I had a dream last night that I was on a film set, completely unable to engage. I was something non-essential to their process so I drifted around, sort of knowing people but mostly not knowing them, missing every possible connection in pursuit of a shirt or while moving from one inconsequential spot to another. I was missing things as well as connections, dog paddling in place, unable to touch ground, to find a place I could stand.
Then I saw my dad. He must have been about sixty in the dream. He was happy to see me. He had come to set because he knew I needed some help. He wanted to take care of me and he offered me some Centrum.
It was so great to see him and to see him so well and so happy to see me because of how it ended so badly with his nearly thirty year older actual self in the hospice outside of Phoenix, Arizona.
For a minute, it was like all that dying and uncertainty, all his desperate but failing attempt to hold on, and all that I didn’t do to help him win, it was like all of that was not gone but forgiven. Not gone because, after the shock of the dream, I still had to wake up to the same empty rooms with the same stains on the carpet but in there, in the dream, in that thirty minutes ago place, he’s still smiling at me which is really super nice.
It would have been his 90th birthday tomorrow. Hi dad. Happy Birthday. Thanks so much for the present.
Ok. I brought Indiana Jones into my daughter’s life the other week. It all seemed like a good idea until it became more than an idea. I think there were about 60 murders. Or deaths-at-the hands-of-others. Whatever you want to call it. Tomato Potato.
At one point Karen Allen grabs a machine gun and mows down a small class of soldiers. Boom boom. Dead. All gone. They didn’t even look angry or menacing. They could have been grown up kindergartners…but all in green.
And that’s how it seemed to my two daughters.
And yes, it would have been better if the consequence had merited it. Death is ok if the framework justifies the bloody canvas. It’s true. I read it every day. But at this point in the movie these guys are dying for the sake of a Chicago-an archeologist’s flirty kicks.
You can blabber on all you want about the good old days but those ye olde classics have a few things to learn from the new Disney model.
1. Violence is ok if it seems like you’ll be able to stand up in a scene or two. (Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief)
2. Don’t actually kill anybody unless they’re super super evil and only if you can make them simply disappear or turn into smoke. (The Little Mermaid)
3. Don’t say “damn” in a cartoon. (Artisocats)
4. Don’t call your little brother a douche and blame him for ruining your family life. (E.T.)
5. Don’t rape someone’s mother in the front seat. (Back to the Future)
6. Women are useful for more than doing laundry and being sweet about it (Cinderella). And maybe someday they won’t be a blubbering fat blob’s bikini clad and chained up and tongued sex slave. (Return of the Jedi)
So how about a little What Were They Thinking in the face of all that Ye Olde crap, yeah?
You know, it is totally like Michael McDonald says
“i keep forgettin’ we’re not in love anymore”
And then some slap bass.
So true. So true.
I lit the spit out of a white cyc the other day. Top notch. Great work.
Still, despite the beautiful promenades awaiting our love, I had to shove the talent back against the cyc and vomit camera movement all over them.
It still gives me the shivers.
I shot Billy Joel the other day. Not since high school have I been less wanted. His handler had her hands all over the breathing part of our throats. I was watching the footage last night. I suffocated. Again.
We shot one take. “You got it,” she told us. Eh.
Then the B roll. You can’t shoot B roll if there’s no A roll.
If I moved or breathed or smelled, the beasts grew ready to pounce.
A vignette of elephants ready to smash through the frame on their way away from me.
Watching that footage gave me the grimace.
It’s shocking when they get mad at you for trying to help them
Then they become blind to the patterns they set up that block your help.
I have found myself near begging for help on how I could help people.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about genuine do-gooder type of stuff. As much as I love the image of me with a cape, I find myself afraid of even a kind word to people sitting still on the sidewalk. I skitter from that kind of help like a mouse. Anything in motion, a nod, carry on, that’s manageable. Actual contact, engagement, the lights go on and Iike a flash the shadows.
I’m working on that; miserably. I’m finding the modern day Samaratan thing to be difficult in the translation.
No. I’m talking about let’s move the couch kinds of stuff. Mutually beneficial tasks. Projects that take a few and help a few. Even other people’s projects that I’m paid to do things like…help.
I had a Sisyphus with this job recently in the prep. The Help me Help you had the wincing effect of a personal colonoscopy. My kid beat up their kids. I threw up on their wedding dress. I burned off their mustache. I drove over their turtle. I gave their Grandma herpes. Cascade in the soup. Poop toothpaste.
Simple questions like “what would you like?” and the sprinkler system went off.