Working to cast his demons

It is neither the same house nor the same address, but the gated mansion at the end of Cielo Drive remains one of L.A.’s most notorious sites. On Aug. 9, 1969, in a then-remote house overlooking the green and grandeur of Beverly Hills, five people, including actress Sharon Tate, coffee heiress Abigail Folger and well-known hairstylist Jay Sebring, were murdered by members of the Manson family.

If the “family” made a similar attempt today, they wouldn’t be able to find parking.

Several homes have been added to the narrow hillside street, and this being Benedict Canyon, there is always plenty of remodeling afoot -- nothing slows a pack of mass murderers like an obstacle course of contractor vans, power tools and cement mixers.

Recently, space was even tighter because a few doors down from the infamous site on Cielo, a movie was being made.

Titled “The House at the End of the Drive,” it is just about as subtle as you might expect from a horror film with a 12-day shooting schedule and a budget described by one crew member as “less than a million. Much less than a million.” “House,” at the end of the day, is a microcosm of dozens of small, personal movies that are virtually always shooting around the edges of Hollywood, fueled by passion and funded more often than not by maxed-out credit cards and contributions from family and friends.

This film is loosely based on the self-documented “experiences” of first-time producer David Oman, who lives in the house, which he built with his father six years ago.

Oman, who also plays a small part in the film, has super-tan South Bay good looks, an unusual employment history (he says he has worked as a private investigator, a restaurateur and a struggling actor), and a lifelong connection to the paranormal.

“I’ve always been told that I have a very open energy,” he says. “The spirits sense that, I guess, that I am open like a light, and they come to me like moths.”

From the moment his father, a real estate developer-architect, began to build on the Cielo lot, Oman says that even when he was alone at the site or later, in the house, he sensed another presence. One that finally materialized one night into the ghost of Sebring.

At first, Oman wanted to make a documentary, but the owner of the house at the end of the drive forbade any sort of filming. So with longtime friend and struggling screenwriter Jim Vines, Oman banged out a script about a man who learns he has rented a house near the site of a famous murder. Which explains the appearance of spectral figures and large quantities of blood as well as the strange behavior of the man’s dog. (Here’s how you know a film is low-budget -- the dog is played by the producer’s own pet, an amiable Rhodesian Ridgeback named Sebastian.)

There’s a time warp involved in the narrative that will require more than the usual horror-fan suspension of disbelief (not to mention a lot of bad ‘70s clothing). While there is a possibility that this is the next “Blair Witch Project” or even “Cabin Fever,” the chances of “The House at the End of the Drive” making it to theaters are, as with any teeny-tiny privately financed film, incredibly small.

Yet there is something undeniably compelling about the intersection of two local obsessions -- Manson and moviemaking. Especially on a set where homemade peanut-butter-and-jelly on white bread passes as catering.

Int. Upstairs Family Room. Day.

Many actors avoid working with dogs and small children because neither of the species stays put. Which makes blocking a bit of a problem. In the scene being shot late one Thursday morning, David (the main character played by James Oliver) has a bit of “dialogue” with his dog, which then barks and heads for the door.

Sebastian, in his film debut, has timing problems. Also sneezing problems. Offstage, Oman attempts to direct the dog, but the only incentive that has been provided is kibble, and apparently Sebastian cannot work under these conditions. Thirty people of various job descriptions and pay scales stand around while a man gets on a walky-talky. “R.J., on the fly, we need biscuits, repeat biscuits. That’s a priority.”

“He deserves a biscuit,” Oman says. “I wouldn’t do it for kibble. Would you?”

Int. Downstairs Family Room. Day.

Along the far wall is a table covered with the sort of food you might see at a frat party -- chips, cookies, soda, a bowlful of oranges. A young woman hands out Jolly Rancher lollipops. She is standing outside a bedroom door on which a sign reads “Hair and Makeup, no crew bathroom.” Inside, a makeup table and mirror have been jury-rigged across from a Soloflex. Oman is seated in front of the mirror talking animatedly, which appears to be the only way he talks, about the various ghostly encounters he has had in the house while the stylist attempts to make him up. Finally, Executive Producer Paul Mason tells him he has to stop talking.

“I am paying people to stand around waiting for him,” Mason says quietly.

Mason has been in the business for many years, as a television writer and producer (“ChiPs”) and a film producer (“The Amityville Horror”). He remembers what it was like to live in Los Angeles in that Helter Skelter summer.

“I was working [in town],” he says. “It was a very frightening time.”

Mason says he’s known Oman’s family for years, “so when David asked me to help him out, I said ‘Sure.’ It’s an interesting script, it’s fun, it’s short.”

There have been a few bumps with the dog, he says, “but it’s day five and everything is going reasonably well.”

Int. Upstairs Living Room. Day.

To reduce noise, every window and sliding glass door is shut. There are 30 people, plus cameras, a sound board and the video monitor, in two rooms. It is very warm and smells of salty Chinese takeout and something fried, perhaps buffalo wings.

Director David Worth came on board at the request of Mason. He has directed several straight-to-video films (“Shark Attack 2” and “Shark Attack 3: Megalodon”), and worked as cinematographer on “Any Which Way You Can,” “Raptor Island” and “Puppet Master vs. Demonic Toys.”

“When I read the script, I saw that it was very contained, one or two sets, like ‘Psycho,’ ” he says. “Sometimes great films can be done in a short time. ‘Psycho’ was shot in three days.”

In the scene being shot now, the dog barks, there is a knock on the door and David answers it to find Oman (in a truly frightening ‘70s wig) standing on the other side with a glassy-eyed stare. David thinks he is the electrician and invites him in. (Not to spoil it, but he’s really a ghost.)

Sitting behind the video monitor, Worth calls “action” seven or eight times as the dog barks or doesn’t bark, moves and doesn’t move. There are adjustments to Oman’s wig, a retake or two because he blinks (ghosts don’t blink), but in less than 15 minutes, Worth is satisfied. “Perfect,” he says.

The strangest thing is, through the video monitor, the action, even with all the takes and the cameraman’s hand and the scrabbling doggy nails, looks just like a movie.

Int. Upstairs Family Room. Day.

Shooting the exterior of the knock-at-door shot proves a bit of a challenge. Every time a truck, van or car comes up the construction-littered drive, the action must halt. So, the action halts a lot. “Now we’ve got a roach coach,” says the sound guy, with a resigned sigh.

“Tell them to keep rolling,” says Worth.

“No, no,” says the sound guy. “They’ve cut.”

“Great,” says Worth sarcastically. “OK, cut.”

Sitting next to him, gaffer Doug Cragoe tells his own Manson tale. “The job I had before this one,” he says, “we were shooting in a cellblock originally built for the Manson girls.”

Was it about the murder?

“No,” he says, “it was about Guantanamo. But still, we were in a cell that held a Manson girl. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

Int. Downstairs Office. Day.

While the cameramen reposition, Oman runs downstairs to show a reporter some of the photos he has taken of the street and the Tate site, photos he says document paranormal activity. Cursing the general state of his office, which is filled now with film staff -- “People, I don’t want anyone messing with my computer” -- he pulls up the images on his screen. Here is a shot of the street with some odd white light streaking across the bottom; here is an image of the gate with some pale spots descending in front of it, the same spots that show up in pictures of Oman’s living room.

“It isn’t spots on the lens,” he says, “because see,” he clicks on another image, “this is the same roll and there’s nothing there.”

From upstairs people are calling him; he is the principal in the next shot and a cameraman is lying on his back with a camera on his chest to make it. “Tell them they can just wait five minutes,” Oman says and he keeps clicking. “See,” he says, pointing to another image of the street with small snowy dots blurring the landscape, “see there, and there. I said I would be there in five minutes,” he shouts to the clamor upstairs before turning back to the computer. “I think those are like some sort of power globes, you know? Or maybe it’s really them,” he adds, referring to the murder victims.

The shouts from upstairs grow louder, people clomp down the stairs and stand in the doorway telling him he has to get up there. Now.

“I am doing something important down here,” he shouts back, rising finally from his chair with a profanity. “God, some respect for the producer would be nice.”

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Contact Mary McNamara at calendar.letters@latimes.com.