'disrupt'—ding, ding, dong, dong—occasionally, but perfectly matched the tune's notes.
Then, a slightly husky female voice sang with special charm.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, "What will I be?"
"Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
Here's what she said to me
"Que será, será
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que será, será
What will be, will be"
Faint song with piano notes wafted through the villa, chasing loneliness from every Christmas Eve corner.