Matthew Scheffler is the writer-director of “The Traveler,” a ghost story in which nothing is as it seems that plays this weekend at FilmQuest. In the piece below, he details his location issues in making the film, and how he and his team solved them.—M.M.
As a field producer on HBO’s Last Week Tonight with John Oliver, I was tasked with the improbable. Every week I’d wait for scripts to come in, often on Thursday or Friday, and would then have 48 to 72 hours to produce, shoot, and edit segments to be ready for air on Sunday. When you successfully work in that environment, it creates a false sense of security. That anything you want to make is achievable.
So when I set out to write and direct ” The Traveler,” a Victorian ghost story shot in New York City with over 60 VFX shots, pyrotechnics, and a shoestring budget, I had no idea what I was in for — and how far HBO’s money had helped me make miracles.
Location is Everything (That Went Wrong)
Set in the late 1800s, The Traveler follows a widow who is haunted by a supernatural presence while grieving in her remote farmhouse. Not only did the film require period-accurate exteriors and rural backdrop, but also a living room with a functioning fireplace, an office, a kitchen, and the ability to connect all three in a “oner.”
To make matters worse, we couldn’t afford to lodge the cast and crew, which meant keeping our location within a 90-minute radius of New York City.
Like all screenwriters writing creative checks your production can’t cash, I never considered finding this location would pose such a problem. Growing up in New England, I knew lots of people with old houses, so naturally, our first approach was to film at the homes of friends and family.
Immediately that became an issue. No sane person lives in an unrenovated colonial home equipped with brick ovens, untreated floorboards, and zero electrical wiring. Wall plugs can be concealed, but my aunt’s tacky Moroccan backsplash is much harder for VFX to paint out (sorry, Deb).
History Nerds Are Tough Landlords
Our next brilliant idea was to film at historic houses around New York, as they’d maintain their period aesthetic with the added bonus of being fully furnished. Given our budget, we couldn’t afford to dress an entire space, so leaning on existing furnishing and props became essential.
I contacted the film commissions for Nassau County, the Hudson Valley, and New Jersey for recommendations, while scouring Google for options outside their radar. At first, it seemed promising, with several locations excited at the prospect of filming a movie… until they learned what that actually meant.
See, historic houses are run by people who love history in a deeply passionate, almost obsessive way. While scouting one property, a curator told me the house contained a 300-year-old Bible that could not be moved, touched, or even looked at. He canceled the rest of the scout right then and there.
Museums are all about preservation and control, while film sets are unpredictable. Dozens of bodies, working in small spaces, and operating heavy equipment on fast timelines can create chaos, which can be a tough gap to bridge. For five years, we struck out with every historic site between Freehold, New Jersey, and Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
The Staten Island Miracle
Out of options, and a fast approaching our shooting window, I pleaded with a location manager friend (shout out to Brad Reichel) for help. He mentioned a place he’d visited with his kids: Historic Richmond Town on Staten Island.
As luck would have it, they were looking to re-enter the film world to generate new revenue, and decided a self-funded short film was the perfect place to start.
The layout wasn’t what I’d written. The house sat just 32 feet from one of Staten Island’s busiest streets, with more than a thousand cars passing every hour. Worse, the fireplace, the heart of the story, wasn’t functional.
But we had to make it work.
The Fire That Wasn’t There
Our production designer, Amber Unkle, loved the space. Our DP, Fletcher Wolfe, was less enthused about the stream of light from cars whipping past the windows — about 17 a minute. To solve the problem, we rented a 30-foot stage backdrop and placed it outside the house. It doubled as quick tenting for night shoots, and during day interiors, we softened and slightly overexposed the window light to disguise the abstract pattern on the fabric.
But the biggest challenge was the inoperable fireplace. Our lead character sits by the fire for most of the film — lighting it, tending it, and ultimately burning her belongings in it.
As production neared, everyone wanted to know how we’d handle it. I put on my producer hat and did what any good producer would: I lied. I said we’d build a replica fireplace later, deciding those were problems for another day.
Amber and our VFX supervisor, Chris King, scanned the fireplace and took detailed camera notes. Unfortunately, once we wrapped, we’d burned through our budget, and our SFX coordinator had moved on.
So I took it home — literally. I pitched my stepfather, a retired firefighter, on the idea of building the fireplace in his work shed. Ever the craftsman, he agreed.
Four months later, on Easter weekend, I went with Fletcher and producers Meghan-Michele German and Matt Ruscio to my mother’s house in New Hampshire, where we rebuilt the fireplace and shot all the fire inserts. Those shots cut seamlessly into The Traveler, and the producer’s lie turned into truth!
The Lesson
Naivety is one of the greatest strengths we have as indie filmmakers. It shields us from doubt and gives us the courage to chase the impossible. You won’t always know how you’ll pull something off — and that’s okay.
Just stay creative, stay stubborn, and when in doubt, put your producer hat on and say: “Those are problems for another day.”
“The Traveler” plays Sunday at FilmQuest, one of our 50 Film Festivals Worth the Entry Fee.
Main image: Actress Natalie Knepp, who plays Hannah in “The Traveler.” Courtesy of the filmmakers.