Connie was a touch old broad, she sang rough, had the sound of whiskey and smoke in her rasp, even called you "hon" the way ladies do when they don't know you, but just might want to. We played her like a fiddle at first, plucking strings, turning knobs and singing praises. She returned in kind, allowed us access and opened her doors. We entered and found it more cavernous, exotic, unyielding than expected. We must return again.
Over nearly a dozen shoots and a year and a half of filming, we shot what was to be our last day and night of principle photography. It began normal enough, with sound engineer and lounge music buff, Bill Schlavis and I walking down a lovely stretch of Rt. 35 in Sayreville in search of batteries for his recording gear. (He usually is very prepared, that's what she said). After the sun beat upon our brows, and then our backs, we found a gas station mart that only sold air fresheners, oil, and perhaps meth. We returned to find camera op Eric Mosher glistening in the sun, muscles and flesh exposed, a vision to Bill's eyes. Matt Z, other camera op, arrived as well, and although our lovely makeup artist and den mother Alex was not to be found on set tonight, we were complete, ready, men amongst old ladies.
Inside we were welcomed, told we could pretty much have run of the joint and we were off. To be fair, the karaoke people, the bar owners, the bartenders... they were a class act and we thank them. We were free to roam, a pack of lions running roughshod in their typically slow moving, Elvis and Frank listening bar. We brought Scott to film and he did it, belting out 5 classic metal songs and probably causing fear and in some cases, illness in many. We brought John, a loyal supporter, helper, and sometime subject of our documentary. He brought his lovely lady, his neighbor, and he sang, "I know what boys like" to a now confused and more fearing audience.
We missed several moments that cause me as the director to lose what will be untold hours of sleep due to the bitch that is called regret. Up until now, our presentation of Scott has been biased. This is not the result of any planning or agenda, simply what happens when you isolate your subject and do not allow him to be put into situations that could present another side to him. We saw reactions, hostility, tenderness, and all the things that make a life round and real. And we missed so many of them. Not the fault of my crew though. They carried cameras, ran to stations, improvised, (thanks Eric and Bill for that one at the bar). Matt even managed to twitter like 33 times whilst filming the entire documentary. In the end I just did not anticipate enough. I take it.
So we will press on, if they crew can abide a few more days without sending me on a mutiny fueled ship down the strip of coastline and empty malls in Jersey, we can wrap this bitch up.
RIP Bea Arthur, stay gold.
