You have no idea what it’s like to feel so close to a project’s completion, and yet still be so far away, unless you’ve worked on a project in which that scenario played out as described, in which case you could easily commiserate with my plight. Really though, it’s less of a plight and more of a great feeling that is perpetually in stasis. That is what 13 Months of Sunshine feels like. Tomorrow night should see the last of the actual editing in of previously unseen and unused footage. The plan is then to screen the full-blooded, two-hour uncut version to a select group of individuals who will hopefully be willing to part with much needed feedback on the project. Does it totally suck? If so, what can we do to change the suck to less suck, and even if it doesn’t suck, what can we do to make it cleaner, tighter, better? We hope to screen on Sunday evening, so the next few days will be the equivalent of the last thrilling hill on the world’s second best roller coaster.
Why second best? Because it’s still the rough cut.
So why the static nature of things? Because the film has only just begun to be. It’s in the just-post-fetus stage now, with awkward limbs, a giant head, and a strange cord that apparently has been keeping it alive inside this bizarre, warm, biodome of flesh, muscle, and fluid. Biology doesn’t get any more gross and disgustingly venal than the basic functions…birth, feeding, defecation, procreation, and death. This is not to denegrate the beauty of nature and love and humanity and all that. La dee dah, but let’s face it, when a child is born, it’s born amid a disgusting outflow of blood, piss, and fecal matter. The real miracle of birth is that we manage not to remember that fact until we’re watching our own kids popping out and then that awful, awful sight and smell…
But yeah, babies are beautiful and all that. Which is to say, this film has just popped out, as disgusting and horrible as its environment is, it’s purpose is to grow up, mature, become a man (or a woman, as the case may be–I’m an equal opportunity metaphorist). So we try to ignore the blood and shee-ite, but let’s face it, it’s hard to concentrate on the baby when the crap is literally hitting the fan. Why they have a fan in the delivery room is beyond me. Maybe the mother demanded it. ANYWAY.
So the baby’s out, it’s been swaddled. Now it’s time to raise it up right, the way mama and papa imagine. For our baby, this means sound. This is the equivalent of the first fifteen years of our child’s life. And while I consider most babies things to be feared and held at arms length (lest they find a way to be dropped on their bouncy little heads and forever leave me in a haze of guilt), I find teenagers almost more reprehensible. At least babies have no innate knowledge of being evil or annoying or just plain scary. But teens actively put metal in their face, listen to noise that can be used to encrypt CIA transmissions, and generally make their parents’ lives a living hell.
Not that I have any experience with this stuff. I was a good kid, a good teenager, and except for my silent but mostly non-threatening rebellious final two years of high school, I was a model child. But I’m really straying off the path here. And it was a pretty wide frickin’ path to begin with.
All I’m trying to say is, I’ve got a child to raise, and the prospect is frightening, yet joyous. Parents get what I’m talking about.