This is the final installment in the tale of my old house, which was used, and abused, in the film Unchain My Heart.
April 4: There’s been a ten-day lull until today—except for glazing the pink bedroom to “age it.” (I’m now going to tell people I’m “glazed” when they inquire about my age.) The set dressers bring over drapes, plants, a vintage fridge, etc., for the shoot. Dana recommends I move out tomorrow, as the technical/industrial part of the film business will soon invade the house and the neighborhood. I’ve got my grip packed and a Mid-City apartment rented. No problem—well, sort of.
April 5: Got home at 3 a.m. The world went on Daylight Saving Time last night, so I lost an hour of sleep as it was. At 8 a.m., a cube truck arrives with more “fittings” for the shoot—I’m not very happy, but pleasant to the horde of workers nonetheless. I’m amused by two flaming drapiers (curtain hangers) and the surly stage hand that is at their bidding. (“No, no, NO Francis! Paa-leez, a smidgen to the LEFT!”) I’m tempted to ask the stage hand where he’d really like to put the curtain rods but don’t. I gather the pets, some clothes and split. By 10 a.m., I’m sitting dazed in front of an Esplanade Avenue coffee shop with two small dogs, and starring at cup of acoffee and chicory.
April 7: I stop by the house in the morning where a cube truck is again parked. They’re building scaffolding in the backyard to support cameras, lights and to hang tarps. Several of the night scenes will be shot during the day, so they need to create false darkness. When I return in the afternoon to pick up my mail, the entire block is a sea of activity. There are two cherry-pickers containing spotlights, three semi-trucks unloading equipment, seven vintage cars, two cube trucks, cables and wires running to a control truck, and a score of surly workers in raincoats dashing about under gray/black clouds. The sky opens up and I clear out. They’ve got Seattle weather and they didn’t even have to manufacture it.
April 8: It’s still raining. Shooting at my house was suppose to begin today, but Dana called to inform me that the rain has postponed it until tomorrow. When I swing by to grab the mail, there’s a guy behind the wheel of a 1947 LaSalle in front of the house. We chat briefly and he tells me the house is on 24 hour surveillance.
April 9: It turned bitterly cold overnight, but by the early afternoon, the neighborhood is like a bottle filled with bees. There are more semis on my street, tents, cherry-pickers and more old cars. Workers tote and haul, actors and actresses wait for their call, and curious bystanders look on. Two blocks of Gentilly Blvd. are filled with trailers and the nearby Gentilly Terrace school is surrounded with trailers and their playground contains a catering tent. I slipped by to take some photos when a neighbor, a brother my age, who I barely know, spots me. There’s a semi blocking his driveway and they laid cables on his groomed lawn and flower garden. I’m already into the, “Look, I know it’s a pain in the ass, I’ll never do this again, but they’ll be gone soon” speech, but he stops me in mid-sentence. “No man, this is great and it’s important,” he says offering a handshake. “It’s great for the block, it’s great for the neighborhood, and it’s great for the city. People around here will remember this for 20 years.” Wow.
They’re doing a night scene outside the house where Ray Charles and Quincy Jones burst out the front door while Marlene—Ray’s manager/lover—tells him he’s making a big mistake leaving Seattle. I return and the street is illuminated with brilliant flood lights. At least 100 spectators are watching the proceedings from the neighbor’s lawn and driveways. They all know who Jamie Foxx is, but I’ve had to explain to at least a half-a-dozen people who Ray Charles is. There is a guy in a Fubu jogging suit on a cellphone. He calls person-after-person-after-person, giving them the same rap. “Hey ——-. I’m around the corner bruh. They’re shooting a movie with Jamie Foxx in it. I think I see him, I got to go.” They shoot the scene several times—they really do say all that “Lights, camera, action, cut” stuff—but before they “wrap” it up, I split because it’s freezing. I’m later told they filmed 24 scenes and didn’t finish until 1:15 a. m.
April 10: Thankfully, it’s spring again today. They’re not shooting until noon, so I slip inside the house in the morning to do some laundry. The inside of the house looks like a hurricane hit it. The vintage stuff is moved around and generators, lights and cables are everywhere. They’re shooting night scenes in the afternoon—they shot day scenes last night—so they’re building screens for the windows.
Came back in the afternoon to get my jeans out of the dryer and can’t believe the commotion. It looked like the front of the house was tented and being treated for termites. There were at least 150 people running around working on the set and twice as many watching from the peanut gallery. In the backyard, a woman is frying “prop” chicken. Ray cooks up some thighs and breasts in a scene, and she’s prepared about a dozen pieces for the filming. I promised the feminist next door—who has been hot and cold about the filming—I’d take her 15-year-old daughter to the chow tent to keep the last thread of neighborly peace. The daughter and I ate crawfish tails and steak, when a friend who is in the movie business, Chappy Hardy, sat down at our table with the previously mentioned drop dead beautiful Denise Dowse (I mistakenly referred to her as Denise Nicholas last month)—who was dressed in a vintage nightgown, stockings and mules for the evening shoot. We exchange pleasantries, and Ms. Dowse says to me, “I thought you looked familiar. Jeff, right? I remember you from the rehearsal. Taylor (the director) said you’re a writer. Your house is so beautiful. Where are your puppies?” Just before I can say, “Come to Jeff,” her cellphone rings and she’s forgotten all about me, the dogs, the house, and the future I had planned for us in a doublewide in Tennessee.
The 15-year-old says she has to get back home, so we leave before I’m tempted to make a fool of myself with Ms. Dowse. I take her home—as more and more people arrive to watch. When I get back, the 15-year-old’s mother unloads on me because the babysitter she hired to look after her grandmother wasn’t yet rendered a contract by the production company (she’d already been paid handsomely) and the babysitter wasn’t paying enough attention to her grandmother! I know she’s always hated me—but now she has a reason. By the time I got to the sidewalk, another neighbor bored in on me about the inconvenience I brought into her life, because she has to dodge vintage cars and bystanders to get in her driveway, and isn’t being compensated for her trouble. My nerves are shot. I get in my car and head for my temporary abode. I’m later told they finished filming well after midnight.
April 11: I stop by the house around 10 a.m. It reminds me of those last few scenes in Woodstock when Jimi Hendrix is playing “The Star Spangled Banner,” while on the screen you view mountains of trash and a sea of mud. The house reeks of fried chicken and it looks like they played a double overtime Stanley Cup final game on my hardwood floors. They’re breaking down the scaffolding and it’s scattered all over the front and backyards. My lawn looks like the grass in front of the Jazz Fest Fais Do-Do stage after two weekends of supporting two-steppers. A guy loading scaffolding on a semi says he’d never let them film at his house—he has firsthand knowledge of what they can do to a house. “Where were you a month ago buddy, when I could have used that advice?” I inquire. Dana stops by and gives me the last installment of my “inconvenience” payment. I look at the check and then what my house looks like. Between the wear-and-tear on the house and the neighborly animosity I’ve brought on myself, I’ll probably never know if it was worth it. By 1 p.m., the circus has packed up and I’m back home with the pets, who look bewildered.
April 12: Dana calls and said they still need to do an outside transition shot of the house. It has to be done on a cloudy day (Seattle remember), so they need to leave the drapes on the front of the house, the plants and the wicker front porch furniture.
April 13: The Teamster and three guys from the crew take the set furniture out except for the previously mentioned items. The dogs were excited that they were back. A woman from a cleaning service, sent by the film, arrives, rearranges the dirt and debris.
April 15: The movers—Kid Gloves—return my furniture in a whirlwind. I was told that everything would be returned as it was. The bastards left my stuff in all the wrong places and destroyed a framed photograph of Pelican Stadium given to me by the late Nauman Scott. They also returned a filing cabinet upside down! Not only did they displace 20 years of clippings, they misplaced my Resident Alien (Green) card. I’m trapped here until I grovel at the INS, and that’s not a nice place for Canadians to go right now. Calls to Kid Gloves were as productive as trips to City Hall.
April 17: It’s one of those spectacular spring days where there’s not a cloud in the sky, the temperature is 70 and the humidity about 30 percent. Went Uptown briefly and returned home to find the “B” film crew setting up in front of my house and a few vintage cars on the street. The movie is pressed for time and they can’t wait for a cloudy day. They’re going to shoot at twilight. I’m watching the proceedings when an assistant director says “We need somebody to drive that Studebacker up the driveway in the shot. Jeff, have you ever driven a standard shift on the column?” “Sure,” I lied. (I’ve driven stick shifts on VWs and Hondas, but a “Three on the tree” on a 1948 Studebaker Premier is a bird of another feather.) “Take it around the block and practice,” I’m instructed. Miraculously, I get the Stude in motion and cruise down Gentilly Blvd. Piece of cake—I’m stylin’! They shot the scene 13 times, but that’s not a reflection on my driving. Even though it’s warm outside I have to drive with the windows up. Remember—it’s suppose to be Seattle, where it’s never warm. I’m wearing a dark vintage shirt, and by the time the shoot is a wrap, the shirt is ringing wet. The previously mentioned irate “inconvenienced and uncompensated” bottle blonde neighbor is screaming at me from her front porch, “Now what the hell is going on!?!” I flipped her the bird and replied, “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I knew you were going through menopause.”
April 18: They took the last of the set out in the morning leaving all the plants, some curtains, and a Hollywood paint job. That afternoon I bought a new air conditioner and bid on a vintage Fender bass on Ebay which I eventually won. I treat myself to a pricey dinner and a couple of Molsons. I even pick up the check for two women sitting next to me who I barely know. “He’s been doing that a lot lately,” the waitress tells the surprised women. I’m doing my best to give that movie money back to the rightful owners and I’ll never complain again about the price of admission to a movie.
