I’m trying to sneak a movie in — in between my other movies. I’m trying to sneak in making one, not watching one. The Florida movie is in post; the Alaska movie is in pre-production. In order to burn off some creative energy I’ve been filming Max, my five-year-old. Max: building a tent, burying himself in a pile of leaves, or recovering in the hospital from surgery. The clips form a delicate narrative, stacked from the tendrils of a child’s ephemeral ideas and improvised actions.
I was editing in my office when Max came by; he wanted to see what I was doing. He wanted to help. But I hid the screen from him and then I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because the movie is supposed to be a surprise for him. Or maybe it was because it wasn’t done. It still needed an ending — I couldn’t figure out the ending. The movie was about the experiential cacophony of being five, and I was waiting for a finalizing note to reveal itself to me.
Days later, it came. It came at four o’clock in the morning. Max woke me up, crawling into bed. He said he’d had a nightmare, but he didn’t want to tell it to me because the dream would scare me too much. I assured him that he could tell me anything. So Max pushed in next to me and, sensing that something new was about to reveal itself, I reached over and turned on a voice recorder. The dream was frightening, poetic, and deeply honest. That he’d wanted to protect me from it, and carry the burden himself, was overwhelming.
I spent the rest of the night reassuring Max, holding him in bed until he was snoring on top of me. Then, when morning came, and my wife woke up and Max was back to being himself, I took the story that was inside the voice recorder and headed off to work finishing the movie.
Ultimately, my movies are stories I want to tell my kids. They like to tell me stories, sometimes in the shapes of dreams, and they know I’ll be brave enough to hear them; I like to tell them stories, sometimes in the shapes of movies, and I know they’ll be with me to watch.
