I am doing my bit to test out the Buddhist saying that if you think you're Enlightened, just try spending a weekend with your mother [or whatever relative most gets under your skin]. Or, in this case, someone else's mother. bink's mother, godblessher, is the bodhisattva gratiously showing me how easily I can lose my equanimity, or, as they might say out here in Montana, she's the burr under my saddle showing me how easily I lose my cool. (How easily? Very.) However, as she dawdles unconscionably, I have a chance to post yesterday's photos. bink and I did indeed film all of The Disinherited in 48 hours, though we barely started to edit it.
Storyboarding The Disinherited at CCs Diner, across from our motel, over pie and coffee.
bink, filming in the wheatfields her grandparents once farmed, outside of Bloomfield, Montana
"Fresca's World"; the old farmhouse was built between the world wars
Inside the old farmhouse, where no one has lived for more than forty years.
The rearview mirror (I was enchanted with how it's mounted on the dashboard, perfectly positioned to impale someone in the front seat) of a 1959 DeSoto, stored on the farmland with a bunch of other classic junkers until they can be restored and sold (see examples at moparfarm dot com) by bink's uncle. He offered to sell me this one for only $2,500. If I had either money or a driver's license, or if it had an engine, I'd have snapped it up. Not only is it saturated pink, it has fins like a shark.
bink's transportation of choice: one of her granfather's old combines, rusting out in a field.
Not my movie. Not Montana. But sort of how I feel: as if I were sweet, darling Godzilla and bink's mom was Mothra.