Imminent Risk of Laceration

Ah, Short Ends, what happened? It's like when you see two friends marry, and all the potential is there, but still they screw it up and after it's all done, you can't spend time with either of them anymore. I won't mention who the "two friends" are in this scenario, but rest assured, they are concepts, not people. And I miss them. Thursday May 4, 2006

A week or so back, Sam Lerma contacted me. He wanted me to play a hobo in his new movie. Because the phrase "Sam Lerma movie" is generally preceeded by the phrase "award-winning," I didn't even ask what it was about me that suggests "hobo" before agreeing. He asked me to look like crap. I can only work with what God gave me, but I mess up good.

Last night was the shoot. It was supposed to be the night before last, but it was hailing like Captain Kangaroo's ping pong balls, so Wednesday it would be. I showed up on time, 7:30 pm, and then spent another half-hour trying to find parking. We were shooting at picturesque Peacock Alley, which is quite near the theaters, where the Lion King musical was playing. Not a lot of curb space. But I found one that was only a little bit illegal just a block or so away. They weren't waiting on me, as they couldn't get started before (a) it got dark and (b) the actual street people departed from the location.

We spent the time putting on makeup and choosing costumes. Neck brace, yes; eye-patch, no. It's little details like this that separate your movies from Sam Lerma's movies, bitch. In time, we got started, and much of my "work" involved sitting on my ass in raggedy clothing. So of course, I had to jump up and get involved in other things, moving lights, talking to passersby, throwing suggestions at Sam. You know, pissing him off.

The scene involved Josh running down the alley holding a cash-packed glass tip jar, and then he falls and it spills all over the place and shatters. These are the kinds of scenes that look great on the page, and great on the screen, but are serious ass warts every step in between. It's one thing to say, "he falls in the alley and the glass breaks," but when you actually have to throw a delicate actor onto the hard floor of an alley, and on top of jagged shards of glassy death, the realities start setting in. Being a few years older, and feeling my joints in a way he cannot yet know, I warned Josh about falling on his knees. He had that covered, he said, and he did, I saw in a few practice falls; poof, right into the trash bags on his forearms and hip, Colt Seavers couldn't have done it better. But remember there's glass, I mentioned, and you could see it dawn on him that he was going to have to avoid being sliced like cheese while making a credible fall in front of a camera.

And that also, I think, might've been the point when Sam realized that perhaps he should've reconsidered the shorts and sandals he was wearing behind the camera. The jar was going to explode mere inches before his lens, and he was going to be in the direct path of the shrapnel.

As mentioned, I was there to play a hobo, and as such, I naturally had brought along my bathrobe. It's a huge, thick, terry-cloth thing, red-and-black stripes, which I don't think I've worn since I moved into this subtropical clime. Sam cleverly decided to use it to protect himself. Now, Sam is a man-and-a-half, talent-wise, but in terms of physical size, he's about half-a-Pete. So he's got this thing wrapped around himself like Lawrence of Arabia, not a bit of flesh exposed except for his eyes, and once Josh went into his fall, Sam pulled the hood over his face, too.

So he never even saw the smash. Hope it looked as good on the camera as it did in the alley. Huge smash, enormous noise. I suspect they heard it in the Lion King.

No blood spilled, by the way. Should be a good movie. Go see it at the Short Ends screening, June 17th. Jesus tarry and the creek don't rise, I should have one playing there, too.