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bohemian_markHe couldn't put his finger on what it was. There was something so enticing about it. Something that pulled at his nine-year-old emotions and enthusiam, something that took him to an entirely different world, a place where he didn't have to be Markie Cohen, Esther's son, the geeky-looking boy, where he could be Mark, a fearless pilot, or even, horror of horrors, a smuggler. Watching Wedge in the cockpit of his X-wing, blowing up that nasty Death Star, Mark was at home. He lost himself in the world, the visual of blaster bolts and ion cannons, and space ships moving in dubious manners across the screen, exploding in clouds of dust.
A few days later, he spent most of his pocket money on a book about the making of the Star Wars trilogy. He was amazed by the things that went into making the special effects, and the parts of the film that made it so amazing. He read about the shoe in the battle scene, the potato that became a ship, and was in love. Flopping back on his bed, he stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the cieling, remnants of a trip to the Rose Center of Earth and Space a few months back. He could do that. Well, not that exact thing, he wasn't going to take over Lucas's idea, but he could make films. He'd be the one at the Oscars, getting acknoledged for creating something that everyone loved.
For the next Chanukah, he got a camera of his very own, a 16mm, that had real film, and the next seven days, he got film, and books on how to use it. He'd already read every book in the library on film or filmmaking, so somehow, when he started to film, he knew. It was strange. The camera just fit. It was another part of him, like his glasses or his clothes. Years went by, and he filmed things, for class, for the hell of it, but every time, he wanted to make that one great film, the one that everyone would love and remember forever.
From the beginning of highschool, he told everyone that he wanted to be a filmmaker. People believed him. Practically every project, he found some way to work film into it. On the third week of school, he was called into the office and told that he had to leave his camera at home during the school day. Grudgingly, he agreed. However, if he was not in school, the camera was with him. At school functions, at Jewish Community Center dances, antime he went out at night, not that it was all that much, mind, but he had the camera with him.
Mid-way through his Sophomore year, Cindy came home one day with a book, which she tossed at him on the couch. "Markie, I think that you'll like that. See? It's about movies, like you're always babbling on about." Blinking, Mark started to read. And he didn't stop until about three in the morning when he finally finished it, ignoring all of the rest of his homework. Wait. It wasn't like that, was it really? It couldn't be. Hollywood, the place he'd always dreamed of going, of being a part of, was just a sham. This author, this Pratchett, had to be wrong. Mark was determined to find it out.
To his surprise, in the journalism class he was taking, more for the hell of it than anything, he was assigned to write an in-depth report on a major industry, exposing as many corrupt practices as he could. Mark, almost begrudgingly, and to no one's suprise, took film. He put everytrhing he had into researching. It had to be wrong. This dream that he had, this passion couldn't just be all for something that had nothing behind it.
Eventually, he found, much to his own chagrin, that the book was mostly right. Sure there was a bright spot here and there, but on the whole, it was just a facade. There was pretty on the outside, but everyone was out for themselves. Mark didn't like that. It shouldn't be everything for one's self, and nothing for anyone else.
Slightly jaded, and for lack of much else to do, Mark threw himself into his classes, almost trying to push his dreams away. However, that didn't last very long. A few months later, Mark was back to loving film, turning things into film, and longing to be a filmmaker. What else could he do? He had to save from devistation his brain, which seemed to only work when behind a camera. He came up with idea after idea, scribbling them down between classes, and putting as many projects on film as he could.
Eventually, he was a senior, and the timem came to choose a college. Even with all of his love of film, his grades and test scores were extremely high. Mark will never forget the argument over college. He wanted to apply to film schools, to actually go do what he wanted. Weeks went by, arguments made the house almost unbearable, but finally a compromise was reached. Mark applied to the journalism departments of a number of schools. Why he ended up choosing Brown, he didn't really know. It was far enough away, but it wasn't so far out of things that he felt isolated.
Journalism, as he realized halfway through his first year, was not his thing. Not even close. He started spending time in the theatre, filming the actors and actresses. They were flattered by his attentions, and just let him do whatever he wanted. He studied, more than most people, tossing things off so he could go out and film. He made a few friends who tried to pry the camera off of him, but they didn't really try very hard. They were simply surprised by his passion for what he loved. Behind his back, they all wondered what the hell he was doing in journalism. He couldn't interview, he could write, sure, but it wasn't the intrepid reporter that the program lauded it produced.
About a year passed, and then she appeared. Maureen Johnson, the girl he'd had a crush on since highschool. If he'd admit it to himself, he'd go over the moon for her. She told him of living in New York, of all the opportunites there, of the people who she'd met, and all the amazing things that were out there. When she left, Mark felt perhaps more out of his element than he ever had. It took him until summer break, but he finally realized. He couldn't come back. He had to move on, to New York, where he could really make films.
So he moved. Alphabet City only heightened his love of subculture, of making something lasting, but not fake. Mark was determined to make something lasting. Picking up a couple part-time jobs to pay bills and eat, and buy film, things weren't too bad. He wrote screenplays, cut together some films, and sent them out. Nothing ever came back. No messages were left on his machine, and no letters ever came back to him. As things started getting worse, and everyone started moving away, Mark started to give up hope that anything could ever happen for him.
Christmas came. He should have realized that it would be different when Roger got out the guitar. So he filmed it. Strange, he never thought as he set up his spare camera, fiddling with the focus that he'd ever even think of using the footage. It was something new. And hopefully it wouldn't be his old shit. A strange release came while he burned some of the screenplays that had been littering the Loft for ages. it was a new leaf he was turning over. Well, if Benny could ever have sense knocked into him. Only hours later, he was filming Angel. A perfect film subject if he ever saw one, and then, right there in the Loft, there was a glimmer. Something that hit him, but he couldn't tell what it was. Later, when he was on top of the table at the Life Cafe, he wondered what got him there. Hell if he knew. It had to be something to do with Angel. That was a good enough explanation.
Ten months later, standing and filming a church steeple, it all hit him like a sledgehammer. He was going to go into the corporate world. He'd failed at everything he'd ever wished for. Nothing he'd ever do would take, would be lasting. Nothing changes. Nothing can be what one dreams of. A few weeks later, it hit him again. He -had- what he'd dreamed of. He had been living it all the time, right in front of his face. His film, the lasting, the impactful film that he'd wanted to make since he was nine, was right there in his hands. Or more accurately, on the floor of the Loft. Angel. Roger. Maureen. Joanne, Benny. Collins. Mimi. They were the film. They were what he wanted to say. And above all, his camera, his lens through which he saw the world. He wanted to show what he saw, the way he saw things. Perhaps the witness did have a place and ideas after all.
