Lights! Ham! Inaction!

When I agreed to make a sample "Three-Minute Masterpiece" for the upcoming digital movie contest at The Seattle Times, my first question (after, "What the hell was I thinking?") regarded the subject matter.

Being a journalist, and having never had a knack for fiction writing, the idea of making up a story out of thin air was simply unfathomable to me. (In elementary school, for a creative thinking exercise, I was asked to imagine what life would be like if cows produced root beer instead of milk. My answer? "We would have more cavities.")

Sticking with my strengths, I decided to take a nonfiction angle. But which of my many beloved documentaries would I emulate? "Grey Gardens"? "American Movie"? "Spellbound"? And, if I let these films be my guide, where would I locate the lovable oddball whose real-life antics I'd find endlessly fascinating?

Pressed for time, I went with a "no place like home" approach, and somewhere between the fridge and the kitchen table came upon my subject: me.

Now let me assure you — my masterpiece isn't about merely me. Without committing the sin of spoilers, I can tell you the film also evokes the age-old human themes of struggle, longing, denial and ham.

The vision

I hoped the documentary approach would mean I could get away without writing a script (the first of many stupid, stupid hopes). But were I truly going cinéma vérité on myself, the film would consist of me at my computer, wearing standard-issue freelancer sweatpants, and talking to my cat. Nobody needs to see that.

Accordingly, I was forced to create a loose narrative, which I did via talking about my filmic vision with friends. At least they were my friends, before I started saying things like filmic vision. At one point this vision included a Luis Buńuel-inspired dream sequence involving sleepwalking and gigantic ham sandwiches.

I was in the middle of describing the scene to a friend when I noticed his eyes had glazed over. It was then that I experienced a feeling common to many cutting-edge directors — the knowledge that some people will never understand your vision. "It's kind of an art piece," I summarized. He looked out the window and said, "Apparently."

Location, location

Misunderstood or not, my vision required footage of ham. I suspected one couldn't just go around videotaping cured meats at will, but I thought I'd ask. Running into the grocery store one evening on my way home from the gym, I picked a cashier I thought looked nice and tried to sound casual. "I have a quick question," I said. "I'd like to videotape some ham in your deli, and I'm wondering if I need to get permission."

To my dismay, her formerly friendly brow took on a distinct wrinkle between the eyes.

"You want to do what?" she asked.

"Um, videotape some ham?" I said, suddenly regretting my decision to pop in after spinning class, having realized I was still beet-faced and sweaty.

"Wait — did you say ham?" she asked. "Because at first I thought you said you wanted to videotape yams."

"Oh, no!" I said, relieved. Maybe yams were the problem. "No yams, just ham."

"Well, still," she said, "You'd have to speak with the manager about that."

I took the manager's name and number and slunk back to the parking lot, thinking about how all great art requires suffering.

Cinematography

Feeling slightly defeated by my attempt at location scouting, I decided I needed to enlist a crew. Primarily, a cinematographer, who in addition to shooting the scenes in which I appeared might also take the fall for any illegal ham taping. I chose my boyfriend, whose primary qualification was tolerance of me.

But it turned out my cinematographer had filmic visions of his own. Right away, he started talking about jump cuts and whip zooms. Realizing I needed to establish boundaries on the set, I carefully explained that when we were done, he could make his own movie, but I was directing this one. (At which point my cinematographer took a union break to watch March Madness.)

Back on set, we captured several gripping scenes, including some legally obtained deli footage and a sequence with a couple of local actors, hired for their unique skill of being available the afternoon in question on one hour's notice.

The editing room

With a camera packed full of promise, it was time for the big moment — time to weave the separate strands of my vision into one brilliant cinematic tapestry. I opened up my editing program, Apple's iMovie, and plugged my camcorder into my computer. "No camera attached," iMovie reported. I tried again, turning the camera on first, then opening iMovie. "No camera attached," it repeated. I tried a different sequence. "No camera attached," it insisted, beyond reason.

All at once, my ham vision fell apart, much in the way of pulled pork. Stymied by technical difficulties, it was a dream deferred.

Tune in next week to find out whether the ham footage is forever trapped in the camera!

Brangien Davis: brangiendavis@yahoo.com