Last night ended with me drinking champagne with a bunch of people I’d never met before, including a couple of can-can dancers, their manager and a woman who works at my favorite restaurant in Seattle, arguing over whether Cher should go back to acting (hence the title of today’s entry) and my protestations that I was not the BBC guy (more on that in a moment).
Earlier in the day I walked around downtown Olympia, camera in hand, getting a sense of a place I had previously only driven past. On my stroll, I was stopped by a number of people inquiring what I was doing. “Shooting some test footage,” I said. “Oh,” they’d say, or “don’t shoot me,” or even “don’t shoot me, I don’t want anyone to know I’m homeless. Can I bum a cigarette?”
Finally I came upon a guy washing windows at a resale shop. His response was, “do you want to shoot my movie?” Literally within 15 seconds of meeting him. He then went on to talk about the movie that was in his head. Lots of rain. Very depressing. Kind of like Amelie. Some sex. Very depressing. He said he was looking at actors right then, needed good ones, not just his friends or whatever and would try to shoot in November. I mostly listened, never said I didn’t live in Olympia, never revealed that I was planning my own shoot, not sure what conversation that might start, not wanting to steer him off his course. And at some point, the conversation just ended. Maybe I could see him DJ that night or whatever. Yeah, I said, maybe I could check it out.
My reaction to the whole thing as it happened was a mix of charmed and uneasyness. There’s something wonderfully refreshing in his accosting a total stranger with his highly personal project. But then again, it did happen in the first 15 seconds. Did he ask anyone with a camera to shoot with him? Or did I just look like someone who’d be interested in something very depressing, kind of like Amelie with a little sex. (My mind went immediately to Betty Blue.) The thing is, if I did live in Olympia, even if I were about to shoot my own long-simmering, highly personal project, I think I’d be tempted to meet up with this guy again. Window-washer, DJ, budding filmmaker. That’s someone you can’t just walk away from.
Back in Seattle, I headed over to Cafe Campagne, which was tossing its second annual Bastille Day festival with $5 everything - wines, salt cod fritters, grilled sardines - French music and the aforementioned can-can dancers. Some pleasant small talk led somehow (and I’m not entirely sure how) with all of us upstairs after the evening wound down, drinking delicious champagne.
When the question came: why are you in Seattle? And I came forward with my truthful reply (you really can’t withhold from nice folks plying you with drinks), the response was immediate: You’re not the BBC guy, are you?
Background: Two days before, the photographer Charles Peterson, whose amazing photographs of local bands in the early 90s created a signature look that defined both Sub Pop and the entire Seattle scene for many music fans, told me that he had been contacted by a documentary filmmaker from the BBC who was attempting to mount a film on Kurt Cobain’s last days (a real life reaction to Gus Van Sant’s soon-to-be-released film, which I will write about in the coming week). Charles begged off being interviewed for the project and suspected that most who knew Kurt well would do the same.
Flash forward to Thursday and the new issue of The Stranger hits the stands. There on the back cover, underneath the American Apparel ad reads the following:
Kurt Cobain Sightings in Seattle
BBC documentary film wants to find anyone who may have seen or met Kurt Cobain in Seattle in the last week of his life (April 1994). Any sightings or encounters, however casual or brief, are of interest to the filmmakers. Witnesses can remain anonymous if they wish.
The general reaction of those at the table (and I must admit to being surprised that so many people read the bulletin board on the back of the Stranger) was not positive, and while I don't wish to pass judgment on someone else's project, I felt compelled then and now to reaffirm that I'm not that guy.
And Cher should act more. Seriously.
Happy Bastille Day.
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