Warren and I want a future for our
screenplay. If Praxis rejects us, we have plan B, Plan C and Plan D ready. Last
night, I imagined winning a place in Praxis’ film development program. Winning
means I go to a five-day workshop with a director and actors (without Warren,
sadly).
I made myself cry this morning answering
these questions: “What kind of feeling
or tone do you want your film to
have? What film can you reference that has given you that feeling?”
My answer was: “I want audiences to feel as
I felt at the end of Little Miss Sunshine.”
In it you have a collection of oddballs you’d sensibly move mountains to avoid:
Amongst them, a junkie grandfather, a hopelessly deluded and immature husband,
a mute Goth son, and most hilarious of all, a post-breakdown expert on little
but Proust. Yet after two hours with these train wrecks, I wanted more. So
revisiting that film makes me feel as good as a visit to one of my closest
friends who lives far away.
A writer did that. A writer created a
flawed family that horrified on first impression and then stole your heart and
soul. That writer and the film’s director helped us love people beyond their
flaws and what better, more generous and loving purpose is there?
Little
Miss Sunshine, to me, is about loving outsiders.
It’s about finding beauty in the flawed and it’s a message I love. At least I am consistent. When I discovered The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat,
by Oliver Sacks, I read every single book he wrote because like Michael Arndt
(writer) and Jonathon Dayton and Valerie Faris (directors) of Little Miss Sunshine, he sees the person
within, not their exterior—in his case, often incredibly diseased exteriors. He
is a hero; they these generous and accepting people are heroes to me.
So, I want audiences to like everyone in my
film, regardless of their flaws. I want to tell my story with understanding/affection.
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