A few weeks ago, while minding my own business, a knock on my
kitchen door snapped me out of my trance of contemplating what I should make
for dinner. It was the neighbors’ young son, age still in the single digits,
asking if I had a few minutes to spare and help him with “something.”
That something turned out to be a movie he was making with
his friend, with whom he was having a weekend playdate. I should have known, as
the boy was dressed in a black cape and his playmate wore something resembling
a superman costume.
I like to help in general, and especially this friendly kid
who still calls me Auntie Mirka. (His parents are Indian.) But how could I
possibly be useful?
Turned out they needed someone to hold the iPad and videotape,
then yell “cut.” As I was not familiar with the story they were concocting, I
suggested I couldn’t direct it, but I could take the videos as long as they
told me when to start and stop.
“You’ll be the cinematographer,” they agreed.
We proceeded to the neighbors’ back yard, where the boys
yelled “start” and “cut” many times, and their cinematographer watched with
both amusement and concern many choreographed fight scenes. There were swords
that flew in the air, plastic weapons pointed and bodies falling on the grass
only to rise again and fight another round.
The few moments I was asked to give turned out to be more
than a few. By the time I headed back to my kitchen to renew making dinner decisions,
I thought about the boys and wondered if perhaps I may have witnessed filmmakers
of the future. Even Steven Spielberg and George Lucas started somewhere.
But being the age when things get wrapped up rather than
born, my cinematographer’s career was over. There are many ways to tell a story. I’ll stick to writing.
