Pocahontas Never Came Home

[Skinner]

I am presently in my childhood home in Richmond, Virginia. Right now it's empty, and I'm supposed to be reading over stacks of SAG contracts and emails. I'm here to Assistant Direct my father's Jamestown docudrama. What does that mean? It means that I am going to use my 20+ years of prior experience dealing with my father to explain to re-inactors why he yelled at them and broke the camera. I will also make sure they have enough water and push them off set before their SAG contracts go into the dreaded and expensive overtime.

I came home yesterday on an Amtrak train that took 2 hours longer than the ridiculous 7 it was scheduled to take. I was supposed to be on an earlier, quicker train, which I missed due to bad traffic and hordes of swollen tourists blocking my path as they enjoyed the view in an around Penn Station. I mean, Jesus people! When a sweaty girl is running at you with a suitcase, just grab your cinnamon soft pretzels and get the fuck out of her way! Don't pose your family for a picture in her path! Don't let your fat children run in front of her and stand in her path whining for donuts! And DON'T TRY TO HIT ON HER AS SHE RUNS. Jerks.

On the train, I sat next to an overly tanned and perfumed woman named Maddy. Maddy was an Army nurse for 20 years, and she's been to every country - every country "except Australia and South America, but all the other countries: Korea, Japan, Europe, France...." When she noticed me watching The Specialist on my computer, she told me "Ooooh, I lived near some of those places in Germany - Auschwitz, Dachau, just awful." Which I found curious since Auschwitz is in Poland. So possibly I was sitting next to a retired army nurse, possibly a crazy lady, possibly both. Either way I heard her (fake? real?) life story told over and over again to any passenger that would listen. She finally shut up when I started playing Gandhi with the subtitles on so she could watch it, too. Always the peace-maker, that Gandhi.

When we were pulling in to Richmond, I had to move a bunch of bags and crutches to get to my suitcase. A gigantic woman came up and started yelling at me for "touching her things". What was weird was that she kept yelling "I know you didn't know! But those are mine! I know you didn't know!" So I assumed she was not angry with me, but just a little high-strung. But then she grabbed the crutches - because obviously, that was probably what I was most interested in - and stood guard next to her bags until I got off the train. Damn her! I almost completed my glorious stolen crutches tower to the sun!!! Curses.

When I got to my parents house, my mom and dad (still together after 37 years! Tru love 4evah!) immediately started fighting about fixing a broken earring. My dad turned red and my cousin, Cenobar (she's 19, Iranian, and staying with them for the summer) got nervous and went to bed. At 10:30. I'm worried she's a total square. Good thing I'm here.

So now I'm in my Dad's office going over this SAG contracts. Or avoiding going over them. But I have to start now, because if he gets home and it isn't done, I think he might break in half or pop something. He's a little stressed out.

Oh, but if you haven't seen Gandhi - totally see it. Ben Kingsley is crazy good, and it makes an especially nice follow-up to Farenheit 9/11 and Control Room.

 

[Skinner]

Pocahantas didn't ever come home, by the way. When she was 17 - six years after she saved John Smith - she was kidnapped by the Virginia colonists. Her friends had sold her out to the settlers in exchange for a copper kettle. That's what friends do, people. Watch your backs.
She lived as a captive there for about a year, acting as leverage in negotiations with her father, Powhatan. During her captivity, the colonists did all they could to convert her to christianity - including sending the recently widowered John Rolfe to speak to her of its merits. They fell in love, and got married. So why is it called "Stockholm Syndrome" and not "Pocahontas Syndrome?" Two words: alliteration & misongyny.
Two years later the couple moved back to London with their small child, Thomas. Pocahontas was recieved by the Queen and other nobility as a princess, and a curiousity. She died just one year later, when she was 21.
As a child, this whole story TERRIFIED me. Being taken from your home not once, but twice - dying without ever seeing it again! Horrible! Poor Pocahontas! I was convinced that she had been married against her will, stoically doing it for the good of her people. I couldn't imagine that anyone might WANT to get away from home.

I moved to London when I was 21. I didn't die, but I didn't like it either. I worked in a tiny office with 3 nice blokey older men who all lived in the suburbs with their families. After work I used to go to pubs or take myself to the theater, sometimes I would spend evenings or weekends just trudging around the city finding streets I'd never seen. The fine line between lonely and independent became forever blurred.
When I did finally make some friends, they were all American. I was dating a guy from DC, my best friend was my college roommate's cousin, and my flatmate had gone to camp with me here in Richmond. It felt like I had moved across the world to stay in Virginia. I decided it wasn't far enough, so I moved to New York, which is far away from everywhere.

 

[Skinner]

A parade of freaks.

Today I think I started to prove my worth on this project. My father and I drove down to the Jamestown settlement at 7am to cast the background actors for the film. Because of the way it's written, most of the parts in it are technically background parts, but they'll be playing specific people. Like the way that the "extra" students in Professor Xavier's school in X-Men were Kitty Pride and Jubilee: we throw in some stuff for the history fan-boys. So today was the casting call for all those parts.

We were hoping to find some Indians (they say Indian, so I'm saying Indian - get off my back), and interesting looking bearded men. You know, like you do any old Saturday afternoon. What we got instead were hordes of white girls and little kids. You know was they didn't have at Jamestown? White girls and little kids. But we saw entire families of white girls and little kids. Very weird white girls and even stranger little kids. But we figured we could throw in a few for the later scenes, so we saw everyone. All 128 of them.

At first my father was in charge of interviewing people. As director and producer that's his job, but he's not really a people-person. He's especially not a kid-person. His demeanor and British accent can be somewhat intimidating - especially when he would pause to silently stare at them for up to a minute. In fact, he almost made one 6 year old girl cry with this line of questioning:
"So, you like acting?"
(she nods)
"Do you get scared? Nervous?"
(she stares)
"Noooo you don't get nervous, right?"
(she shakes her head)
"Yes you do! You do get nervous!"
(she stares, apparently terrified)
"Right? You get very scared don't you?"
(she starts to turn red and appears to well up)
(He stares back at her for a few beats.)
"Well, There we go. Alright. Thank you, Kellie!"

It was like watching the meanest episode of Law & Order ever. This was when I decided that it would be best if I did the questioning. These people didn't sign up to be broken. My dad seemed relieved. He didn't care how their summers were or what grade they were going into, but he also didn't mind if I asked them. I liked talking to the kids, it was nice to be able to put them at ease.

The weirdest of all were the mothers. They would lead in their families of little wannbe actors and whisper answers for them. Or shout "I don't know. I thought YOU wanted to do this!" if their kids asked them for help answering something. One woman came in for her own interview an hour after her kid, and said "I don't want to be in this, I just wanted to tell you that Collin doesn't have asthma. I know he said he did, but he hasn't had a problem with it in years. And he'll cut his hair if you want, and can speak in a British accent." Another woman brought in 7 children, each only 1-1.5 years apart in age. To me, that screams addiction.

After the first 3 hours of auditions/interviews my Dad totally checked out. Which was just as well since he had been taking too long - still doing the extended staring thing with the adults, and randomly saying offensive things. ("Wait - you know, we don't really care.", "Well, at least the hats will cover up that hair." "She's your daughter? Really? You sure?") I moved much faster than my father, and it's amazing the way people react when you make a point to smile at them. And to not be scary.

 

[Skinner]

Common ground

My father grew up in post-war Britain. During the school year he lived in his mother's boarding house in Sheffield - a mining town in the North of England. He spent his summers in Aberdeen, Scotland with his grandmother. They were all very poor and couldn't afford any extras expenses. So unless you were going to die or lose an important finger you made due with what you already had. No candy, no movies, no comics.

I believe that this restriction has given him some kind of "fun anorexia". He's got a fun disorder. He spends afternoons binging on stupid comedies doubled over, choking with laughter. Afterwards he calls these movies stupid and pathetic and claims to have hated them. He squirrels away cheap mexican candy but refuses to ever pay for a real lunch(?!) And the whole music thing is really bizarre: he will NOT enjoy music that he can understand. It can be the same artist singing the same song, but if there's an English and a Portugese version, he hates the English and loves the Portugese.

So working and travelling with my father has always been strange. We spent a week scouting locations in Iceland when I was 10 years old, and lived off of two loaves of bread and tin of liver pate'. Normally our car trips are accopanied by Tuvan throat singing or Portugese Fado. Now, I have grown to like these types of music also, but not ONLY. So on Sunday when my father and I drove out to the Eastern Shore of Virginia with my cousin, Cenobar. I spent the night before downloading British stand-up comedy onto cds we could play in the car. Apparently Eddie Izzard is the common denominator in my family.

The Eastern Shore is a curious place. The people who live there generally live in houses or on land that has been in their family for generations. But not fancy generations - working class, somewhat inbred generations. These are water rednecks, and this place is there entire world. For our film, however, it will be Puerto Rico.

Driving around the penninsula was eery - and at first I couldn't figure out why. Then it hit me - I had come from New York City to a place totally devoid of ambition. These folks were hoping to maybe afford a boat, or get their kids into college, not to make the world recognize them. There was no fury, no clawing struggle. The poor people don't live on sewer grates - they live in cheap houses and sell fish to pay for beer. The rich people aren't trying to get richer and buy power - they're trying to get more time off and buy a jetski. On one hand it seems like a relief, but on the other it seems like surrender. I guess most surrenders are sort of a relief.

 

[Skinner]

The inevitable meltdowns have begun. It was all fun and games yesterday when my father lost his shit over a missing travel document. I calmed him down and encouraged him to think rationally as he flung papers all over his office. Back then I was a helpful outsider – not the dirty bastard culprit. I could see when he was being ridiculous, and knew it was just him freaking out, not a real problem. That was then….

This morning, the printer was acting funny. I was trying to print out some extra W-4s for today’s shoot – in case one got messed up or stuck in a sandwich or whatever. As I was about to give up and switch to the office printer, my Dad got involved. He felt I was doing it all wrong, so I asked him to take a look at the printer for me. Then he went nuts. Totally lost his shit, instantly and out of nowhere. He was ripping papers off shelves, tearing apart the printer, slammed dishes around, and yelling about my lack of preparedness. “Bloody Hell” is not as novel an expletive when it’s your father’s bulging red face that’s screaming it at you at 7am.

Sir Thomas Dale was the Third governor of Jamestown. When he came to power, apparently the colony was run all loosey-goosey. Folks were stealing chickens or skipping church – swearing, spitting, napping. Terribly embarrassing behavior for one of His Majesty colonies! Dale enacted a charter similar to the Code of Hammurabi – if you steal, you lose a hand or get hanged. If you take the Lord’s name in vain, you get a hot iron steak through the tongue. No screwing around on Dale’s watch. But Sir Thomas didn’t have a daughter. There had been no big wobbly eyes asking him to teach her to ride a pony or tie her shoes. No “I’m sowwy I wost my doll, Daddy. Do you have to burn off my eyewids now?” There’s something humanizing about having kids. I think it’s that when you’re cruel to your daughter, you feel like an asshole, immediately.

He tried to get me to eat, but toast tastes weird with a lump in my throat. The coffee was cold anyway. I really didn’t want to cry. I sat in the car staring ahead, telling myself I was a soldier, that this was work and I should buck up. But it was also my Dad. As we drove to the set, he apologized for overreacting and then he told me not to act so hurt. That’s when I lost it. The tears started draining down my face, and I asked him to give me a few minutes without telling me I was doing something wrong. I told him to focus more on getting what he wants and less on punishing people. I told him I was sorry I hadn’t printed the extra W-4s last night. He spent the rest of the drive apologizing and praising my work.
So I guess the lesson for today is this: if your boss is a jerk to you and he’s your Dad, cry. (But not in front of other crew members. Then you both look like crazy people.)

 

[Skinner]

Today we were filming at Agecroft. It’s an old English house that was brought over to America and rebuilt. Why do people do that? It seems much simpler to either build a new house or move to England. I imagine only very eccentric rich people do it in an attempt to buy attention and have something to talk about at their dinner parties once it’s put together. (“Really? All the way from England?” “Well, I said to myself ‘I must have it!’ and I never can say no to me!” “Delicious!”)
The actors include the guy from the local furniture commercials, the guy from the local Shakespeare Company, and a guy from my mom’s office. Most of the actors and crew people have been working with my father since I was very young - so all day I’ve been hearing how old I’ve gotten.

The actors are so nice. I know that sounds like something a theme park summer intern would say (“Oh my GOD, you guys! The actresses in the show are sooo nice! I made them cookies! … I think I might be a lesbian.”). But it’s really startling. They all say thank you very sincerely and very often. They want to talk to me – some are genuinely interested in me, others just want to talk about themselves, but both in an endearing old-man-actor sort of way. I want to be more like that – I fear that my nervous shyness often comes off as weird reclusiveness.

We have a small crew. It’s just the costume and make-up people, my father and me, and the Eds.

The soundman is Ed 1. My father and Ed have been working together almost my entire life. Ed is a sweet, slow, easily distracted man. He looks like Grimace with a beard and prescription sunglasses. For my father to work with him this long must have been slow torture, and Ed is probably permanently scarred. When I was a kid he used to tape hours of Nickelodeon for me and MTV for my sister, since we didn’t have cable. When he and my father went on business trips Ed usually brought me a little present.

The cinematographer is Ed 2. He is a small leathery little man from Arizona. Most of his work is with National Geographic, trekking through mountains or jungles or deserts. So Ed’ll do pretty much anything we ask – shoot from the middle of the river, hang off the side of a bluff, whatever. He and my father are having an on-going struggle over boom shots – Ed loves them, my Dad thinks they’re showy.

My job is to make sure things go smoothly. I just have to make sure that the actors are in the right place at relatively the right time, make sure the people who own and run Agecroft feel comfortable, and get lunch. So far lunch was the biggest success. I was worried we’d have the wrong amount of food – too little and we are a stingy, mean production, too much and my Dad gets upset. It seemed to be just enough; there was no left over sandwich stuff or cookies, just some of the fruit and vegetable trays. No one ever eats the cauliflower. Poor old cauliflower, I’ll love you.

At the end of the day the guy in charge of Agecroft told us that of all the shoot that have been done there, ours has gone smoothest. I’m taking credit for that. At least today…wait until tomorrow, CAULIFLOWER!!

 

[Skinner]

Fear Me! For I am Craft Services!

This is the second day of the Agecroft shoot. Today should be much shorter, we’re only doing one scene with just two actors. One of the actors played a developmentally disabled man in a play I interned for in high school, but he doesn’t remember me. The other actor does remember me, because when I was four years old I was terrified by his portrayal of Fagan in Oliver. Like, hiding-under-my-chair, violently-crying-when-he-came-near-me terrified. I think it scarred him as much as it did me.

Agecroft is in a very fancy-pants part of Richmond, called “Windsor Farms”. The houses in this neighborhood are all giant old mansions with circular driveways and pools. I always found it pretty snotty, but after 5 years in New York, the size of these homes is really ridiculous. They are giant! And they have just one family in each BUILDING! Who needs that? If I lived in one of the crappy, run down parts of town I would spend my evenings throwing bricks into the extra windows of these homes to see if anyone noticed.

The house across the street is especially ridiculous. In the backyard, by the in-ground pool and trampoline, they have a big wooden play pirate ship. It’s probably 12ft. long at least – because, you know, people are starving to death in the Sudan, and a little white boy in Richmond needs a fucking playship. The little lady of the house has a custom-made, pink and blue, two story playhouse. IT HAS A BALCONY. It looks like one of those fancy kit dollhouses that they sell in museum gift shops. I wonder where the pony is, BECAUSE YOU KNOW SHE HAS ONE. Bitch.

I played with cardboard boxes and my sister’s make-up when I was a kid. It’s called imagination. I also had a sandbox, but it was over a year before my parents put a box around it, so really I had a sandpile and a tarp. But isn’t that what a beach is? So I had a beach. A WHOLE FUCKING BEACH! Take that, pirate ship.

I have been getting the catering for lunch from Ukrops grocery store, the same branch I worked at in high school. A lot of the same people work there, but no one I really knew. I was worried that the very intense, somewhat developmentally challenged, salad bar guy who used to make me mix tapes might still work there; when I worked with him he had already worked there 10 years, and didn’t seem to want to ever leave. But he seems to be gone. Honestly, he’s probably just at a different branch, making mix cds for a new cashier. Nothing really changes.

Ukrops has gotten pretty fancy. But they still sell the same disgusting Mexican bean salad. (Who buys that stuff? It’s the kind of Mexican bean salad that looks like it’ll taste really good, but then you try it and it’s awful; so you don’t just hate it, you’re angry at it for fooling you, too.) They also still have the awesome and delicious butter drop cookies. “Huh?” you are thinking, “awesome and delicious? But they are just butter cookies!” Well, you are a stupid pushy liar, they are NOT just butter cookies. They are butter cookies with big dollops of wonderful icing in the middle. They are sneaky – they do not seem to be the best cookies in the world, but believe me, Pushy Liar, they are.

In fact, they are hard to stop eating. But then so are the potato chips. And the cheese. Along with providing the food, I seem to be eating most of it. Especially since I’m keeping the food out because they have really only had half a lunch break while the crew set up the jib arm for the boom shots (ED 2! You are a mad man!!) This is why the craft services people are always a little cushiony – the job is to keep the food moving, and sometimes the only place for it to go is into you. Oh bewitching Craft Services! Release me from your clutches!

Even the Agecroft employees have been trying to get to the food today. I basically had to hide it away instead of setting up in the kitchen like yesterday. Today they were all casually hanging around in the kitchen…minutes go by…still hanging out…not eating, or even really talking…just hanging out….I can hear them outside our breakroom talking about trying to get to it. Are the starving? Do they keep employees chained up here? Free food is no tastier than your sack lunches, people. So eat your own food or join SAG, you dirty pushy thieves.

 

[Skinner]

Wahunsenacah was not a particularly friendly sort of father-in-law. He was the high chief of a tribe of warrior Indians. By providing mafia-style “protection,” he was also in control of most of the other tribes in the region. He was not a man who would be told what to do. When Pocahontas was kidnapped he met only the minimal demands to keep her alive, never enough to free her – and she was his favorite daughter. So negotiating her hand in marriage must have been no picnic for John Rolfe. And imagine the family gatherings – the sudden guilty hush over the wigwam when Pocahontas shows up with her white boy. It must have been a relief to get back to England and away from the scrutiny – how do you ever live up to the Chief of the Algonquins?

When my sister was 16 she started dating an older actor she was working with. His name was Michael and he was 20 and my whole family was madly in love with him. My mother took him to concerts and he took me to the state fair every fall. I was crazeee about Michael - he and his friends would pick me up in his little MG midget and take me to Pizza Hut or teach me to play basketball. Everything he did was HILARIOUS to me - I considered him a comic genius and repeated his jokes jokes to everybody. I made my best friend's mother drive us two hours to the beach to see him in a comedy sportz show, the first improv I ever saw.

But my father didn't take to him. In fact, he scared the pants off Michael, as he would every subsequent boyfriend my sister or I have had. It’s not that he’s mean, he just seems to be able to detect their innermost insecurities and intellectual shortcomings, and silently prey upon them. (He doesn’t really, but he seems to. It’s the British accent, mostly. And the cold stare. ) It’s really strange that my sister and I have dated as many comedians as we have, since my father is not the outgoing type. And each one – God bless them – tries to get him to laugh, joking around, being pleasant and smiley. He just stares back at them, watching them wither and self-destruct.

Michael braved the storm longer than any boyfriend, almost long enough to get comfortable with it. ALMOST. Today it is 18 years later, and he is our lead actor in the government section of the film. We rehearsed it yesterday and I saw the nerves coming on. He was having trouble with the lines and kept apologizing. My Dad was very nice, smiling and patting him on the back, but Michael didn’t buy it. This morning he told me he couldn’t get to sleep until almost 4, and he threw up on his way out the door.

We’ve been filming for four hours now, and we’re only about 2 minutes into the scene. I belive this is what you might call a full on anxiety attack - he can't make it through an entire sentence. Michael’s insanely nervous that he will disappoint my father, or make him angry. He says he doesn’t know his lines, but after the amount of preparation he’s done, there’s no way humanly possible for him to not know those lines. By now, EVERYONE in the room knows the lines. He just can’t get them out – it’s as though he’s so sure that my father is going to be upset with him that he’s working for it now. My dad refuses to comply, just laughing good naturedly and encouraging him along. Laughing. At Michael. Finally.

Somehow I think it’s the ultimate fuck you – my father has waited until he’s finally broken Michael to find him funny.


Bt the way, I still think he's a genius. He keeps trying to convince me that he's really not that great, but I don't buy it. He's a lot sadder now, but he's still Michael and I've never found anyone as consistantly funny in my whole life. More importantly, I don't WANT to ever find anyone as consistantly funny. I like knowing the funniest person in the whole world. I don't care if he gave up comedy to become a teacher - sucess in comedy isn't about who's funniest, it's about strength, and tenacity, and a sort of self-loathing/conceit cocktail that can allow a person to think they deserve to get treated like shit because EVENTUALLY they're going to be the biggest star ever.

 

[Skinner]

Today's shoot was at the College of William & Mary in Colonial Williamsburg, which has to be the worst tourist attraction in the US. I would rather see the biggest spool on earth any day than watch a bunch of costumed high school kids make candles. It follows that the tourists that come here are a special breed of horrible.

All day long tourists kept banging through the giant doors right outside the room we were filming in. The lighting guy's son/assistant (we're a very nepotistic company) was supposed to be keeping people quiet, but he was apparently very shitty at it. So, I ended up sitting in the hall stopping people from slamming the door or talking loudly. Or at least trying to. People will get pissed off when you tell them that they won't be able to see the 17th century schoolroom today. One guy got so angry with me he stormed out and slammed the door on purpose. It's just and old room people! Go to fucking Europe - their rooms are at least twice as old!

Since we have to shoot so early tomorrow and Sunday, my father and I are staying here in Williamsburg at a Marriottt courtyard. We are just down the street from Busch Gardens. Close enough for me to see the firworks tonight, if I didn't know it would break my heart. Busch Gardens! Home of the Loch Ness Monster, the Big Bad Wolf, and the Alpengiest! The fucking ALPENGEIST!!! That's German for abominable snowman, and English for kick-ass hanging coaster. They have, like, 7 countries in one park! But we have to be on the set by 7am, so no fake European adventure for me.

But on the up side, I have seen a bunch of cool stuff in Williamsburg today, including:
4 ponies
2 rabbits
Dogopoly, catopoly, and biblopoly games
A confederate and indian memoribilia store (or as I like to think of it, "the loser store")
A butterfly
1/2 a butterfly that still works

 

[Skinner]

Virginia is full of bugs. Creepy, freaky bugs with thick brown legs or wispy fur and sticky feet; big heavy bugs that fly low and slow like tiny helicopters that want to bite you or build a nest in your hair. These bugs are not scared of people, they do not run away when you turn the lights on. In fact they often appear to be indignant about the intrusion. One spit a pile of woodchips and sawdust at me for knocking too loudly on a replica Indian canoe/bug home.

This weekend’s shoot at the Chikahominy campgrounds was totally at the mercy of the bugs. There were cicadas screaming through the takes, dragonflies gliding into the camera, and sandfleas that seemed particularly attracted to Indian war paint (from the Ben Nye ”Clown and Indian Warrior” line). A couple of big, fuzzy, kamakazi caterpillars fell down the costume woman’s shirt. The bugs never let us forget we were on their turf.

But then, neither did the Indians. The Indians we have working for our film are mostly former New World cast members. The New World is a film being shot in the same locations, with the same boats, about the same story – except in their version John Smith is played by Colin Farrell and the things they say about the Indians are lies. So a number of them have gotten frustrated with the production, and quit. It’s great for us, because it means that the Indians we have are really serious about making the film as accurate as possible – just as we are – but it’s also a little intimidating because these guys are SERIOUSLY Indian, and very tough.

They use Algonquin words and gestures, and have lots of scary prison tattoos. One guy insisted on camping out at the site during a horrible thunderstorm Saturday night. When I asked why he said, "My forefathers did it, I should be able to." To which I replied, "Yeah, but but they HAD to," which made him laugh.

Kirk is everybody’s favorite. He is a massive, muscley, 6’4” 47 year-old covered in fading tattoos. When he came into the casting session he was wearing a camo bandana on his head with a long rope of hair hanging down the back. Apparently he was frowning stoically through the entire interview – I don’t know, I was taking a break to eat crappy cafeteria chili. My father asked him if he would be willing to shave one side of his head (the Powhatan Indians of the time wore their hair shaved on the right side and curled up with feathers or dead birds on the other. It made it easier to hunt with bow & arrow.) He mumbled “I am traditional,” in reply. My father asked him the same question again. This time, to answer he silently removed his bandana revealing that his head already was clean-shaven on the right. This guy was for real.

As scary as he was in the interview, we were a little worried about shooting with him. I introduced myself to him in the morning and went to shake his hand. Unbeknownst to me, Indians shake by grabbing each other’s forearms, very firmly, and saying...something in Algonquin. I reply with “Oh! Um, yes, you too.” It took a while to cover all his tattoos, but during the process he started to loosen up and joke around. By the end of the day, he was the friendliest guy on the set. He was looking out for the younger Indian boy, cracking jokes with the crew, and hitting on the make-up assistant. I think he could tell I was nervous about making sure everyone was doing alright and the shoot was going ok, because he kept checking on me. After he finally left for the day he came back in to grab my forearm again and mutter “I’m glad I met you.”

But the bugs still didn't care.

 

[Skinner]

Thank you, Killgore.

Yesterday we filmed the tween decks scene on the Susan Constance - the largest of the three ships sent by the Virginia Company. The scene was to have taken place in the English Channel in December – a place and time far less sweaty than Virginia in July. So we packed the ship with re-enactors and then wrapped them in woolen blankets.

Here is the advantage to working with re-enactors: they love that shit. They’d let you kick them in the balls if you told them it was historically accurate. The disadvantage is the re-enactor humor. They’re like the weird girls from my high school who used to pass each other notes in Klingon, except these guys aren’t 13 year-old geniuses. They are grown men who giggle if you mistake a musket for a bumbleblast. Yesterday they spent their dinner break reworking Jeff Foxworthy bits into “You know you’re Rustic...” jokes.

To communicate the horrible conditions of sailing on the English Channel, we brought in a funny-looking eighth grade boy named Trey. He’s a pale, skinny, gawky little guy with a giant crooked smile. Trey had been in an earlier scene at the Chickahominy, and had had a really great time just hanging out on the set, so he was thrilled when I called him and asked him to come in for another day. Little did he know he would be the star, and would get to create some movie magic.

I loaded up on green makeup (oddly enough, available at any drug store), and three different kinds of soup – vegetable, pea, and cream of mushroom. After I got Trey in costume, I sat him on a barrel and tinted his face enough to make him look relatively sickly while he told be about his teen chorus experiences. Our Trey is apparently an Elvis impersonator – who knew? I asked him how he found out about our auditions, to which he replied, “A lady I know who works here told me ‘cause she knows I like acting. But it’s weird ‘cause I only know her ‘cause my dog sort of bit her? Don’t mention that to her. Ooh, that was bad.”

We got below deck and started shooting. (Here’s a tip – inside a ship is not really “inside,” so don’t forget to wear bugspray. My ankles got ravaged by fleas or mosquitoes or something gross. Whatever, they’re itchy.) The hanging lanterns were all rigged up together to swing as though the ship was rocking, and Trey got pretty good at lurching around. I was just waiting for the soup.

My father shot the whole sequence without it – just having Trey heave into a bucket while the other sailors chuckled or slept. I kept bugging him, though, so he finally let me open a can. It was really just to humor me. But when we got that final take of Trey’s head coming up out of the bucket, spit and soup still stringing down from his lips, I was vindicated. Everyone applauded. The whole day was worth that most awesome shot of seasick sailor vomit.

 

[Skinner]

Fucking historians.

In the winter of 1609, the Jamestown colonists endured what is called “The Starving Time.” It’s pretty self-explanatory. Unlike in the past years, this time the Indians weren’t willing to trade any of their food to the colonists. No one had any food – and the Indians didn’t trust the colonists at all – so the fort was basically in a siege-like situation. If anyone left, the Indians killed him before he could steal any food. So where did they get food from?

COME ON, AMERICA! Where do you think they got food from? They started with berries, maybe some leather, then they ate a horse for a few weeks. Eventually they started digging up dead bodies and eating them. One man was killed when it was found that he had beaten his wife to death, salted her flesh, and left her under the bed. And I wonder what they did with his body…. This is all documented in Jamestown records, and it’s pretty fucking cool. But is it going to make it into the film?

COME ON, AMERICA!! Of course not. There are historians breathing down our necks to paint a pretty picture. They want people to respect the importance of Jamestown and buy lots of Pocahontas headdresses in the gift shop. The obvious irony is that all the tearfully bored 11 year-olds tourist kids would eat that shit up (haha). They could even sell cookies shaped like ponies!

On Wednesday we shot the starving time scenes in the Jamestown fort. We have to do all of the filming there when it’s closed – before 9am or after 6pm. Once again, we bundled re-enactors into woolen blankets and dirtied their faces. From the looks of our movie, starving makes you sweat a lot. We shot a bunch of very pretty Vermeery scenes using tiny LCD keylights in dismal mud huts. The colonists all put on sad, forlorn faces to convey their imminent death. My father kept shouting “Despair! You look too bloody healthy!” at them.

On the way home, my dad and I felt pretty good about the way it looked, but mourned the loss of the gory details. I’m learning that the truth usually isn’t boring, and the more you know the more interesting things become. And that a lot of people prefer the boring lies. (I made some re-enactors really upset by suggesting that the colonists ate each other. I think maybe they should stop getting upset about documented history, and start worrying about getting girlfriends.) Different historians and curators with their own agendas keep cutting things out of our script. Not because they are inaccurate, but because “We don’t want it to look like that” – “that” meaning “scary” or “gory” or “racist”. BUT IT WAS! To me, that’s everything that makes it a good story.

Next time you see a boring educational film, think of those starving colonists eating each other, and know that it isn’t the filmmaker’s fault.

 

[Skinner]

Things I am tired of looking for:
25 Gallon Rubbermaid Actionpackers
Men with beards
Indians


Summer is a hard time to find bearded men. Especially svelte bearded men; the few bearded guys we've found don't look like they could live off a land where cheetos don't grow on trees. (No offense beardies...but you could probably lose a few.) My father and I have been on a beard hunt for the last week. We’re shooting all the Pocahontas/John Rolfe scenes tomorrow, and as of this morning we still hadn’t found a John Rolfe. We literally drive up and down the street pointing at men and saying things like “He’s got a good one! Oh wait, too short. And fat.” Or “Hmm, he’s got one but it’s not thick enough. And he looks too wimpy.” I feel like I’m in high school all over again.
And that’s casting, people! Totally random. The next time you get passed over for a Hardees commercial, just think: It was probably your beard.

 

[Skinner]

I took a break from my journal for a few days to tromp around in the woods filming, and to catch up on some self-loathing and personal bullshit. I But, oh my goodness, what a cliffhanger to leave on! Did she find a bearded man in time? What about John Rolfe?

I can’t decide how I feel about John Rolfe. He married his first wife, Dorothea, when he was 23. Two years later they were shipwrecked in Bermuda on their way to Virginia. While stranded, his wife gave birth to their daughter whom they named Bermuda, and who died soon after. Rolfe and the other hundred or so surviving colonists constructed two ships by lashing together some trees and the remains of the other ships. They set sail for Virginia, and Rolfe smuggled out some Caribbean tobacco seeds. Shortly after finally arriving in Virginia, Dorothea died.

Of course, he met Pocahontas in 1613, when she was taken prisoner. A year later he would write that, ”It is Pocahontas to whom my most hearty and best thoughts are, and have been a long time entangled, and enthralled in so intricate a labyrinthe that I (could not) unwind myself thereout.” Enthralled. In an intricate labythrinthe. He couldn't unwind himself. That's pretty much what everybody wants to feel, and have felt about them. He was only married to her for two years before she, too, died. Rolfe then returned to Virginia, where he worked on his now flourishing tobacco crop and married again. This was a short marriage, too – Rolfe died in 1622.

What I’m unsure of is whether I pity or admire his love life. On the one hand he lost so much so quickly. He was a very pious man, and really loved all of these women deeply. How crushing would that be? To loose the woman you love over and over again – he must have almost come to expect it. On the other hand, how lucky to have found people to love that much three times in one short life. He must have had incredible faith to look at the all evidence life had given him about how futile it was to care about someone and then care about her anyway.

When I was a kid, I used to bury pebbles in the backyard even though I knew it was silly and that they wouldn’t grow. I liked believing in them anyway. Now I think it might be a little crazy. I can't decided how I feel about that, either.

 

[Skinner]

Well yes, we did find a bearded man to play John Rolfe. Unfortunately, rather than being the adventurous shipwreck-survivor type, he was a professional pan-flute player; and you could totally tell. Luckily he didn't have to talk.

The girl who played Pocahontas on the other hand, could not play the pan-flute. Nor could she drive herself anywhere without getting lost, or speak in statements rather than questions? You know? Frankly, I was surprised to see her clothes properly buttoned, but she was pretty, and Indian. Well...hispanic really. The real Indian women were much taller and bigger than her, and they seemed to frighten her when they asked what her tribe was. ("Um, Aztec?")

My father found our Pocahontas at the gym, in a senario that every actor and adult movie producer dreams of: he walked up to a strange girl asked if she wanted to be in a movie. Either she's whorey or the British accent sold it, because she immediately said yes and let him take her picture. Possibly she was mixing us up with the Colin Farrell movie, but oh well - sucker.

A lot of people have been mixing us up with the other movie. It makes me feel like a big faker. I swear, I'm not trying to pass myself off as part of a bigger movie! But if you want to give me a discount on my hotel room or sandwich, I'll take it. I especially hate to see extras get a little disappointed when they look around and don't see Christian Bale. All I can do is assure them I go through the same thing every morning.

 

[Skinner]

It's beeing thunderstorming for the past few days, flooding the rats out of their homes and forcing us to cancel shooting.The neighborhood association sent around a warning reminding people to keep the covers down on their toilets, to keep the rats from getting in. Lovely! Just another perk of living in a "historic" home.

My parents house is right next door to St. John's church, where Patrick Henry gave his "Give me liberty or give me death!" speech. When I was a kid, tour buses used to stop outside my house and just sit there, giving me an opportunity to run outside and entertain them with my impromtu performance art. I must have really blown their minds, walking around the porch with an umbrella - but no rain! Or pretending to be blind! Wearing backwards clothes! What is reality, brother? Coo coo kachoo.

So no Jamestown this week - I'm stuck in Richmond. Did you know that Richmond is where whiteboy dreads come from? They're EVERYWHERE. Exporters harvest them off the heads of suburban punks while they beg for money in 7-11 parking lots. There are also Tattoo shops (parlors? Do we still call them tattoo parlors?) every ten feet. I supose once you've been here long enough you figure, "Well, I've got nothing else to do. I guess I'll get a tattoo. It'll go with the dreads."

Presently, I'm inthe process of dying a bunch of underwear in my mother's washing machine. My father is going to Angola on Saturday to shoot the slave scenes for the film. You didn't think we could so a film about Virginia without slaves, did you? (no, I'm not going. That's fine, I didn't want malaria anyway.) We can't put actual naked people in the film, so I'm making a lot of brown underpants. The Target employees were disappointingly unaffected by my purchase of men's underpants, brown dye, and gum.

 

[Skinner]

The rain finally stopped. But not before I had finished all the spreadsheets, dyed the underpants, googled everone I have ever met, tried on all my sister's old prom dresses, and secretly broken my parents coffeemaker. When my father came home from his office he caught me belting along with his Mike Nesmith albums, in pajamas, fake microphone in hand. This might be what made him decide to say "Right, no matter what the weather is tomorrow - we are filming." Immediately the sky cleared.

The next morning we drove down to Jamestown at 5am to film the arrival of Mistress Forrest and Anne Burras - the first women at Jamestown. When they showed up Jamestown had been around for about 2 years, without any women. Uh-oh - I smell a history mystery! What did 30 single men do for two years without women? According to the historians the colonists must have been too busy doing adventurous things to rape indians or each other, right? Yeah, they were really busy. And gay. I suggested we erect a "fucktree" in the middle of the fort and get some shots of colonists waiting in line around it.

Anne Burras, Mistress Forrest's maid, was 13 years old when she came to Virginia. She was married in the first wedding in the colony a year later. I want to see HER story told, I mean - how fucking scary is that? 13 years old and you're taken across the world to an unexplored land full of natives and sex-starved sailors. Yeah, 14 is a little young to get married, but I'm surprised she waited that long; I'd marry the first guy I could find who was nice and capable of beating off the other men. Or I'd run away and marry an Indian (a "Reverse Pocahontas?" No, that sounds too dirty.)

I tried not to mention too much of this to our little 13-year-old actress, Samantha. She was having a hard enough time figuring out how to do laundry by hand for the shot. I really wanted to make her look very jumpy and scared, glancing around feverishly as though a colonist was going to run up and drag her into a doorway at any moment. Or actually show the little girl getting beaten for hiding scraps of cloth rations - as the colony records indicate. Instead we got a shot of her serenely squeezing laundry in a forrest glade.

I'm a lot more impressed with Anne Burras surviving in the fort than with the fort surviving in Virginia.

 

[Skinner]

Sidenotes

1. Having a car is very therapeutic. Everyone feels cool in a car. Didn’t book that Arby’s commercial? Living at home and working for your Dad instead of going to that pilot callback your agent called you about? Who cares? You’re rolling in your 4.0 with your rag top down so your hair can blow! (You’re hair can’t blow on the subway, so the regret just bunches up around your ears.)

2. My parents cats are very traumatized. The little one seems convinced that everyone is out to eat her, and the fat one shits on the rugs upstairs whenever my father gets angry and yells. It's sort of impressive that she's that sensitive.

3. New York is covered in mirrors and reflective surfaces. You cannot get away from yourself - you're everywhere you go. After a few weeks at home, I looked up at the bathroom mirror while I was brushing my teeth one day, and didn't recognize myself. I was very taken aback, and spent a few seconds - maybe even minutes - trying to figure out why I looked so weird and unfamilar. I finally gave up and decided I was just being a freak. But upon returning to New York I realize that I had just hadn't seen myself in a while.

4. I am much lazier in New York. Days slip by, so it's too easy to procrastinate. The journal should be more interesting when I'm back in VA next week. Hopefully.

 

[Skinner]

Running through Chinatown with a suitcase is MUCH harder than running through Penn Station.

This time I couldn't blame traffic or tourists for my tardiness - it was purely my fault. I had spent too much time in my apartment doing...something...I'm not sure what. I lose too many days that way, trapped in the lethargic haze of my apartment, and I really have no idea what I'm doing. Thinking, I guess. I don't even have cable.

The Chinatown bus is cheaper and quicker than the train, but it's cramped and often smells weird. The best thing about riding the Chinatown bus is the movie program. It takes four movies to get to Richmond – 2 in English and 2 in Chinese. The first one was some Arnold Schwartzeneger movie about firefighters and/or terrorists. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to that one. But then we got to see a bootlegged version of I, Robot! $10.25 saved! The last two movies were apparently hilarious, and had a lot of screaming and gender wackiness, but the subtitles were too small for me to read. I think one was a cowboy movie?

My mother and cousin seemed very glad to see me when we finally got to Richmond. I think they’re getting a little sick of each other, having been here alone together for two weeks now. They both had lots of random news to tell me, like cats when you come home from work. I nodded a lot. It felt like I hadn't even left.

After my mother went to bed my cousin, Cennobar, asked me to go with her to get her nose pierced. My embarrassing Straightedge past has at least left me with some insider info on Richmond piercers - so I can not only hold her hand, but also make sure her nose doesn’t get improperly gauged. I agreed, knowing I’ll probably end up with a tattoo. Richmond is sucking me in!!!

If I end up with white dreads, someone come get me.

 

[Skinner]

Skinner Productions is bored and mopey today. My father and I have been sitting around waiting for Indians to call us back so we can set up a shoot for tomorrow. Each time the phone rings we get all excited and stop everything to answer or stare at the person answering it – once again, I’m back in high school. Other than that, we’re sort of stuck staring at each other and reminding each other of stuff we have to do when, and if, an Indian ever calls us.
The plan was originally to have the Indian scene all set up before my father got back from Africa, but he’s very picky and tends to change dates without telling me. Every time I started trying to set it up with him over the internet, he’d get flustered and tell me to wait. He’s hard to assist that way. So now it’s a mad rush to get it done this weekend. And the Indians just aren’t calling.
Why aren’t they calling? Don’t they like me? I probably said something stupid. Or laughed too loud. Like when you laugh really loud and then it’s quiet and you just hear your own stupid horsey laugh ringing in your ears. I probably did that. Or maybe they found an Assistant Director that’s prettier, or funnier. Or skinnier. They’re probably calling her to set up shoots and laughing at her smooth wit. Well fuck her anyway, she’s a whore, probably.