by Anne Wheeler
“Yes, simple music, repetitious,” he states impatiently.
“No, not always.” I’m a little defensive. “There were different approaches. Sometimes pieces would start out simply with a melody or a rhythm, and the stronger players would embellish it and break off, not unlike what jazz musicians do — while others would play a continuum of some kind. Sometimes it was a call-and-answer situation, like in Africa. Other times, musicians took turns performing solos, showing off their brilliance. It often moved far beyond my Toronto Conservatory skills, and there were no pieces of paper holding them together. The music brought them together. Listening to each other, and responding, brought them together.”
“How then, would you present this thesis if nothing is written down?”
“Well, I’d like to do it on film.”
“Absolutely not. You wouldn’t be taken seriously at all.”
“Possibly not. But I wouldn’t be the first —”
“No,” he interrupts me. “It’s not worth talking about, I’m afraid. I won’t accept a thesis done on film.”
He pulls on his jacket and turns off his lights, ready to leave. “I have to be clear with you, Anne. I want to see something in writing by the end of the month ... something that can be examined and assessed. Something that has some real academic precedent. Look at the Manhattan Project — that is a fresh approach — or Orff. And. You’ll have to commit to a full-time effort. We’ll meet next Monday — same time.”
“Yes, sir,” is all I can muster before zipping out the door. I’m not good at combating authority, especially from an older man. I want to do something that makes sense to me. I thought it could be in the world of music, but music in high schools is centred on band music. Students should be sent out into the world with skills they can use for the rest of their lives, like singing. I have done my time talking kids into playing instruments they will never own — like tubas and bassoons — playing repetitive bass lines to keep the marching together. Surely there is another approach to music that would serve them better.
WHEN THE GUYS RETURN from Drumheller, every question they ask about the shoot convinces me that I made multiple mistakes high in the sky. Aerials, apparently, should be shot in slow motion, to soften the movement. And the light settings are tricky when you are shooting up at the sky, then down onto the dark forest. I didn’t touch any settings, believing the camera was an automatic godsend as I clung onto it and my life. I am convinced I have completely messed up my big opportunity.
On Monday morning, the lab in Vancouver finally gets in touch. Mark takes the call. They report that the exposure is good, the film is clean, and they will be shipping it out on Wednesday.
“What else did they say?” I ask him.
“Well, they said it looked like you had gone for quite a ride.”
“You mean, they said it was shaky, unusable?”
“No, they said it looked like you had gone for quite a ride.”
“Was it in focus?”
“Didn’t ask. Oh, and your mom called. Sounded nice.”
“That’s it?”
“Ya.”
Mom wants to make sure I’m coming for dinner on Wednesday night. It’s odd that she needs to ask. She sounds nervous. I wonder what kind of mood I’ll be in, given my vanishing film career, but I say yes. I’m curious to know more about Joe. He seems so brazen, so contrary to her British ways. I wonder if she wants to distance herself from him.
WEDNESDAY COMES, and the dreaded delivery from Vancouver finally arrives. The film gets slapped into the split reel and put onto the projector. All nine of us find a place to perch as the light begins to flicker on our white wall. Alan brings the image into focus as the Academy Leader counts down — nine, eight, seven, six — to my hopes and fears.
The first shot is a rush of movement, starting on the ground as the plane takes off, slashing through a rush of people and trees, then wildly swishes to something that stops us cold. What is that?
The big blue horizon hangs on the bottom of the screen like a huge body of water. The green fringe of the Earth lies above it.
“It’s upside down,” someone murmurs in disbelief.
We stop the machine and the dark room erupts into a tumble of questions. Rico flips on the lights.
“They must have sent it tail out. Or ... no ... that wouldn’t do it ... the numbers would have been ...”
“They don’t make mistakes ... it comes out of the bath onto the core.”
“No ... it’s right side up. The head leader was right side up.”
Now Reevan is looking at the film stock itself. “The emulsion is on the right side ... the problem is not at their end.” He has worked in a lab; he knows all this stuff.
I am silent. Confounded.
Reevan pulls out another reel, and sure enough, it has the same configuration. Head leader is right side up — followed by an upside-down picture. We all come to the same shocking conclusion.
“You held the camera upside down, Wheeler. All day,” says Dale.
“No, I didn’t! I couldn’t have!”
“You did. It’s the only answer. The only way this image could be inverted.”
I don’t want to believe it. We’ve all made mistakes but this takes the cake.
Rico has a thought. “Was it that new Canon ... with the magazine on the bottom...?”
“Ah ... ya. It was a Canon. The magazine is on the bottom, not the top? I mean ... it was awkward but ...”
“I bet it was.” They all laugh. I am mortified.
Both of our cameras, most cameras, have the magazine on top, like Mickey Mouse ears. That’s what a camera looks like to me. They all look at me, waiting for the obvious.
“Okay. I guess I held it upside down.”
I feel like a complete imbecile and weakly suggest, “Can’t we just flip it? Turn it right side up, show it backwards or something?”
“You can’t flip it, and backwards is backwards. The tractor will be going backwards, the plane ... never mind. No. That is not an option.”
“Of course not.”
Alan is sympathetic, “And it’s single perf, right?”
“Ya.”
“Too bad. It can only be threaded into the projector one way. If it was double perf, with sprocket holes on both sides, we could rig something up. The graphics would be backwards but —”
“But,” Dale clears his throat, “these guys are coming down tomorrow to see this stuff. I already called them. They want to talk turkey.”
It’s a nightmare, worse than I could have imagined.
“Well, we might as well watch it upside down, and get some idea of what we have here,” suggests Mark cheerfully.
“No,” says Reevan. “Let’s not get it all scratched up. We may need to make a dupe neg or something.”
I have no idea what Reevan is suggesting, but it sounds expensive. And he is the most experienced filmmaker amongst us.
“We’ll just tell them the truth — the girl held it upside down!”
“No, no, no!” I beg.
Mercifully, someone suggests, “Let’s just have them come in and hang upside down from the pipes like bats in a cave ... that would work....” It’s the best idea yet.
“Well,” says Dale, “a reshoot is impossible of course ... even the land can’t lose its virginity twice.”
I put the film back into the cans, craving a solution. I have spent a lot of money and have cost them a potential contract. What can I say? “Sorry” is insufficient. I’ll just leave with my tail between my legs.
For reasons I don’t question, they keep spitballing. Ideas fly back and forth. “We could try mirrors maybe.” “How would we do that? It’s impossible — we don’t have the room.” “What if — what if we turn the projector upside down?”
The talk stops. We all think it out in our heads, then there is a “collective” Yes!!!! We could bolt the projector to the ceiling. Yes!!!!
We’re on our feet now, figuring out how exactly tha
t would work and where to set it up. We chatter back and forth.
“The reels won’t work upside down.”
“We’ll have to manually crank them. It could be tricky.”
“Then we have to change reels of course. How many are there?”
“Three,” I say. “The third one is shorter.”
“This could be a comedy routine!”
“If we hang it inside the closet, we can put curtains across this doorway and hide the projector and whoever is hand-cranking the take-up reel.”
“Ya, we will just have the lens sticking out ... whatever happens behind the curtain, stays behind the curtain.”
“The audience will be facing the other way.”
“It will be noisy!”
“So, we’ll find some very loud music!”
I am so relieved. They are not sending me away in disgrace. I am still included. This is a team sport and I’m one of the players. I am so moved, I can hardly speak. I’d expected them to give me a much harder time. I have learned something here — my assumptions have been unfair. I am at fault but no one is blaming me. There isn’t any time to point fingers.
I help roll the projector to the other end of the basement and dismantle the editing bench so there is more space. The power drill is retrieved, along with some brackets and iron bars.
“What we need here is the dildo,” Dale says in all seriousness. “Can you get that, Wheeler?”
“The dildo?” I ask weakly, not knowing what I should look for and why we would need it. I look pathetic. They all start to laugh.
“What? What is it? Show me what it is ... I don’t know. I give up.”
I have learned about the equipment by watching and doing but this one piece has me baffled. “Really, is it something we can use here — to bolt the projector to the ceiling?”
They try to pull themselves together but refuse to let me in on the joke. I guess, in a fashion, they are getting back at me for this possible disaster.
“You’re not going to tell me? Why not?”
They can’t look me in the eye. “Ah ... I think it’s not here,” says Mark, “It wasn’t, ah, working very well, and I sent it off to be fixed. We really never used it much. We should get rid of it, don’t you guys think?”
They all grunt accordingly. “Besides,” Dale adds, with a straight face, “it could be dangerous if you used it upside down.” That really cracks them up. What a bunch of brats. If I were more confident I would press them further, but clearly I will have to wait.
Rico, who is about to drill holes into the beam above him, turns to me and asks me directly, “Can you sew?”
“Not very well, but yes. I’ll take care of the curtains.”
I find an old pipe for a curtain rod and I take a few measurements before I leave.
SUPPER IS ON THE TABLE when I arrive at Mom’s. I’m starving, so I dive right in. I don’t notice at first that she is not eating and is strangely quiet. She says she’s not hungry, so I help myself to seconds as she finishes a smoke. Butting it, she clears her throat, “Joe has asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.” I swallow twice and then squeak, “Already?”
“It’s been long enough. He’s a good man, an honest man. And we enjoy each other’s company. I’ve told your brothers and we’re all going out for supper next weekend.”
I put down my fork and get a drink of water from the tap. It will take a moment for me to absorb this shocking piece of news. She doesn’t sound really excited, but I sense a calmness and contentment, which is good.
“He has a cottage up north,” she tells me. “We’ve been fixing it up, and he loves to fish, you know. And I like it up there. I like his kind of life. I am more at home in the country. And he likes to dance. I like to dance. He’s good for me —”
“Mom. You don’t have to explain anything to me. If this is what you want to do, then I’m happy for you. Really. But do you have to get married?”
“Yes. Of course I do. I’m old-fashioned. I have to get married.”
“All right then. When’s the wedding?”
“You’re not invited.”
“Oh!”
“We’re having a civil wedding with two witnesses, and then we’re going out for a nice steak dinner.”
It seems like she is leaving home, not me. It’s backwards somehow. Why is she so anxious? Did she think I’d disapprove of her?
“If that’s what you want, Mom, and you’ve decided, then I’m thrilled you have found someone you want to live with for the rest of your life.” She takes that as a question.
“Yes, we’ll take care of each other. He treats me with respect, and —”
I come over and give her a hug. “Good, good,” I whimper, suddenly feeling very alone. For no good reason, I tear up and smile at her. She is uncomfortable with my emotion.
“I’m glad you understand,” she says. “I hope you grow to like him.”
“If he does well by you, Mom, that’s all he needs to do. I’ll like him a lot.”
Nothing more needs to be said. I do understand and I will not challenge him again. I grab a Kleenex and blow my nose.
She takes my hand. “You know I will always love your father. He was the love of my life.”
“I know that, Mom. You deserve to be loved. To be happy. I know you’ve been lonely. And I haven’t always been there for you.”
“You did your best.” She sees I am tearing up again. “It was hard, losing your dad so young ... and I wasn’t always at my best.” We both start to cry. Embarrassed, she grabs a Kleenex too and we both blow our noses.
“So,” I say, trying to change the mood, “I have to ask.”
“What?” she says, ready for anything.
I could ask her what she thinks of me quitting school, but that can wait. “Do you still have that sewing machine? I have to sew something.”
“Sew!? You?”
“Ya. I bought some material down at Zellers. Remember you sent me to that Singer sewing camp that summer after grade nine?”
“You hated it, I know.”
I go to the front hallway and retrieve the bag of material.
She is amused. “And I bought you a fancy machine. You used it as a hat stand. You told me to give it away ... to get rid of it.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You are taking up sewing now?”
I lay out the cloth. “I have to make curtains.”
“Curtains? You never cease to amaze me.”
“Sorry. I know. I failed home economics. I never got the zippers straight. I hated buttonholes. One has to like something to be good at it ... don’t you think? If you really want to excel at something?”
She knows where I am heading. “You are going to quit school, aren’t you? I know you don’t like it.” She’s no slouch, my mom.
“Well, I had a good idea, but my advisor is not keen and I’m not excited about doing something that well, you know ... I need to feel passionate about what I’m doing.”
She nods. “It’s a wonderful thing to do something that you love ...”
We’re different but the same. She looks at me, really looks at me. “If you have the chance to make a living doing something you love, then do it now while you are still single. Life goes sideways, I can tell you that. And soon you won’t have a choice — so do what you want to do while you can do it.”
I feel that she’s talking about herself here. “Was playing in that band, during the war ... something you loved?” I’ve never asked her that before. She seems stymied. It’s hard for her to answer.
She nods, “It was. I mean ... your dad ... I didn’t know if he’d ever come back, so I was in a constant state of worry ... but ... I loved the music. I did. And the musicians — they were so good, taught me so much. And I was learning new songs all the time — we got better and better.”
“Is that what you would have done ... if you hadn’t had me so soon after Dad came home from the
war?”
She is unnerved by my presumption, but I can tell there is some truth in it.
“It was much more complicated than that,” she says. “Your father was sick, and my life, like everyone else’s life, had to shift — it was a new world. We had all lived through a depression, then a war. This was a chance to stop — and to settle down — but yes, I loved playing with the band. I did.”
For her, that is a substantial confession. She wipes her hands on her apron and takes a breath. “I will go get the sewing machine.”
THE DARK GREEN CURTAINS hang across the doorway — my sewing is not stellar but that goes unnoticed in the shadows. No one would guess that it is a contrived situation. There is space enough behind the curtains for two people to crank the reels so that the film will be taken up after it runs through the projector. The only give-away is that the lens is sticking out at least two feet lower than it would normally. We’ll keep it covered until the lights go out.
We decide not to risk a trial run of the footage. We will keep it as pristine as possible, no scratches or damage of any kind. This means that all of us will see what I shot for the first time with our visitors. I am sick with worry. It could be a nightmare.
On the other hand, if we can pull off this screening and the footage is impressive, our financial concerns will be alleviated, and we may actually be able to pay ourselves for two months in a row.
The chief arrives with several council members, and we lead them downstairs, past the furnace, into what we have set up as a screening room.
All dressed up and looking very professional, we offer drinks and popcorn and shoot the breeze for a few minutes before taking our seats for the big presentation.
The chief makes a special point of greeting me. “Ruthie says hello,” he declares with a twinkle.
“I hear you lost the bet,” I kid him.
“Ya, so this better be good!”
The situation is so bizarre and amusing that I dare not look at any of the guys without risking a fit of the giggles. As our guests get seated, Mark and I slip behind the curtains ready to spin the reels. We flip off the light switch and uncover the lens.