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Good readers, I follow with an account of a trial, a tribulation and a
tortuous joy that is short filmmaking. -- In the trenches with your local cinephile: Peter Rhoads Thursday, The house, June 18th 9:00pm Another working day has ended, and, like a pox, gray hairs crawl insouciantly across my head. Our noble savant, M, has applied his considerable efforts to laying a sublime texture over the “Patching Cabbage” set. It is unfortunate that this texture creates such a dangerously capricious yellow that it can only be considered molten urine. Though I enjoy a bit of sunshine from time to time, our yellow would humble even the great Sunny D. M is an artist and I suspect, though he may be colorblind, he may be a sliced ear away from mad genius. For, what else can he be? His ceiling mural certainly smacks of some latin based syndrome or –orandi. His nuclear yellow creeps up the wall not stopping for mantelpiece, nor ceiling, nor crack, nor tile ‘til his brush has tasted every surface in the room. The hard wood floors are curiously still an earthy brown. While we commend M on what had to be considerable restraint, we await a lime green, or a fine pea perhaps. Our wait is not without consternation as there is the distinct possibility that M may whisper to himself the fateful word: fuschia. Thursday, The House, June 18th 2:00am Our magicmaker has broken. That steady combination of glass and steel and celluloid has ceased its whir, and we, in our desperation, have resorted to conversations with a higher power…No, you may ask, not the good lord Jesus Christ, but Panavision Hollywood. (Though it is curious, that, Panavision, like the Vatican on Sundays, has taken their phone off the hook.) It has become clear that our friends at the mighty P are too engrossed in the quality of boob and tube to answer the tele, so we have devised our own solution. For those starving filmmakers out there the home remedy is as follows: 1) Stare at the camera, sitting very still for sixty minutes. Compress a ball of hate in your lower midsection. Do not look away. IF this ball of hate twists your insides into a molten rage, AND you near mental imbalance, the camera MAY buzz back to life. Note: This is not a solution endorsed by Panavision Corporate. How, why, and when Fortuna smiles her favour on us, we will not know, but we are pleased by her tidings. Up is down. Brown is gray. And I suspect I will own a handsome head of silver by weeks end. Friday, The House, June 19th 8:00pm Though we stole our favorite savant, M, from Mr. Hephner’s pleasure dome, there is a strong suspicion that his thoughts remain on the amble bosoms of Hugh’s lady friends. We open on a popular twentieth century device called the Tele-Vision. It would stand to reason that a modern television would generate whisps of colour, not just our frayed white. In fairness to M, the yellow incident was hard on him and his artistic expression. It is possible he has sworn off colour, and is possible he has since limited his voice to industrial whitings. It is possible…right? It is so difficult to judge the trappings of a genius mind these days, but, while withholding judgment, I find it mildly disconcerting that he has dubbed my TV “White Noise: a circus of grey” Though we have not found a language to communicate, I still hope to tap the skills of what could be an obvious genius. Saturday, The Toy Store, June 20th 8:00pm Apocalyptic winds have blown through Los Angeles good readers. Save for M shouting profanities into a road cone, there is no booming voice, nor bloody river, but there is something far more disconcerting in our world: a camera without a captain. Our vessel, the mighty Panastar, does have the good admiral navigating rapids, but sadly he is only one man. He hath but two hands, and a one-man camera crew does not a film make. Only in the pictures could a fictional character in “Pride and Prejudice,” and later in Ms. Jones’ Diary, appear out of nowhere and take us out of our flat spin. Darcy Spires, or Mr. Darcy, arrived not on noble steed, but the reliable Chevy Impala, bringing, not gifts of frankincense and myrrh, but a changing bag and widget. To call Mr. D anything short of a Christ-figure in our musings would be truly criminal. If there was bacon, he saved it. Sunday, The Toystore, June 22ndst 5:00am It is worth noting, readers, that my trusty steed and picture car is the classic 1986 Jetta. It harks from nobler times, and is a reliable character that is only steered wrong by our Narrator. I can only blame my cursed eyeballs for the admonishments handed to me by my fellow horsemen. The good folks have not taken kindly to my listing eye and lid, and have certainly not taken to the invasion of their yellow lined fence. With a blast of horn and extension of finger, the native So-Cals have communicated their unusual pagan customs and put me back on the straight and narrow. Though I appreciate their insouciant ideals, I cannot help but think these kindly neighbors are unhappy with my steed. Through it all I motor on, fighting one sagging eyelid after another. Monday, The Grabber Machine, June 22nd 8:00pm M is up to his old tricks friends. He has gone to pick up “The Devil Machine” for today’s shoot. Somewhere along the way M has lost something, and I am not at all sure he will find this proverbial thing. M has refused to take the very item that he went to pick up. As I frantically call his beeper (M eschews the radiation emanating from a mobile telephone) there is no answer save the two minute message he has recorded from “Eyes Wide Shut.” M has taken this time to break and eat his “famous” banana and peanut butter concoction. As I listen to a certain masked character berate Mr. Cruise with amorphous threats, I am not afraid to admit my concern for M’s personal and professional well being. Tuesday, The Church, June 24rd 2:00am On the seventh day he rested, or so it is written. Unfortunately, it was a sixth day rest, a working day for baby Jesus and our film crew. Perhaps they were inspired by our set, the house of the lord, or were in some way confused by the long night hours. It was the stretch that was not to be. As we rounded the corner and saw the light at the end, a few good men defected our regime. Temperatures rose, fatigue struck, and our lady’s colour turned pink. Thankfully, our gentle giant and D.P. summoned his gargantuan strength and worked as three. And then…there was light, and it was over. Wednesday, Home, June 24th 8:00pm It was a bloody battle noble readers. Sabers were rattled, death was averted, and a film was made. I believe only that my legacy is secure. My pater familius, “silver jack,” has quietly bequeathed his streaks of white to my unkempt noggin. I can only thank an extraordinary crew for preserving what is left of a chestnut head of hair. |
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