by Sean Donnelly
There is an old Irish legend of the Black Water Merrow. Before the advent of keeping time, perhaps during the exalted reign of the Druids, there was an ancient race of faery folk called the Roans. When actual humans emigrated and invaded the emerald isle the faery folk were forced underground or out to sea. Roan is the Celtic word for seal, you see. And on the lonely desolate areas of Ireland and the outer islands like Inishmaan and Inishmoor these seafolk would make their way to land and shed their skins and become human-like once again. Merrow is another word for mermaid but merrows can be male or female. Sometimes when they make their way up on land and a poor unsuspecting fisherman, farmer or peasant woman comes upon them they are instantly seduced by these otherworldly beings and brought down into the depths of the sea. Lost forever. Looking into the eyes of the merrow is particularly dangerous since this is where the seduction begins. And though they evoke a sense of rapture and compassion they are savage at heart---almost completely animal.
I am enamored with the story as the director relates it to me in her southern drawl. She tells me she wrote a play around this tale and is still haunted by it. I look around and the walls are covered in Victorian sea green wallpaper and huge magnificent oil paintings of mermaids, shipwrecks and ocean scenes. We are having breakfast together and I have been waiting for my chance to talk to her a bit more in depth since covering this film.
The paintings are most impressive but the fabricated wall that looks like one end of a castle with three gothic stained windows follows a close second. Brilliant!
“Do you think Richard might be a merrow?” She asks slyly. Of course that sets my wheels spinning. I haven’t read the script and even if I did I’m not sure the inference would have been clear.
“Literally or figuratively?” I ask.
“Either.” She replies with a smile..
“Well, when I see some of the playback Whit looks almost wolf-like. He’s missing his soul. It’s kind of unsettling. I guess that answers the literal question. Figuratively? Sure. He’s savage.”
“There’s a scene today that informs Richard’s upbringing through a particular incident from his childhood.” She hints.
“Well that’s a rather enigmatic tease.” I reply. “Tell me, is Richard Jack?”
She smiles. I can’t glean a thing from her silence.
“Okay then. What made you want to make this film?” I ask. She gathers her thoughts for a moment and after a pregnant pause, “Memories of a sort.”
“Pardon? ” I say. There’s another pause. “Are you immortal, no wait, a vampire?”
She gives me that look like I have been christened a huge asswipe.
“How is it possible that you could remember 1888?” I ask seriously.
“Time is not linear.” She replies sweetly and I am immediately thrust down the rabbit hole. WTF? I’m going to be chewing on this for weeks, I know it! The Cheshire Cat has spoken.
“To answer your question, I wanted to present the dichotomy of redemption.” She adds.
She gets up. Meeting over. The crew pours in and the cast arrives.
The intimate Northampton scenes are scheduled for today and although there is no love-making per se, as in intercourse, there is the before and after that has a more profound effect than the act itself. I am interested to see how high the chemistry goes on my internal geiger counter.
Whit arrives pretty much in character as does Ms. Damon. I try and keep my distance as I don’t want to interrupt their intense concentration. The crew gets set up rather quickly and the actors take their places on a walnut victorian day bed. Whit enters in antique underwear and I notice he’s a solid guy and works out. Immediately I self-consciously start comparing myself and I am woefully out of shape compared to him. I pledge to start lifting weights, doing push-ups and at least 50 sit-ups to lose the bicycle tire…okay, scooter tire I’ve accumulated through marriage. Sympathic baby weight I tell myself. God, I feel ugly. Then I slowly talk my way out of the grueling task oriented idea of exercise. I’m a writer I don’t have to look good. I guess my wife would disagree…
In a post-coital haze Richard lies in Victoria’s lap. She’s running her fingers through his hair. In a moment of pure openness and vulnerability Richard begins to tell of a fateful journey his family began to make from Ireland to Liverpool when he was a child. A storm blew up in the Irish Sea and his entire family drowned. He looks like an innocent boy in the dim evening light. Victoria says nothing but the look that washes across her face implies a thousand feelings: compassion, empathy, sensuality, concern, protection, love. Richard props himself up and they kiss each other tenderly.
The Director calls ‘cut’ and talks to the actors briefly. Thom instructs Stephanie to reset the bed covers. All of a sudden Whit starts to sweat and fidget and suddenly jumps up and out of the room. Rebecca calls after him, “Are you alright?”
“Fine---fine! Give me a minute” He shouts back from around the corner. Thom throws his hands up exasperated. The Director tells the crew to break for a moment. I walk around into the ‘green’ room to see what the fuss is all about.
“Quick! Tell me something disgusting, gross, sad, anything.” He says breathless.
“What’s going on, man?” I ask. I look down and he’s covering his underwear with his hands and I start laughing.
“It’s not fucking funny! Now tell me something bad!” He demands.
“Dude. It’s normal.---“ I try to explain.
“Duh, I know it’s normal---but not for me especially on a set.” He replies.
“This has never happened to you on a set?” I say a bit surprised.
“I’m good at compartmentalizing. It never happens.” He says.
“Not even the other day when you were doing the actual love scenes?” I ask bewildered?
“No.”
“Then what happened this time?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. I looked at the mermaid painting and then I just…”
Thom rushes in and I stand in front of Whit. “What the fuck?” He says.
“Have a little compassion---he’s a little nauseous, man.” I reply. “Have a heart.”
Thom shouts, “Christ. Stephanie! Get the Pepto and let’s get this thing shot!”
Rebecca rounds the corner and I try to block Whit.
“What’s the matter? Can I help?” She asks. Then her eyes notice Whit’s hands trying to cover his nether regions..
“I’m not feeling quite myself.” Whit says as he quickly turns his back. Oh, God, she knows.
“Let me talk to him.” She says. So I step aside and make my way into the kitchen. I can see them through the carriage doors. She takes his hands and seems to be very earnest.
Thom yells from the other room, “LET’S GO---LET’S GO!”
Rebecca yells back, “We’re not ready yet! We’ll be there in a minute!”
“I’m the fucking AD!” He yells.
“I know but we just need 60 seconds. Please?” She yells back. The Director rounds the corner and again Whit turns his back. Whispering ensues between the two women. Rebecca tells the director there seems to be a wardrobe malfunction. Nice cover I say to myself. The director then asks who's in the bathroom. "The DP." I interject. The director tells the AD to give them 5 minutes please and then she attends to the other departments.
There is an old Irish legend of the Black Water Merrow. Before the advent of keeping time, perhaps during the exalted reign of the Druids, there was an ancient race of faery folk called the Roans. When actual humans emigrated and invaded the emerald isle the faery folk were forced underground or out to sea. Roan is the Celtic word for seal, you see. And on the lonely desolate areas of Ireland and the outer islands like Inishmaan and Inishmoor these seafolk would make their way to land and shed their skins and become human-like once again. Merrow is another word for mermaid but merrows can be male or female. Sometimes when they make their way up on land and a poor unsuspecting fisherman, farmer or peasant woman comes upon them they are instantly seduced by these otherworldly beings and brought down into the depths of the sea. Lost forever. Looking into the eyes of the merrow is particularly dangerous since this is where the seduction begins. And though they evoke a sense of rapture and compassion they are savage at heart---almost completely animal.
I am enamored with the story as the director relates it to me in her southern drawl. She tells me she wrote a play around this tale and is still haunted by it. I look around and the walls are covered in Victorian sea green wallpaper and huge magnificent oil paintings of mermaids, shipwrecks and ocean scenes. We are having breakfast together and I have been waiting for my chance to talk to her a bit more in depth since covering this film.
The paintings are most impressive but the fabricated wall that looks like one end of a castle with three gothic stained windows follows a close second. Brilliant!
“Do you think Richard might be a merrow?” She asks slyly. Of course that sets my wheels spinning. I haven’t read the script and even if I did I’m not sure the inference would have been clear.
“Literally or figuratively?” I ask.
“Either.” She replies with a smile..
“Well, when I see some of the playback Whit looks almost wolf-like. He’s missing his soul. It’s kind of unsettling. I guess that answers the literal question. Figuratively? Sure. He’s savage.”
“There’s a scene today that informs Richard’s upbringing through a particular incident from his childhood.” She hints.
“Well that’s a rather enigmatic tease.” I reply. “Tell me, is Richard Jack?”
She smiles. I can’t glean a thing from her silence.
“Okay then. What made you want to make this film?” I ask. She gathers her thoughts for a moment and after a pregnant pause, “Memories of a sort.”
“Pardon? ” I say. There’s another pause. “Are you immortal, no wait, a vampire?”
She gives me that look like I have been christened a huge asswipe.
“How is it possible that you could remember 1888?” I ask seriously.
“Time is not linear.” She replies sweetly and I am immediately thrust down the rabbit hole. WTF? I’m going to be chewing on this for weeks, I know it! The Cheshire Cat has spoken.
“To answer your question, I wanted to present the dichotomy of redemption.” She adds.
She gets up. Meeting over. The crew pours in and the cast arrives.
The intimate Northampton scenes are scheduled for today and although there is no love-making per se, as in intercourse, there is the before and after that has a more profound effect than the act itself. I am interested to see how high the chemistry goes on my internal geiger counter.
Whit arrives pretty much in character as does Ms. Damon. I try and keep my distance as I don’t want to interrupt their intense concentration. The crew gets set up rather quickly and the actors take their places on a walnut victorian day bed. Whit enters in antique underwear and I notice he’s a solid guy and works out. Immediately I self-consciously start comparing myself and I am woefully out of shape compared to him. I pledge to start lifting weights, doing push-ups and at least 50 sit-ups to lose the bicycle tire…okay, scooter tire I’ve accumulated through marriage. Sympathic baby weight I tell myself. God, I feel ugly. Then I slowly talk my way out of the grueling task oriented idea of exercise. I’m a writer I don’t have to look good. I guess my wife would disagree…
In a post-coital haze Richard lies in Victoria’s lap. She’s running her fingers through his hair. In a moment of pure openness and vulnerability Richard begins to tell of a fateful journey his family began to make from Ireland to Liverpool when he was a child. A storm blew up in the Irish Sea and his entire family drowned. He looks like an innocent boy in the dim evening light. Victoria says nothing but the look that washes across her face implies a thousand feelings: compassion, empathy, sensuality, concern, protection, love. Richard props himself up and they kiss each other tenderly.
The Director calls ‘cut’ and talks to the actors briefly. Thom instructs Stephanie to reset the bed covers. All of a sudden Whit starts to sweat and fidget and suddenly jumps up and out of the room. Rebecca calls after him, “Are you alright?”
“Fine---fine! Give me a minute” He shouts back from around the corner. Thom throws his hands up exasperated. The Director tells the crew to break for a moment. I walk around into the ‘green’ room to see what the fuss is all about.
“Quick! Tell me something disgusting, gross, sad, anything.” He says breathless.
“What’s going on, man?” I ask. I look down and he’s covering his underwear with his hands and I start laughing.
“It’s not fucking funny! Now tell me something bad!” He demands.
“Dude. It’s normal.---“ I try to explain.
“Duh, I know it’s normal---but not for me especially on a set.” He replies.
“This has never happened to you on a set?” I say a bit surprised.
“I’m good at compartmentalizing. It never happens.” He says.
“Not even the other day when you were doing the actual love scenes?” I ask bewildered?
“No.”
“Then what happened this time?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. I looked at the mermaid painting and then I just…”
Thom rushes in and I stand in front of Whit. “What the fuck?” He says.
“Have a little compassion---he’s a little nauseous, man.” I reply. “Have a heart.”
Thom shouts, “Christ. Stephanie! Get the Pepto and let’s get this thing shot!”
Rebecca rounds the corner and I try to block Whit.
“What’s the matter? Can I help?” She asks. Then her eyes notice Whit’s hands trying to cover his nether regions..
“I’m not feeling quite myself.” Whit says as he quickly turns his back. Oh, God, she knows.
“Let me talk to him.” She says. So I step aside and make my way into the kitchen. I can see them through the carriage doors. She takes his hands and seems to be very earnest.
Thom yells from the other room, “LET’S GO---LET’S GO!”
Rebecca yells back, “We’re not ready yet! We’ll be there in a minute!”
“I’m the fucking AD!” He yells.
“I know but we just need 60 seconds. Please?” She yells back. The Director rounds the corner and again Whit turns his back. Whispering ensues between the two women. Rebecca tells the director there seems to be a wardrobe malfunction. Nice cover I say to myself. The director then asks who's in the bathroom. "The DP." I interject. The director tells the AD to give them 5 minutes please and then she attends to the other departments.
Rebecca and Whit whisper for a few moments, nod heads in agreement and she slowly leads him back onto the set. As I sip my cup of coffee and ponder the incident I make an unlikely connection. Poor Whit looked just like a clubbed seal a moment ago so I guess the director’s idea was right on target. He is an animal---at least the lower half of his body since it thinks independent of his brain. Patrick has occupied the bathroom during Whit’s dilemma so there was nowhere for the poor guy to hide. I guess he can take solace in the fact that only the actress and myself know what really happened. When Pat finally appears from the latrine he remarks, “Um, you might want to light a match!”
Thom rushes in from the set. “What the hell? It smells like a cow stall---OH GOD! It smells worse in here!” And he skitters away like a wayward crab seeking shelter. I go back to the set since the air is a little clearer. Rebecca is situated in the day bed. Whit is having last looks with Stephanie.
“So what did you say?” I ask.
“I just told him how awful it was when I had to put my dog down. He had cancer and it was quite an emotional time for me.” She replies.
I look over at the huge mermaid painting and for some reason I can feel the ocean, the tide rising. Then I suddenly realize I should mosey back to the kitchen and perhaps nibble for a moment contemplating dead dogs and clubbed seals…by myself. Reporting from my iCockleshell…peace out.
Thom rushes in from the set. “What the hell? It smells like a cow stall---OH GOD! It smells worse in here!” And he skitters away like a wayward crab seeking shelter. I go back to the set since the air is a little clearer. Rebecca is situated in the day bed. Whit is having last looks with Stephanie.
“So what did you say?” I ask.
“I just told him how awful it was when I had to put my dog down. He had cancer and it was quite an emotional time for me.” She replies.
I look over at the huge mermaid painting and for some reason I can feel the ocean, the tide rising. Then I suddenly realize I should mosey back to the kitchen and perhaps nibble for a moment contemplating dead dogs and clubbed seals…by myself. Reporting from my iCockleshell…peace out.
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