The Long Take

Two cool movie stars at the age of two and four

My father Roger loved musicals and the movies – not just the mainstream blockbusters, he also took me to see The Wall and Rocky Horror Picture Show. One afternoon we bought tickets for Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz, a semi-biographical film about his turbulent, self-indulgent life. There were many memorable scenes including graphic open heart surgery but what stuck with me most as a teenager was Roy Scheider staring into a mirror, his body failing him, repeating:

“It’s showtime, folks!”

A year ago this past weekend, my son Tristan graduated from Northwestern with a degree in radio, television, and film. He worked his ass off for that diploma — and somewhere along the way, he found his calling. Filmmaking lit him up. Even more valuable, he found his crew: classmates who became collaborators, now lifelong friends.

Following his passion, Tristan finds himself in New York and starts a new role Monday after a recent promotion. He’s supporting two talent agents and will be working long days for the foreseeable future. Watching Tristan bravely dive into the chaos of the industry these last twelve months has made me reflect on the dreams I had at his age.

Life does imitate art. We all experience our own hero’s journey but it doesn’t always neatly align to Aristotle’s classic dramatic structure of three acts with a beginning, middle, and end. Some parts of our lives are comedies, others are dramas with numerous intercutting scenes and storylines. They don’t even necessarily have a plot.

Last night, after my wife Shazi went to bed, I was channel surfing and landed on Goodfellas Copacabana shot where the film’s protagonist Henry, and his eventual wife Karen make their way into the club though service passageways and the kitchen, eventually ending up sitting in front of the stage as Heny Youngman tells his “Take my wife, please” joke. The scene was filmed in one long take and is a defining moment in filmmaking.

Our lives are indeed one long take, from the time we leave our mother’s womb until our last breath. In between these bookends, our own narrative unfolds. In my own epic saga, the action doesn’t come from a highly polished script with professional camera work. The actors don’t wear makeup or even know their lines. Just like Roy Scheider, one look at my face in the mirror every morning demands a reshoot – I don’t have the luxury in my life’s production.

There are moments in my movie where I wished for a scene to have a different outcome but the virtual camera keeps rolling. The director didn’t say cut when:

• I mistakenly threw the ashtray out of my mom’s car while my brother and I were speeding down I-94 after an Alpine Valley concert. She wasn’t pleased.
  

• I broke my arm on a Marshall Field’s escalator seconds after my dad warned me, “Stop that—you’ll get hurt.” He was not amused.
  

• I ate my mother-in-law’s deadly spicy fruit chaat shortly after meeting her and found myself unable to breathe for hours.
  

• I sleepwalked into our kitchen when I was in grade school, opened the cabinet below the sink and peed all over the trash.

  
  

Our life’s long take is never reshot, edited so the multiplex can add more showings, or test marketed for audience appeal. No feedback. No guidance. Just a slow zoom and a vague sense of cosmic judgment. It’s perfect as it is from the start….

INT. CRAMPED ROOM – DARK – TIMELESS

Thick shadows. Walls pulse gently, like breathing. Muffled thumps echo through the distance – rhythmic and constant.

A FIGURE floats in the murk – curled tight, still, content.

BEAT. A low groan vibrates the chamber.

The FIGURE stirs. Blinks. Frowns.

CRAMP. The walls tighten suddenly.

The FIGURE is jostled, squeezed. Fluid sloshes. Another contraction, harder.

The FIGURE flails in slow motion. Limbs press uselessly against the walls.

BEAT. Still again. Then –

VIOLENT CONTRACTION.

The FIGURE is forced downward. Spinning. Squished.

Tunnel.

Suddenly – POP.

INT. DELIVERY ROOM – BLINDING WHITE LIGHT – CONTINUOUS

SCREAM.

A SLIPPERY NEWBORN flails in gloved hands. Blinking in shock. Coated in goo.

DOCTOR (O.S.)  It’s a boy!

A nurse wipes the baby. The BABY glares upward – tiny, furious, betrayed.

BABY POV: Bright lights and giant masked faces.

The BABY screams louder.

SMASH CUT TO BLACK.

BABY (V.O.) It’s showtime, folks!