Flying away from the lush, vibrant greenness, the welcoming, laid-back attitude, the warm ocean and white crescents of sand that make up Hawaii, only one thought gave us solace: the Subaru was waiting for us when we landed.
So was Mike, who was kind enough to pick us up from the airport. He returned us to our trusty steed, which he had kept an eye on while we were gone, and we grabbed a late dinner before crossing the bridge to Oakland, and Cynthia's place.
We had one day of downtime with Cynthia, an old friend of Roger's, before the chaos of the video shoot began. (We spent that day running errands and using power tools to open baby thai coconuts.)
Our good friend JT is producing a documentary on fire performers, and he had invited Roger to be part of it. Shooting was scheduled over three days - two at The Crucible in Oakland, and a third day of outdoor locations around San Francisco.
Of the video posse, we were the first to arrive in town. The others arrived from around the county in ones and twos on Friday.
The Players:
JT - producer, performer
Burden - performer
Marissa - performer
Roger - performer
Ellen - performer, photographer
Grace - director, lead videographer
Jen - Grace's second-in-command
Mike - Crucible liaison, fire safety, awesome guy
Jen Steele - the famous (or is it infamous?) celebrity-turned-craft-services chick who kept us fed all weekend
Marty - Marissa's boyfriend, general helper-around-the-set
By Friday night all but Burden and Jen Steele had arrived. The group met at The Crucible for a walk-through and brainstorming session. Afterward, the two of us drove out to the suburb of Mountainview for dinner with Roger's high school buddy Jonah. Post-Mediterranean food, Jonah came with us to meet Cynthia at a Taiko drumming performance. Serendipitously, the venue was three blocks from Jonah's house.
Cynthia is a Taiko enthusiast, and we soon understood why. It's an extremely disciplined practice; the performers on stage resemble martial arts masters as much as they do musicians. You feel the drum beats as intensely as you hear them. It was one of the most physically affecting musical experiences we've, well, experienced.
Saturday morning the madness began. We were on a tight shooting schedule that ran from mid-morning past midnight every day. It would have been exhausting if it hadn't been so overwhelmingly fun. We won't reveal much about the video here (you'll have to wait for the DVD), but the making-of was at least as entertaining as the content.
The Crucible itself was as much a part of the video as any of the performers. It's a 5600 square foot warehouse, home to the most bad ass community center on the planet. The staff teaches any and every art or skill associated with fire - welding, metalsmithing, woodworking, glass blowing, and all the fire performance arts. They produce "fire ballets", stage shows in which the action takes place on and around huge propane sculptural pieces (think a flaming chandelier or fire-ringed spiral staircase). We were lucky enough to have the whole place to ourselves Saturday and Sunday evenings. When you watch the DVD, you'll see what we mean when. (And because you all love us so much, we know you'll see the DVD.)
Monday was a little different. Rather than filming indoors, we took the party to San Francisco. First stop was the Palace of Fine Arts, where we played in the grass, taught some acro moves to the rest of the cast, and entertained passers-by.
(Practicing a move we learned from the tandem surfers on Oahu)
As the sun set we switched to ninja mode. Armed with fuel buckets and fire toys, we returned to the greco-roman arches of the Palace of Fine Arts to capture some outdoor spinning. The boys got in two full burns before the police arrived to chase us away. (Filming permits are for the weak!) The cops seemed more bored than angry - the Palace is a gorgeous place, and we're betting this sort of thing happens all the time.
Not to be deterred, we packed up the cameras and relocated to a secluded spot in Golden Gate Park. But we weren't alone in the little field - wandering through the darkness were two guys tripping their faces off, and across the park a homeless guy slept by a camp fire. Ah, San Francisco.
The rest of the night passed without incident, and after each of the ladies had a turn in front of the camera, it was a wrap. (Over the course of the shoot, Ellen had been promoted from performing a few acro-fire bits with Roger to full-on fifth featured performer.) Half the crew went back to the hotel, exhausted. JT, Burden, and the two of us had a little steam left, so we went exploring and found the only bar still open at 1:47am on Memorial Day. Walking through the anonymous door, we found ourselves in a seedy-looking cop bar, empty except for two wholly sloshed bartenders and a couple customers. They raised their collective eyebrows in suspicion at the four of us, still dressed in performance clothes, faces smudged with soot.
Roger ordered a manhattan. The bartender, slurring every syllable, refused. She'd pour us shots, maybe a rum and coke if we were lucky. And certainly no more than one round. Her aim was fuzzy, but eventually she got enough liquor into enough glasses, and we toasted the shoot, each other, the fabulousness of life in general.
JT has a reputation as a suave and charmingly inappropriate guy. Oozing charisma, he sweet-talked the surly bartendress into pouring us a second round. Shortly thereafter, their patience exhausted, our hosts kicked us out. We parted ways with JT and Burden in the parking lot. In the morning we were continuing down the coast, headed, as always, for new adventures.
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