I don't know about other filmmakers, but for me, stories can take months, years, even decades to complete. Sometimes, obviously, they never get completed, and for good reason: They weren't ready. Other times, like the clever little antigens they are, they mutate -- becoming utterly unrecognizable from that which you intended. Still others - as is often the case with my own work - get cannibalized, like all those battleship models at ILM, the minutia of which have provided high-relief detail to so many star destroyers.

And sometimes - sometimes they get co-opted. Taken over. Now, this may not be a hostile takeover (indeed, if it involves, say, a fellow filmmaker or writer, it rarely is), or even intentional -- but a takeover is a takeover, be it invasion or seduction. Often times this takeover begins when something you have said about a personal work-in-progress inspires or otherwise lights a fire in the eyes of a creative compatriot: it may be a certain narrative premise, a singular but striking image, a compelling sub-text -- anything. But it lights up their eyes, and you just know that you're onto something.

Because you just saw the evidence.

The takeover matures when, "inspired" by your idea, this creative brother-in-arms suggests changes -- experience has taught me that it is here, at the skin, at the body's first line of defense, where one must exercise caution. Most likely, the friend is just doing what friends do. That is, they are captivated by your idea and want to help you focus it; they want to offer insights on how this or that might be amplified, or this or that condensed, or some other enlarged upon. You know, shop talk.

But this might also be the start of the takeover, hombre. And you better mind your borders. You'll know right away if said friend begins making smart-ass suggestions, like, "why not, and this would be just nutty, if instead of a two-eyed creature pursuing her, it's - a 50-eyed creature! How Ôbout that? Or none? A none-eyed creature! Wouldn't that be better? Wouldn't that be more - well, more something?"

"More eyes," you might concede.

You'll want to pay very close attention to what they say and do next. Phase Two of the invasion will usually begin with your friend expressing a sudden disinterest, more often by finding some fatal flaw by which your project must surely fail. This will usually sound something like, "I watched Sasquatch the other night and it had a cave-painting hominid, too. It also had a crashed plane, which was instrumental to the plot. And this thing about a Ôrogue male' bigfoot? Hmmph. Sounds like a line of clothing."

There's an old saying: "God sees the truth, but waits."

Well, some filmmaking companions are like God: They see the truth -- and wait. (Or not, perhaps it's nothing of the kind and I've just got a persecution complex. Am I gonna let that jam the cogs of my rhetoric machine -- heck, no!)

So.

Having thus contributed to your own invasion -- if you're like me, you are your own Benedict Arnold, every time - you may be tempted (again, if you are like me) to put aside your stacks of notepads, your sketches and your overdue library books, your newspaper clippings, your storyboards, your bloody friend you have been carrying around in your head for maybe the last 12 years -- Your Project, and just say:

"Fuck it. Nobody wants to see a sasquatch movie, anyway. Certainly not one that isn't so much about sasquatch as it is about being human, about being lonely, about feeling as though you've lost family, friends, lovers, your youth -- your whimsy and your hope and your trust -- your faith, along the way. One that's about finding some of those things again, or ghosts of them - including a species of Northwest hominid, all but one of whom may have been wiped out by the eruption of Mount Saint Helens in 1980. Nobody wants to see your ode to 1970s America and creepy documentaries narrated by Peter Graves (The Mysterious Monsters). Nobody wants to see a fucking horror movie in the tradition of Bill Forsyth (Local Hero). Go get drunk or something. Fuhgeddaboudit, as the King likes to say (Stephen, not Elvis)."

And so you do. Forget about it, that is. If you're a bonehead like me you'll even announce it, perhaps to Said Friend: "I ... (just imagine John Cleese in all his clipped, English glory) have decided not to pursue Ghosts of Saint Helens at this time. Thank you."

Months go by. The leaves fly from the calendar. Perhaps you tinker with an adaptation of a story you found during your research.

Then one day it comes: Said Friend has a great idea. He is on fire; he has never been surer of anything in his life. This thing is going to be huge. Said Friend is going to bust down the walls of Hollywood. He, the Alpha Male, is going to break the back of the opposition, leading us -- the timid and the unsure -- to victory. Said Friend is rabid. A storm is coming; Said Friend's storm.

Said Friend wants to make a sasquatch movie.

Page 1 | Page 2