So, JACKBELL is a movie designed to be shot without too much logistical difficulty. Scenes are conceived to bend and flex to their environment, rather than the other way around.
The main character is a young woman going through some changes which affect her life to the point that she needs to go on the run and leave everything behind.
No, she’s not a werewolf. Or a Bourne.
The movie climaxes at a house in a wonderful location. I believe we have that location, but it’s not completely locked down as of yet…so there’s a chance the film will climax…somewhere else. No biggie.
So with the JACKBELL script in the bag, the camera all charged and ready, lights all bulb-i-fied, actors auditioned and settled upon (for the most part), flux capacitor fluxing, we’re almost ready to start shooting this thing.
So, what are we waiting for? Actually, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m waiting for the Movie Authority to knock on my door, stand there in it’s black suit and sun-glasses, and give me official permission to go ahead and begin.
Because I need that, don’t I? Before I touch anything? Somebody in a position of authority to tell me I can? Otherwise, I could just go out there and start shooting a movie. And that’s just…that’s not right. Not without some kind of movie-making police permission.
We all saw what happened to Pesci when he went out and acted without getting a Go-Ahead first.
I’m just a regular person…I wasn’t born to filmmaking royalty, with Rise Of The Valkyrie blaring through the hospital, staring at the doctor through my little baby hands held out in front of me like a viewfinder; I didn’t poop Kodak film stock, I didn’t scream at the nurse…well I probably did, but nothing to do with her inability to perform a simple fucking task like prepare my fucking latte properly…Christ! Soy! How fucking difficult is that, am I right?
So I sit here, script and camera at the ready, reading about Kevin Smith and Ed Burns fucking with the distribution system, hoping to do the same with JACKBELL, waiting for the right moment to start.