We had the biggest editing push of the post-production of “The Pink House” today, almost resembling the length of one of our actual filming days (14 hours), albeit without the backbreaking labor, 115-degree heat and certain crew members being medicated for rage. Indeed, we spent most of the day lounging on various chairs and beds in front of the editing computer, which makes the farm pretty much the dream environment for post-production.
Post-production houses, the official ones that cost shitloads of money, generally have a lot of stuff for you to play with while they wring out your cash; there’s always a really nice pool table, real darts (not the plastic hole kind) and every kind of soda imaginable (even grape). But they don’t have beds, and they don’t have the Chopes.
Today we plowed through the party scene, which I prognosticate needing about 3 or 4 minutes lopped out of it even after this edit. It flows really well, and we did an amazing job of making 35 people look like 500, but I feel like there may be about six too many shots of the crowd bobbing up and down. These are the sorts of decisions we can’t make right now, because we have yet to make sense of the movie’s dramatic arc (or comedic parabola, in this case).
We even went through the pink flour explosion, into the night car “revelation” scene, through the “Murray writes his paper” montage, past the Murray/Pritchard confrontation, all the way to the pep rally on the lawn. Yet it’s still the 1920s stuff that I find the most compelling of course, the film stock that lends a gorgeous, mysterious air to the proceedings, but I just loved filming those sequences. I wish Tessa could have been there with me; we would have fought way less often. Instead, she was stuck filming shower scenes with Zack wearing naught but a sock on his cock. Of course, because of that scene we got the rights to “(Ain’t Nothin’ Gonna) Break My Stride” by Matthew Wilder – so we’ve got that going for us, which is nice.
The Celextant, April 25, 2002
I’m suspecting that the placebo effect, which is pretty powerful in most drug studies, must be doubly effective in any pills regarding mood just the fact that I’m taking these things gives me a sense of accomplishment. Perhaps it’s also freedom from choice in a way; by taking the pill, I know I’m doing all I can, so I can’t worry about “not doing enough” or not being experimental.
Either way, I feel fortified, somewhat, against the omnipresent anxiety that haunted me throughout winter. That’s not to say I don’t cringe every time I read the news, but the good part it that I don’t always have to read the news.
I can foresee this dosage not being enough. I look forward to what the psychopharmacologist has to say, unless that happens to be “you should have been on Effexor.” Sigh.