Good Morning, Lakerland

Good Morning, Lakerland

People scream as if on the downturn of a roller coaster. The shoving is intense, brutal, like a mugging in a New York alley.
And then I am kicked out of the elevator. Two people follow…one, a young male, in his twenties like me, and a beautiful girl, who lands on me with an oomph. My ribs hurt. My knees are bloodied and my ears ringing. Smoke is everywhere. The girl is beautiful, yes…but hell, survival of the fittest. So, I get up and run away.

That’s when I hear “CUT!!!!”

Thank goodness. By now my legs are on fire. I’ve fallen out of that freaking elevator 5 times. The girl is pretty in a way, and at first it was kind of a novelty to have her butt falling on me. But now?
Don’t care. Get me out of here…
Mark Wilson, the director, marches into the coridoor, his tall, lithe frame cutting through the fog and dim 2K beams. Even out here in L.A. you can tell he’s a Phoenix kid. There’s a quiet to him, a simple but confident presentation that is only amplified by his generic blue jeans and white hoodie. He smiles at me, tells me it was awesome and then I hear what I expected to hear since he first marched onto the set.

One more take?

…


Guh. Sure Mark. Anything for you, bud.

By the way, I am on the set of Honeymoon, a film I penned two years ago when I was nearing my completion of SCC’s film program. It’s a sodden little tale about a newlywed couple who are vacationing in Bolivia, fighting about a little bump in their relationship. Turns out the blushing bride had gotten one final fling in before she settled down. Her husband isn’t too happy about it...can you blame him? All this comes to a head when their hotel is suddenly attacked by the locals. You see, governmental revolution doesn’t just stop because your marriage is going to pot.

(This is where I feel compelled to tell you, I have no idea why they are staying in Bolivia. I sure as hell don’t plan to have my honeymoon there. I hope people give me the grace of suspension of disbelief)

So then, you now know why I spent the weekend watching Mark film this script, sitting quietly by a playback monitor, drinking coffee and chatting with the crew…It was fun, and I learned a lot about Mark and a lot about myself. And apparently, so did everyone else.

Mark is very explicitly Phoenix. Down home, wholesome. He's a great guy.

I’m...different.

It’s funny, because the director, assistant director, composer and various other positions were all helmed by kids from Phoenix, and as a result, a running joke materialized at the onset of the shoot: This weekend will tell everyone whether or not the Phoenix kids can make it out in L.A.
After the second AD voiced that challenge, those words hung over every single delay, as if to say, resoundingly: “NO”. Unfortunate really, because there were as many victories as there were mistakes. The very fact that a Phoenix kid was directing a short film on Panavision’s lot, with Panavision’s equipment, should be the victory cry in itself.

All that being said…I never really felt like a “Phoenix kid”. I never really felt like I was trying to prove myself in the same way they were. And they didn’t seem to see me in that light either. How was I seen?
When I first arrived, I was just a detested writer. The AD had his eye on me the entire time, as if waiting for me to inevitably spout out “YOU’RE RUINING MY VISION”. When that didn’t come, everyone’s perspective shifted again: “How old is this kid? 12? Why is he running around L.A., waltzing in and out of Panavision whenever he wants?” By the time I memorized everyone’s name and had some conversations, everyone finally found a kind of comfort around me.

I think.

It was still weird for me. Talking to actors, watching a massive supercrane sweeping over my head, having people discuss how Honeymoon was a social commentary on South American politics and the American perspective...simply insane, unexpected, undeserved.
BUT, the weirdest? That would go to being an extra in the film, spending a few takes falling out of an elevator shaft, and then hobbling away, bloody knees and all, to go watch the Lakers.

Mark had his quiet, confident identity. But in that moment, Huck earned his. He didn't create it, He didn't even expect it. The entire set gave to him. And that didn't feel weird at all.


It felt great.