Empire of Light (5 page)

As the film plays on, Collin and Edge start to whisper and talk shop.

I can hear every word, as I planned.

“So, you up for any shows?” asks Collin.

“Not really. I’m semi-retired. I guess if something interesting came up,” says Edgerton.

“I’ve had some scripts thrown my way, but they’re all the same,” laments Collin. “Wide-shot, close-up, close-up. All the damn daylong. Everybody’s just getting coverage and not trying to do anything interesting.”

“There are interesting scripts out there, they’re just not landing on our desks, I guess,” responds Edgerton.

“Well, Edge, at the end of the day you can have the best idea in the world on how to light a rain soaked hearse parked in a wet alley on a Sunday afternoon, but if you’re never presented with the script containing that scene, it’ll never see the light of day.”

Shit, dude you are seriously killing my buzz.

Collin Oak is one of the reasons I wanted to become a cinematographer. I finally meet him, and he’s totally disillusioned.

After the screening, the Fellows huddle around Collin, hungry for more war stories. I brought an old lobby card of
Details of Montana
I found at Larry Edmond Bookstore. I was going to ask for his autograph, but I’m too bummed, now. I don’t feel like looking like a tourist today, so I toss the card into my backpack and walk away.

I exit the theater and find Missy outside.

“A little slow on the draw, eh Tisse.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Ha! I knew it! I knew you were going to ask that damn question,” she boasts. “I saw you sitting up under Collin Oak like a little lap dog, and I couldn’t help it. I waited for the perfect time and then PADOW! It was beautiful! Hahahahaha!”

This night is really beginning to suck.

After what seems like forever, the girl finally stops laughing.

Why is she suddenly looking at me like she’s some damn predator?

“So,” she says seductively. “Whatcha you doing for the rest of the night?”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how the worm does turn.

***

I’m sitting on the edge of Missy’s bed, watching her sleep, curled up next to the white down comforter. I think how if I photographed her that I’d have to dye the comforter grey so that it wouldn’t overexpose.

My second thought is,
to hell with that shit.

I’d keep the sheets white and shoot with my aperture wide open so that I could see every detail of her beautiful dark skin. I’d let the sheets radiate as if they were stitched with rays of starlight. It’s the contrast that makes her look so hot right now.

It’s a rare rainy day in Los Angeles. A thick marine layer, rolling in from the ocean, diffuses the Southern Cal sunlight. Sometimes, I think I’m the only one in LA who goes giddy when the first drop of rain hits the ground. I throw on the jogging gear and run in the rain, stomping through puddles like I’m six again. I get up from the bed and open the window at the other end of the room so I can hear the rain tap dance on the roof. I stare at a palm tree; its leaves trembling under fire from the barrage of raindrops.

I turn back to the bed and, to my surprise, find Missy wide awake, staring at me with a mischievous glint in her eye. Her smirk reminds me of a drunk who’s been trolling bars all night looking for a fight.

Bring it.

I crawl back into bed and stare down at her body, tripping on all the curves like a Robert Crumb caricature come to life. You can just imagine the fat inky outline that defines her cartoon-like hourglass figure.

She catches me staring at her breasts, so she grabs one and lifts it to her mouth. Her tongue stabs at her soft nipple, swirling and circling it until it becomes rock hard, shimmering wet. It then disappears from sight, engulfed between her full wet lips. She sucks on it hard before letting it pop from her lips.

I’m going to have morning sex.

Sweet!

By the time she’s done with the Cinemax soft porn routine I’m so hard I could hammer nails with my dick. Seriously, I could be in Amish country, brother Smith’s barn raising, banging nails in an A-frame with my fatty.

Our legs and arms intertwine with the sheet, creating a tangled knot made tighter with every stroke, our bodies cooled by the atomized drops of the Pacific that sweep through the window, falling on us like a blessing.

An hour later, we settle down and cocoon under the comforter, enjoying the rare moment of actually feeling chilly in LA in June. I look at Missy resting next to me. I really think I could fall for a girl like this. She could be the
one
.

“You know, I think I’m the only person in LA who loves it when it rains.” she says.

“Really?” I say, shocked.

“Oh good God, yes. I think I’m at my happiest when the sky just opens up and explodes with water.”

Jeez! This girl is perfect for me. I mean, I think I could be laying next to the
one
. What a trip! Just goes to show you that when things look their bleakest there’s a light around the corner.

“By the way,” she says. “you know I don’t date black guys, right?”

“
What?”

“I’ll have sex with you, but as far as LTR goes, I prefer white or latino guys,” she explains.

“
You’re
black! You’re darker than I am!”

“I actually think we’re the same shade, which is the problem. There’s just something about the contrast with white on black skin. It’s so…taboo! I love it.”

So there you go.

At the end of the day, I’m done in by somebody who loves contrast even more than me.

Jerk face irony.

“But we can be
friends with benefits
until I find my LTR,” she says with a pout.

I should tell this girl to go to hell. I should give her a piece of my mind. What? I’m good enough for sex, but when it comes to something serious she wants whitey?

“Friends with benefits?” I ask indignantly. “Okay. Fine by me.”

I know, I know. But I told you how she sucks her own nipple, right?

3 

Stay Out of the Business, Kid

AT AFI, WE CALL
the premiere screening of a project “The Firing Squad.” It’s where the entire student body and faculty are invited to screen the film and then tear it the hell apart. The filmmakers—Directing, Writing, Producing, Production Design and Editing Fellows—are lined up on stage after their film is screened. They’re required to keep the hell quiet as the audience critically destroys their work. The Firing Squad doesn’t exist to blow smoke up your ass. That’s what mom is for. The Firing Squad is all about making you a better storyteller by breaking you down.

It’s harsh love.

Today we watched the last video shot this year,
The Prodigal Son
, the film where I took over as the DP. I’m glad I wasn’t the actual DP on the film, though, because today the sharks are especially ravenous.

The filmmakers are being destroyed.

Not relevant.

I didn’t buy it.

Cheesy!

Who told these actors they were on the right track?

The pacing was jacked!

You wasted twenty minutes of my life.

I just didn’t care what happened to anybody.

It’s nice to sit back and watch somebody else catch hell.

“Could we cue up the last shot please?” asks Bergman, the Producing Dean.

Hmmm… This is strange. Nobody has ever asked to re-screen sections of the film before.

Wait a minute…

The
last
scene?

That’s the one
I
lit!

Shit.

Am I really about to get yelled at? Really? It’s not even my goddamn film!

“Which one of you is the DP?” he asks of the group sitting on the stage.

Graham is about to get hit with a can of whoop-ass, and it’s my fault. He slowly raises his hand.

“Stand up,” Bergman demands.

Graham stands, but at the same time he points his big fat sausage finger at me. That bastard is about to drop dime on me!

“I’m the DP, but Jason Tisse—” Graham mumbles.

“Quiet,” Bergman orders. “You can’t talk. Your work speaks for you, sir.”

Bergman turns to the Fellows, sitting in stunned silence.

“Take a good look at this scene, because the guy that lit this scene is going to leave this school as a working cinematographer.”

What—the—fuck?

“That is excellent work, sir,” Bergman says to Graham.

This is
not
happening.

“Don’t settle for just assistant work when you leave this place, kid. You put your reel out there and develop as a cinematographer. You understand?” Bergman demands.

“Yep!” Graham replies smugly.

“Good job. Roll the film,” he orders projection.

The scene, my scene, runs again. After all the time and effort, the best thing I ever photographed at AFI, possibly the best lit scene by anybody this year, is going to be on that asshole’s reel.

I bolt from the auditorium. I can’t watch this bullshit. After an hour of wandering nearby Griffith Park, I finally calm down enough and head back to campus. I march into the main office, scribble a note for Graham and jam it into his mailbox.

DUDE, WE NEED TO TALK!

I notice a letter in my mailbox, on American Society of Cinematographers letterhead.

Mr. Tisse, please join me at the ASC Clubhouse for a minute of your time. I have something I’d like to share with you. Be there at 4pm sharp. Sincerely, Howard Edgerton.

***

The headquarters for the ASC is a part of Hollywood Mecca. It sits on the corner of Orange and Franklin, in spitting distance of the lights and old glamour of Hollywood Boulevard. Tourists like to visit Mann’s Chinese Theater and step into the footprints of the stars. If they would just take the time to stroll one block north, they’d find themselves standing in front of the ASC Clubhouse. It’s the home of the artists who captured the stars’ light onto celluloid.

The club house is old school charm, right up there with martinis, leather chairs and Cuban cigars. Just two steps through the door and my appetite for healthy California cuisine dies a quick death. After I chat with Edgerton, I’m going to splurge on a steak, dripping in fat, from the Musso and Frank Grill right around the corner, built in 1919, the exact same year the ASC was founded.

I round the corner to find Edgerton and, to my surprise, Collin Oak, sitting in luxurious reading chairs, covered in buttery leather and distressed with time.

“Mr. Tisse. Thanks for coming,” says Edge as the two stand. “You remember Collin?”

“Absolutely!” I say, shaking his hand. “In fact—” I put them on hold as I excitedly reach into my bag and pull out the
Details of Montana
lobby card. “Would you mind signing this?”

I hold the card out to Collin.

He hesitates, but finally gives in. “Certainly.”

He takes my sharpie and writes on the card, then mumbles, “Gotta go. See you, Edge,” and walks away.

I look down at the lobby card to see what he’s written.

Stay out of the business, kid.

Collin Oak, ASC.

Edgerton invites me to sit down in Collin’s now vacant chair. It’s so comfortable that I’m immediately made sleepy. These things are better than Ambien.

“I could so get used to this,” I say, sinking deep in the chair.

“Well according to Mr. Bergman somebody should offer you a membership as soon as you leave AFI,” he says sarcastically.

“You saw what happened! That jerk stole my work!”

“Welcome to Hollywood, kid.”

“You’re telling me that theft is a part of the job?”

“No. I’m telling you that sometimes it’s no surprise when a cinematographer unexpectedly retires after his gaffer dies.”

Edge reaches down beside his chair and grabs something. It’s a gorgeous wooden box with an Art Deco faceplate. It has a primitive viewing hole and lens.

I’ve seen this kind of camera before.

He gently sets it on the table between us. Suddenly, it hits me.

“Christ. That’s a Brownie.” I say a bit in shock.

“A vintage 1930 Number 2 Beau Brownie Camera to be exact. Produced by the Eastman Kodak Company, Rochester, New York. Designed by industrial designer and architech, Walter Dorwin Teague, it features a doublet lens, rotary shutter and two-tone Art Deco face plate that is the cat’s meow. A glorious mechanism given to my mentor a very long time ago. He passed it on to me, and I’m now, God help me, passing the camera down to you.”