Production Notes

 

            Somewhere in my mind I must have simply set out to break all of the 10 Commandments of No Budget Filmmaking, as put forth by Ted Hope and James Schamus many years ago.   All wise counsel was ignored in this, my second plunge into no-budget filmmaking – along with the additional burden of a period setting, musical numbers, no sex , no profanity and college students for a crew.   With sincere respect for Hope and Schamus, who were right on every count, we decided to make sure that this “no budget” film would be quite unlike any other – and perhaps someone would notice.

            The matter of no profanity dawned on one of my students (I teach at Penn State University), who pulled me aside on shooting day twenty-three and said, “You know, I noticed there's no swear words in this film, are there?”  

            “No,” I replied, “it's a 1930s film.”

            “F@#kin' A,” he responded.

            Indeed.   No “f@#kin'” either, but plenty of innuendo.   In my research I discovered that, to my surprise, people have been having real sexual intercourse for many years!   It's true.   Even during the Depression, when there was no beer, Nazis and when women dressed like my grandmother, somehow (patriarchal power structure?) there was actually sex.   I was also convinced that any obstacle could be overcome.   The love scene near the end (which looks and sounds suspiciously like a musical number) was a desperate attempt to make the metaphorical waterfall that we associate with 1930s love scenes and Chinese restaurants.   The moon, the stars, dancing and dreamy eyes—jeepers, that's feng shui for lovemaking, Depression style.   Depressing, isn't it?

            Speaking of which, I was working on the digital composite for this sequence one day when a guy selling office chairs to the College started watching over my shoulder.   When asked what I was doing, I politely explained:   the background is from the NASA Hubble Telescope photos, there's rotoscope animation and three levels of live action in the foreground.      

            “That's impressive,” he said, and I glowed.   “But I bet colorizing that dancing was the hardest part, huh?”

            I froze in fear.   If this man was not intelligent enough to know that these were contemporary actors in costume, George Bush could easily be re-elected!   And FYI: we bought lousy chairs.

            But there is a rosy side to this weakening of the gene pool, which I discovered when I happened onto a 1931 Knute Rockne-designed Studebaker at the annual Memorial Day antique car round-up at Boalsburg, PA (alleged home of Memorial Day).   After tracking down the owner to a local auto repair shop, I was forced (not unlike John Kerry) to wax prophetic about my thoughts on all things NASCAR, which I last saw my father napping to in 1967.   By the end of my convincing filibuster the fellow had agreed to drive the car 40 miles and park it in a garage, leaving it in my care for a week (although I was a complete stranger).  

            “How much will it cost?” I finally asked, having drunk my courage from the Busch “pounders” (16oz cans) these boys were swilling like mineral water.

            “A twelve pack ought to do it,” the man said.

            A twelve pack it was.   And when he arrived he drank it on the spot!   No kidding.   His directing advice was most imaginative and usually involved an interest in sex with the actors.   Apparently he was confused about the phrase “making the magic.”   Or perhaps he had Hollywood experience.  

            At any rate sex and beer were bringing my 1930s dream to life, not to mention the orbits of countless stock cars around an oval somewhere in America.   The final task was to convince someone, anyone, that having people break into song was a good thing, even though this wasn't a musical, I'm not Baz Lurhmann and Cop Rock only lasted six episodes.   Truthfully no matter how many “pounders” I drank, I never really convinced myself, but the songs remain.   Why?   Because that's what you do in a 1930s movie.   

            So what is this film?   The answer came in the form of another student question.   “So it's kind of like Road to Perdition? ” the eager scholar queried.

            Yes, Road to Perdition , only (hopefully) funnier, sunnier, and at approximately $100 million less cost.   Oh -- and the director of Perdition just might get more work.   Other than that, the two are virtually indistinguishable.

            Actually Mister Touchdown is an example of the length that some of us on the fringe of the filmmaking community will go to be noticed.   Are you a financier?   Nice to meet you.   Are you an actor who can open a film?   Nice to meet you, too.   Got a great festival?   I'll come and answer questions all day if you want – park cars – serve the buffet – clean the pool -- whatever.   I'm just a guy who teaches college.   Now that's perdition.   I hope you like my movie. –Rod Bingaman   

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