A Geek Gabs

Danny Andrews

Danny Andrews

I have a friend that attends a film-making college in West Virginia, and he told me that he has class with the son of a famous director.

Why is this kid in this school? Does he not realize that his father is a world-renowned director? I can only think of two reasons that someone like him would even waste his time with a school to teach film-making.

The first is that he only went because he’s severely disturbed. Not “I might commit a murder” disturbed, but “I wear pants with chains on them and always have eyeliner on” kind of way.

I mean, say your father is a Steven Spielberg or even a Stanley Kubrick. You would have almost every right, in the mind of others, to act just plain odd.

Fame is a fickle lady, she can make some people’s lives great and flashy and beautiful, but then she turns around and makes the paparazzi your shadow. And just imagine growing up in a household where everything you do is scrutinized. It would be no surprise if the kid turned out loopy and spouts stuff like: “I don’t really care what we do in this class, just never, and I mean never, touch my cookies during snack break. They’re part of the whole. Part of me. The cookies…”

You can’t really blame him. Maybe Daddy didn’t hug him enough. Although with the amount of eyeliner he has on, who can really like staring into his raccoon-like eyes?

On the reverse, though, maybe the kid was forced into going to the school. Maybe his parent force him to make movies in his spare time. Maybe they’re not so good. So then the parent thinks to himself, “Can talent skip a generation? Have I sucked up all the ‘amazing’ in my gene pool?”

All of a sudden you’re in Basic Filmography class with little Scorsese and you two are grouped together to make a short film. You try to get the creative juices flowing and you ask him what he wants to do, what are his hobbies?

He replies with, “I like reading L.L. Bean catalogs, I guess … “

Okay … You try to keep things going and ask him if he has any other hobbies.

He retorts with, “I like LEGOs, I guess … “

You finally realize that you have the dullest partner ever as you gaze about the room. A Coppola and a Lucas are making an epic space drama with a delightful romantic comedy mash-up. You see a younger Spielberg kid making a short about the Holocaust that’s so moving, even the ex-Nazi teacher is in tears.

All in all, you got the shaft and now you’re stuck making a film about LEGO blocks that slowly form into L.L. Bean catalogs. Three cheers for his patron saint, Our Lady of Mediocrity!

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