Whatever the Pink House movie is going to be, it is going to “be” in the next five days. The hours leading up to Saturday night will be the last we have with Jessie (our editor) before the deadline for the Toronto Film Festival, which has been earmarked on our emotional calendars for almost two years. Whatever frosting we can ladle on this cake, must be ladled in heavy quantities this week, and hopefully with lots of jimmies and rainbow sparkles.
Several huge things are about to go into the movie: my mom’s brilliant score (sounding exactly like a 60-piece orchestra), scenes that explain why the Pink House has their money stolen, why Old Man Maddox changes his mind, why we don’t see Heather Matarazzo until her grand entrance, and the denouement of Oxford and Chloe. Yes, none of this makes sense to you. I can only hope it does in a few months.
Laboring over the last part of any large project brings about two paradoxical phenomena: first, you believe you are on a steep betterment curve, meaning that every little change geometrically leaps the film miles closer to perfection. Second, if you were honest with yourself, you’d probably admit that nobody on earth who watches the film right now could tell the difference; they either already love it, or they wouldn’t have dug it in the first place.
The truth, like all things, lies somewhere in the middle. We would love to go to Toronto, but I ask myself: does it hold together? Will anyone think it is funny? Not one soul besides the principal departments (Rick Gradone, Todd Walker, mom, John Kelleran) has seen anything in two years from this film, besides a very effective 2-minute trailer. We’re about to pull our pants way, way down, and this week is going to be spent making sure our genitalia is as impressive as hell.