Lots of stories to tell regarding the journey that led to LADY IN WHITE: If I were ever to take myself seriously enough and actually attempt to write a book about my experiences, in the past, I thought I might call it “THAT CELLULOID DREAM”. However, in thinking back, I think that title deserves a re-write: “THAT CELLUOID DREAM...OR HOW I WOKE UP SCREAMING AND LIVED TO TELL ABOUT IT.”
When I made my second short film, WILLOWPOINT, the local Rochester, N.Y. papers got wind of what I was up to and published a story about me. I was 18 and the photos you see here were taken by their photographer. The theater was in the basement of my parents home. I had a collection of 16mm and 35mm prints that I had purchased over the years and often screened them for friends and family.
The 35mm carbon arc Simplex projectors came about after I'd found them listed for sale in a mimeographed, “underground” newsletter I used to get in the mail with feature films listed for sale. (The prints were highly “illegal” as the studios did not sell prints to private collectors.) The projectors were sitting in the seller's garage in Detroit, Michigan. I managed to convince my Dad and a cousin of his to drive up to Detroit in his cousin's van to check them out. (I was 13 or 14 at the time. Too young to drive.) Dad bought them for me at a whopping $250.00! We dismantled and packed them into the van and headed home.
My dear Father managed to connect the carbon arc burning lamphouses to our chimney exhaust thus allowing the carbon burned residue to escape into the outside air. It's a wonder I never blew up the house when firing those lamphouses up! One day, a fellow local film collector called to relay some distressing news. The FBI had been to his home and wanted to know if he had any 35mm or 16mm prints illegally obtained. He told them he did not (he lied) and managed, at least for the moment, to send the two “flat footers” on their way. I had been warned!
I told my Dad what had happened to my friend, terrified that they might come snooping around our place and force me to give up my beautiful, celluloid spools. His reaction was immediate. He helped me to gather up all of the prints from the basement and we took them into the two car garage. There was a spacious shelf constructed of plywood above where the cars would be parked. Dad climbed the ladder to the shelf as I handed him the reels from the floor below. The prints remained there, covered with a tarp, until the heat was off.
Years later, I told my youngest nephew (who had, even then, found himself in the company and occasional employ of a bunch of local “goodfellas”) the story. He jumped for joy, laughing hysterically and said “How da ya like dat?! Gran-pa was a gangsta! Get oudda here!”
AN ELEPHANT NEVER FORGETS: HOW MUCH A FATHER LOVED HIS SON
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