It feels like Christmas Eve. Or at least the way Christmas Eve used to feel when I was young enough to accept that the magic was entirely objective, and not the result (at least partly) of a conspiracy between retail giants and the media to create an appetite for materialism that in turn produced a Herculean effort by my incredibly generous parents to give me the presents I wanted. (And as The Insatiable Moon seeks not to be bound by the borders of ethnic or cultural tradition, let me say that the same would, I am sure, be true had I been celebrating Hannukkah, Kawanzaa or the more generic version of fun in December re-named by my adopted home of the United States as ‘Holiday’.)
It feels like Christmas Eve, because tomorrow, we reach a climactic moment, a revelatory time, an apocalyptic resolution, if you will. The Last Days are upon us – the End is coming, as Arthur tells some folk in the script. This time tomorrow, the remaining set will be on its way to being dismantled, the actors will be doing stretching exercises to shake off their recent characters, the crew will be resting, and the producers, d.o.p, writer and director will be wondering what’s next. Christmas Day was often an anti-climax for me; once the scattered paper was picked off the floor, the battery-powered toys I’d received ran out of juice, and my stomach full of the richest, unhealthiest, tastiest food, it all began to feel a bit like … mourning. I’m sure we’ll feel a little of that sadness tomorrow as the community of the Moon begins to dissolve, in its current form at least. But I hope we’ll also feel a sense of satisfaction – this long, long journey is fast moving toward its next stage, and soon enough many people will have the opportunity to see the film.
The last day’s shoot is of a central scene, that requires some vulnerability and strength from the actors and crew; it will be an attempt at capturing something transcendent. This is, of course, impossible; for the transcendent by its very nature cannot be captured. So we’ll fail to capture it, but we might be able to suggest it; if we stumble upon some holy luck, we might encounter the crack that Leonard Cohen sings of – the one that exists in everything, so that the light can get in. I’m grateful to have been able to share the journey up close for the last three weeks, and I’m sure we all would like to wish the production every good element of serendipity for whatis named on the call sheet, and will forever be known as SHOOT DAY #25
And so, if you want to be in solidarity with us tomorrow, raise a glass to the moon. We may not be able to share the drink, but hopefully we’ll feel it.
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