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kangeikoTitle: The Challenges of Modern Filmmaking, take 43
Fandom: Askewniverse RPF
Summary: Making movies about real life isn't the same process it once was.
A/N: I don't write RPS. I don't. But Clerks. X arrived today, and while wrapped up in many blankets bemoaning my apparent (very mild) food poisoning, I watched the Snow Balling - the Clerks story. I was caught by the image of Kevin Smith and Scott Mosier sleeping on the floor of RST video while editing Clerks, as Kevin's house had been almost entirely wrecked by the flood that struck New Jersey in 1992. Given the weather conditions outside at the moment (snow!! snow in London!! Repent, the end is nigh!!!), I started thinking about the difference between 'a day in the life' films as they once were, and what they're likely to be years in the future.
What follows is likely to be massively exaggerated. Or not. I'm betting not.
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100fandoms prompt #66 'storm'.
*
Above the city stretches the blasted sky in shades of mauve and dripping reds, staining the clouds and obscuring the sun. This is normality, 2027-style: the faint hiss in the air; the heavy smog lying on the ground like over-weight fog; the sealed luxury L.A. apartments. Somehow, when he wasn't looking, 'normality' changed from the green sprawl of New Jersey and the staccato scatter of primary colours in shop windows. This is the school I went to - the church my parents attended - the Recreation Centre I hung out at - this is - this is - this is - But there is nothing there anymore.
The final flood was stronger than its 1992 precursor, sweeping through the entirety of the Garden State and taking with it not just buildings and cars and trees but too many people to ignore. Once more a disaster area, FEMA had cordoned the place off and, bit by bit, the sprawl of NYC had absorbed the influx of migrants. There was nothing to stay for when the work had disappeared, after all, and anyone who could leave, did so.
He likes to think that this why he's here: the flood. It's the flood's fault that the only Secret Stash is now on the Boulevard rather than on the Red Bank; it's the flood's fault that his kid - fuck it, she's like ten years old in his head, but still pregnant as all hell now; how the fuck did that happen, then? - is driven everywhere. Where else are they going to live? L.A. at least has a hope in hell of pulling together the cash to rebuild should a similar shitstorm hit, and their house is pretty high up, anyhow. The churchgoer in him likes that, really. We shall be as a House upon a Hill… and the whole world is watching and tutting behind their fingers. This is what pisses him off more than the rest - more than losing Jersey, really - because L.A. has made big with the cable coverage. So they get BBC News 24 and Al Jazeera alongside their CNN, and he gets to see which city was next in line with his breakfast. How fucked up is that, eh? He'd ranted at Jen that it was fucking inconsiderate to show such graphic images so early in the day - with the fucking kids still not off to school - and she'd pointed out, sighing, that it wasn't 'early' wherever the broadcasters were. They'd have to get their foreign evening news and suffer through the barrage of tarpaulin footage like all the rest.
('Tarpaulin footage' - what motherfucker had come up with that fucked up nickname? It fit, though, 'cause not even Al Jazeera would show the drowned bodies of kids on the airwaves, and so instead of bloated bodies or what-the-fuck-else, you got rows and rows of little lumps, covered by whatever happened to be around.
Inevitably, it had been tarpaulin.)
"The builders are coming in," Jen said over dinner one night. Harley was visiting - had been visiting since she got pregnant, actually, 'cause apparently the only thing keeping Kevin from stressing so much that he lost the rest of his hair was having his family where he could see them - and she looked up at this.
"I thought they were coming on Monday," she said, and poked her broccoli doubtfully, like a little girl. This time it was hormones rather than childishness that made her glare balefully over the dearly-bought green, so she speared it with a fork nonetheless and are it, grimacing.
Jen shook her head. "No - apparently the new build in Frisco is pulling them al in early, so they're coming in tomorrow, and then they're off." She grimaced. "It's a fucking joke, I'm telling you."
Kevin ate his broccoli, and prodded his genuine, non-GM, non-toxic, farm-raised slice of cow gamely.
"We can set up beds in the gym, I think," Jen pressed on, shooting him an anxious look. "It'll do us for a few weeks."
"And didn't you guys sleep in a video store after the '92 flood?" Harley pitched in. "I'm sure it won't be too bad. It'll be like sacrificing for your art, or whatever."
Kevin stared at his slice of cow a little more. Genuine cow-product, he thought. Sacrificing for your art, he thought.
"We'll look after them," Jen said, the lines on her face deepening as she frowned. "I mean, they're crew; they know the score. We'll put them up somewhere, even if they have to sleep on the floor of our room."
"Sure," Kevin said, looking up at last. "We're making films about real-life, after all. It's good to live it as well as say it."
Jen nodded. Harley nodded.
Kevin went back to his food: to the carefully reared broccoli and the genuine cow-product that may or may not have been non-GM, non-toxic, farm-raised cattle once in its life. I make films about real life, Kevin had once said in a predictable and overly-long Q&A.
Outside, the sky deepened as the sun dipped behind some clouds in its descent; the deep burgundies and wasted magentas that washed across the sidewalks spiralling out as the last thoughts of the sunset. From the window, he could see down to the people below, and the white paint marks high above the roofs of the crumbling houses that measured out where the last flood's high water had hit. Cyclists with neon sunblock and facemasks from a sci-fi flick flitted past those daring to walk while the weather would still permit it. Hippies, the news outlets called them; activities and greens and hippies, and independent filmmakers, too, it would appear.
"I'm going to go outside for a bit," he said, and stood from the table.
Jen nodded. "Don't forget your sunblock and mask and cell phone," she said.
For those listening, the news outlets announced that the weather was a balmy 60F in downtown L.A., and that the festivities for next weekend's Fourth of July celebrations were sure to please the whole town.
He was thinking that the opening shot should have the cyclists in 1940s-style gas-masks, like they used to have in those Cold War 'what to do if a nuke hits' educational films.
*
fin
Fandom: Askewniverse RPF
Summary: Making movies about real life isn't the same process it once was.
A/N: I don't write RPS. I don't. But Clerks. X arrived today, and while wrapped up in many blankets bemoaning my apparent (very mild) food poisoning, I watched the Snow Balling - the Clerks story. I was caught by the image of Kevin Smith and Scott Mosier sleeping on the floor of RST video while editing Clerks, as Kevin's house had been almost entirely wrecked by the flood that struck New Jersey in 1992. Given the weather conditions outside at the moment (snow!! snow in London!! Repent, the end is nigh!!!), I started thinking about the difference between 'a day in the life' films as they once were, and what they're likely to be years in the future.
What follows is likely to be massively exaggerated. Or not. I'm betting not.
100fandoms prompt #66 'storm'.*
Above the city stretches the blasted sky in shades of mauve and dripping reds, staining the clouds and obscuring the sun. This is normality, 2027-style: the faint hiss in the air; the heavy smog lying on the ground like over-weight fog; the sealed luxury L.A. apartments. Somehow, when he wasn't looking, 'normality' changed from the green sprawl of New Jersey and the staccato scatter of primary colours in shop windows. This is the school I went to - the church my parents attended - the Recreation Centre I hung out at - this is - this is - this is - But there is nothing there anymore.
The final flood was stronger than its 1992 precursor, sweeping through the entirety of the Garden State and taking with it not just buildings and cars and trees but too many people to ignore. Once more a disaster area, FEMA had cordoned the place off and, bit by bit, the sprawl of NYC had absorbed the influx of migrants. There was nothing to stay for when the work had disappeared, after all, and anyone who could leave, did so.
He likes to think that this why he's here: the flood. It's the flood's fault that the only Secret Stash is now on the Boulevard rather than on the Red Bank; it's the flood's fault that his kid - fuck it, she's like ten years old in his head, but still pregnant as all hell now; how the fuck did that happen, then? - is driven everywhere. Where else are they going to live? L.A. at least has a hope in hell of pulling together the cash to rebuild should a similar shitstorm hit, and their house is pretty high up, anyhow. The churchgoer in him likes that, really. We shall be as a House upon a Hill… and the whole world is watching and tutting behind their fingers. This is what pisses him off more than the rest - more than losing Jersey, really - because L.A. has made big with the cable coverage. So they get BBC News 24 and Al Jazeera alongside their CNN, and he gets to see which city was next in line with his breakfast. How fucked up is that, eh? He'd ranted at Jen that it was fucking inconsiderate to show such graphic images so early in the day - with the fucking kids still not off to school - and she'd pointed out, sighing, that it wasn't 'early' wherever the broadcasters were. They'd have to get their foreign evening news and suffer through the barrage of tarpaulin footage like all the rest.
('Tarpaulin footage' - what motherfucker had come up with that fucked up nickname? It fit, though, 'cause not even Al Jazeera would show the drowned bodies of kids on the airwaves, and so instead of bloated bodies or what-the-fuck-else, you got rows and rows of little lumps, covered by whatever happened to be around.
Inevitably, it had been tarpaulin.)
"The builders are coming in," Jen said over dinner one night. Harley was visiting - had been visiting since she got pregnant, actually, 'cause apparently the only thing keeping Kevin from stressing so much that he lost the rest of his hair was having his family where he could see them - and she looked up at this.
"I thought they were coming on Monday," she said, and poked her broccoli doubtfully, like a little girl. This time it was hormones rather than childishness that made her glare balefully over the dearly-bought green, so she speared it with a fork nonetheless and are it, grimacing.
Jen shook her head. "No - apparently the new build in Frisco is pulling them al in early, so they're coming in tomorrow, and then they're off." She grimaced. "It's a fucking joke, I'm telling you."
Kevin ate his broccoli, and prodded his genuine, non-GM, non-toxic, farm-raised slice of cow gamely.
"We can set up beds in the gym, I think," Jen pressed on, shooting him an anxious look. "It'll do us for a few weeks."
"And didn't you guys sleep in a video store after the '92 flood?" Harley pitched in. "I'm sure it won't be too bad. It'll be like sacrificing for your art, or whatever."
Kevin stared at his slice of cow a little more. Genuine cow-product, he thought. Sacrificing for your art, he thought.
"We'll look after them," Jen said, the lines on her face deepening as she frowned. "I mean, they're crew; they know the score. We'll put them up somewhere, even if they have to sleep on the floor of our room."
"Sure," Kevin said, looking up at last. "We're making films about real-life, after all. It's good to live it as well as say it."
Jen nodded. Harley nodded.
Kevin went back to his food: to the carefully reared broccoli and the genuine cow-product that may or may not have been non-GM, non-toxic, farm-raised cattle once in its life. I make films about real life, Kevin had once said in a predictable and overly-long Q&A.
Outside, the sky deepened as the sun dipped behind some clouds in its descent; the deep burgundies and wasted magentas that washed across the sidewalks spiralling out as the last thoughts of the sunset. From the window, he could see down to the people below, and the white paint marks high above the roofs of the crumbling houses that measured out where the last flood's high water had hit. Cyclists with neon sunblock and facemasks from a sci-fi flick flitted past those daring to walk while the weather would still permit it. Hippies, the news outlets called them; activities and greens and hippies, and independent filmmakers, too, it would appear.
"I'm going to go outside for a bit," he said, and stood from the table.
Jen nodded. "Don't forget your sunblock and mask and cell phone," she said.
For those listening, the news outlets announced that the weather was a balmy 60F in downtown L.A., and that the festivities for next weekend's Fourth of July celebrations were sure to please the whole town.
He was thinking that the opening shot should have the cyclists in 1940s-style gas-masks, like they used to have in those Cold War 'what to do if a nuke hits' educational films.
*
fin