The Mysteries in Life Continue

An email from a friend in Maine:

"K. I was thinking about butt sniffing in context to high mammal behavior. I haven't thought a lot about this, but occasionally I have observed this type of behavior, primarily among dogs of course. And cats. Also cows, wildebeests, not sure about whales, reptiles or amphibians, or chickens. You know how with the Humanoids there is so much complexity to the issues. As I mentioned before behaviors can be misinterpreted and reactions can have varying degrees of severity. Now with butt sniffing, you get what you see--or smell. I'm not exactly sure what all a dog sniffs out, but man oh man, s/he must get a powerful message out of a snoot full. In many situations, there is the initial nose greeting, then quickly to the butt for a more meaningful acqauintance. So it appears to me that the nose smooch is just the preliminary formality. It is the other end that really counts. I would love to know the information they get out of that. And if they enjoy it. I know there a lot of taboos involved here in translating to human terms, and I am IN NO WAY advocating a change to the saluatation system. This is merely observation and comparison. The dogs just have it all pared down to simplicity which is the part I like. Most dogs can do the meet and greet and move on happily. One exception is our dog, Muna, who skips the greeting and lunges snarling for the throat. Bitch. Maybe she takes offense to the norm. Don't blame her really. Anyway since you seem to be curious about my observations, I thought I should pass this along. We as humans have evolved way beyond the sniff test. Instead we react with disgust to any product from the lower extremity. I can be that way too. I'm just saying that dogs in particular really get off on it. So the mysteries in life continue. Later, L."

In Memory Of

We will miss you, Anne, you bright star, you rapscallion, you heavy metal Brooklynite in bangs. I thought you were getting better. You said you were getting better. But now we know you weren't.

You were younger than all of us. Stupid world. Stupid me. I should have called more, but I didn't, and I'm sorry. I hardly wrote you, or even texted you. I never visited, or sent you singing-telegrams. I would have liked to have seen you one last time. Your smile was magical. Cliches abound regarding your beauty. You were in every way beautiful. Mostly, I knew you from work, but it didn't feel like work, because of you. You understood things. You just got it. You were good, and you were good at what you did. I understood the things you said, and I liked working for you.

I always wanted to know you better. You collected belt buckles, and had a rhinestone encrusted telephonic-device like Paris Hilton's before anyone besides Paris Hilton had one. You liked beer, and you wore black t-shirts featuring bands that were popular circa 1981. You loved your family. You drove a hybrid car. You acted the part of the Hippie Flute Player in Buck Nelson Presents: Lifting the Cloak of Mystery Off Rock Drumming, a movie you also produced, and which I will probably never see, no offense to anyone.

I have often been jealous of your close friends, because they were your close friends. But I'm not jealous of your close friends today.

I find solace in thinking of myself as your "close employee," possibly a category of one. Once, a long time ago, you sent me a text message that said "Stop flirting with me. I'm your boss. You can't flirt with me." But here's the thing: I hadn't been flirting with you. I had been texting you something about work. There is a difference between flirting and texting about work. Besides, you told me to stop flirting in a text message, so that's a two-way street, little missy. If you were here, I would bring this up, no matter who was around, and I'd purposely make us all feel very uncomfortable, and I would enjoy every second of it.

But you're not here, and that makes me incredibly sad. I really wish you hadn't left. I miss you already. We will all miss you. We all love you.

We love you! We love you! We love you!

Q: What's the Difference Between God and a Cinematographer?

A large number of cinematographers on American film sets happen to be from countries other than the United States. I honestly believe some of them land DP jobs not merely by dint of their talent, but because of their thick accents and cool-sounding names. Hell, some of their names are cool looking. I have personally worked with Polish, German, French, Japanese, British, Peruvian, Mexican, Dutch, Australian, and Danish cinematographers.

Nigel Bluck (not pictured here), a talented Direktor von Fotografie from New Zealand, once mentioned to me that no appropriate adjective exists to describe something from his country. His statement left me with many follow up questions, all of which he refused to answer--an interaction that could stand in for almost any interaction beween an AD and a DP on a film set.

I worked as the first assistant director on an Egyptian movie that was produced by a French company. We shot in New York and New Jersey. (I don’t know what they were thinking either.) One of the producers was a wonderful and entertaining man named Daniel whose English grammar was pitch-perfect, but who spoke in a deliciously thick French accent. Everything he said sounded tasty, or intellectual, and sometimes both. His chain smoking no doubt added a lot. One day he described for me the decidedly odd filigree of our cinematographer, who was soon to arrive in New York from his home in the U.K.

“Hong,” (also not pictured here) he said, “is Chineeze of fayze, Sowz Afreecan by birz, and Eengleesh in manner of speaking.” Years later, and I am still laughing about that one.

There are plenty of talented American cinematographers too (one is pictured here), but none of them sound as fancy-pants as the foreigners when they ask where craft service is.

[A: God doesn't think he's a cinematographer.]