Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Welcome to 2016

Saw a sci-fi movie over the Christmas break.

No, not the one given to excessive hype, costumed fanboys & fangirls and millions of dollars of speciously-related, co-opted marketing efforts.

"Come in now for Buffalo Wild Wings Intergalactic Triple Dippers. 15 juicy wings and 3 large sides of honey butter, Louisiana Lemon and Atomic Hot. May the Sauce be with you."

I saw a different cult classic, one I'd meaning to see for a long time -- Blade Runner.

To be frank, I didn't enjoy it as much as I had hoped I would. It felt like a poor man's Terminator. But now, having seen it, I can't believe the many ways in which I am connected to this film.

First the obvious.

The movie features one of my neighbors, the unmistakable M. Emmet Walsh -- who lives in the house behind my property. Emmet plays Harrison Ford's police chief in that kind of breezy, hard-nosed style that became a film cliche in the early 80's. You probably don't know Emmet by name but upon seeing his face and hearing his booming voice you'd recognize him for his massive body of cinematic work.

The cinematographer for Blade Runner was oscar-winning Jordan Cronenweth. Years ago I shot a bunch of Jaguar commercials with Jordan's now grown-up sons, Tim and Jeff. The work wasn't great (my fault not the Cronenweths) but the post production parties and drinking were.

Many of scenes in Blade Runner were shot in the Bradbury Building in downtown Los Angeles. This too is odd, as just two weeks ago, my wife and I took the train to the Central Market and stopped by this iconic landmark.

As if all that weren't enough, the movie also starred the stunning Joanna Cassidy (pictured above).

Years before I got into advertising I was the Assistant Manager and Head of Catering Operations at a major restaurant. OK, I was a line cook. The point is it was a very popular place. And I had youth, status and hair.

Ms. Cassidy was a good friend of one the waitresses and found herself at one of our post-closing parties. Fueled with alcohol, a false sense of bravado, and the willingness to turn on the flirtatious charm, it wasn't long before Ms. Cassidy and I were pouring ourselves into a late night taxi.

We made it to her Brentwood apartment at 4:30 AM.
And because traffic was light, I was back at my Culver City apartment by 4:45 AM.

Now, considering my fumbled opportunity and having seen Ms. Cassidy in all her naked cougary goodness, I can certainly attest to that age-old adage.

Hollywood truly is a land of broken dreams.

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