Virgin Film Experiences: Part One
Let's face it. Your first time is awkward, painful, and just plain wrong.
I've recently been treading in virgin territory. I am currently in the process of finishing one of my first films, Elevator- taking her out, dusting her off, and hopefully giving her the attention she deserves so that she will have a life outside of my imagination.
Throughout the early stages of this process, I find myself unearthing some of the memories and feelings surrounding my early filmmaking experiences- feelings that I had quickly shoved to the wayside as I hurried on to the next project. Memories that I prayed silently would turn into some kind of wisdom that would prevent me from making the same mistakes on my next film in favor of a whole new set of glorious mistakes.
And it showed. At the end of the semester critique I watched several of my friends and colleagues draw praise from our professors. I anxiously waited my turn- but when it came, the criticism was like an avalanche. Each of my amateurish mistakes rolling off my instructors' tongues and clobbering me on the back of the head before collecting in a pile at the foot of the stage where I sat facing my peers. I was blown wide open. I wasn't able to separate myself from the work and it hurt.
Still- my most vivid memory from the entire experience was not my first brush with film school failure, but of the long bus ride I took out to the west-side suburb of Maywood, Illinois. It was here that I had cut a deal with a butcher over the phone who promised to save me the two pig hearts (one for back-up of course) I needed as props for my film. As long as I came out to get them on the specified day, I could have them for free.
The best part of this was not the butcher shop, with its dingy tile and yellowed counter-tops- as I waited for the butcher to retrieve my "props" I tried very hard not to look at the half-disassembled animals behind the counter or the blood on the butcher's apron. Blood is so much more horrifying when its real.
The best part was the 45 minute bus ride home. My two props tucked neatly on ice in the only appropriate container I was able to find in my apartment- a cloth lunch bag- I couldn't help but smirk at the thought:
Everyone on this bus thinks I have a sandwich in here. If only they knew what I really have.
Technically, my first turn as filmmaker was the 16mm short I shot in my introductory semester at film school- A Change of Heart. In it, the main character gives her heart (quite literally, bloody and all- wrapped up like a present) to her new boyfriend, hoping he will return her affection, but is devastated when he finds her gesture to be disgusting.
What it really was about was my own fear- my fear of exposing myself to ridicule as a filmmaker. Of digging deep. Of getting a little blood on the page.
And it showed. At the end of the semester critique I watched several of my friends and colleagues draw praise from our professors. I anxiously waited my turn- but when it came, the criticism was like an avalanche. Each of my amateurish mistakes rolling off my instructors' tongues and clobbering me on the back of the head before collecting in a pile at the foot of the stage where I sat facing my peers. I was blown wide open. I wasn't able to separate myself from the work and it hurt.
Still- my most vivid memory from the entire experience was not my first brush with film school failure, but of the long bus ride I took out to the west-side suburb of Maywood, Illinois. It was here that I had cut a deal with a butcher over the phone who promised to save me the two pig hearts (one for back-up of course) I needed as props for my film. As long as I came out to get them on the specified day, I could have them for free.
The best part of this was not the butcher shop, with its dingy tile and yellowed counter-tops- as I waited for the butcher to retrieve my "props" I tried very hard not to look at the half-disassembled animals behind the counter or the blood on the butcher's apron. Blood is so much more horrifying when its real.
The best part was the 45 minute bus ride home. My two props tucked neatly on ice in the only appropriate container I was able to find in my apartment- a cloth lunch bag- I couldn't help but smirk at the thought:
Everyone on this bus thinks I have a sandwich in here. If only they knew what I really have.
Stay tuned for Virgin Film Experiences Part Two: Adventures in Delegating
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