He says he has found a treasure trove of home movies 8mm film in small metal cans, the sprocket holes intact for the most part, my childhood I thought captured on 35mm slides that I am too cheap to pay to have digitized, my adoptive parents ill at ease with a camera assuming always back lighting was preferable, and I admit it was nice to be an angel or at least so my perpetual halo allows me to claim.
But we have no projector and given his photographic skills, his cinematographic ones suggest a black and white zombie film of embarrassment, but I tell him thanks and imagine several uses for the circular metal cans.
You want to shout that they don’t make movies like they used to, romantic comedies without R ratings for gratuitous sex or language. We both know this is true, but the problem is not that they don’t make those movies, that is the symptom. The problem is that they don’t make audiences like they used to, ones that loved thoughtful romantic comedies, and filmmakers always stoop to the mass of audiences o matter how low they have to go, for that is where the money is.
It is a sad fact of life that Florida has disqualified itself as a movie set for a vast number of films that will now go before the camera on the streets of some Canadian city.
No one is making films about drug runners coming ashore in teal and pink with a soundtrack by Jan Hammer, since the illicit drug of the moment is likely to be filming in the streets of Chinatown, and the Port of Los Angeles and a Wellcraft Scarab is no match for an 11,000 TEU container ship.
And for horror and noir films the simple fact is that even in the dead of winter, the palms will never look all that foreboding, and fake snow melts all too quickly, but we can hope that Beach Party movies will make a grand return, until then we just keep get along here in the heart of Margaritaville.
Increasingly few can remember the time when making a home movie was an event unto itself, when you didn’t strap the camera to handlebars, helmet, dashboard or body, but you hand-carried the damn thing weighing a pound or two, you stuffed it with film which you sent off to the lab to have developed, hoping your story would appear in the returning envelope. You threaded the film onto the sprockets, turned on the motor and lamp and watched expectantly as images always a bit under-or over-exposed moved a bit jokingly across the screen. There was nothing to upload, you knew the image would fade over time, unless the projector grew cranky or jammed and you watched your memories quite literally melt on the screen, and the only numbers that mattered weren’t megapixels and gigabytes but millimeters, 8 for most, 16 for the wealthy.
There was a time once when your day on any tour to Europe or Asia was aim frame click pray and wait. Now it’s aimclicksavenext repeated endlessly until, once again home, you have hundreds of prayers unanswered.