My childlike petulance has passed. I am no longer pissed off. “Suck it up and figure it out, princess” is my new mantra. (Which is in addition to my old mantra of “Thank you, I will have more cheese.)

So B. doesn’t want to go dancing anymore. That’s ok. What I realized is that she doesn’t need to. She can still share her stories about her past dancing experiences. And as my lovely boyfriend pointed out – the B met someone through dancing can be a new and interesting perspective. Now she’s got an even bigger story to tell.

That is, if she wants to tell it. There’s also the possibility that she wants to back out and doesn’t know how to say so.

If that’s the case, I will employ my new mantra, “Suck it up and figure it out.” Then I will east some old cheddar cheese.” Then I will come up with a new mantra. Probably it will be. “Do not eat so much cheese.”

Gather Round Kiddies, It’s Airy-Fairy Tangent Time!
Lately I’ve been having dreams about disasters. A few nights ago I dreamt about a tsunami. Last night it was a tornado. But in both unconscious calamities, I devised a way to deal with the impending doom.

If – as dream theorists believe – everything in the dream represents a part of the dreamer, then maybe my disaster dreams represent the problems I’m experiencing in my documentary. And maybe my subconscious is trying to show me that even when problems occur, I can still figure out a way to solve it. That I can find the fix. That nothing’s killed me.

Well at least not yet.

The further along this path I go, the more I’m impressed that documentaries every get made at all. There’s so many places where things can go wrong and do go wrong. Lack of funding, being denied permission to film, characters pulling out.

Which is where I am. One of my characters has pulled out.

When I first approached B. (I’m calling her B as she hasn’t signed a release form yet) her she was bubbly enthusiastic about the project and excited to be a part of it. As for filming she was good to go almost anytime.

I knew she’d be an interesting foil to my mom’s character. My mom went dancing, simply because she wanted to dance, hang out with friends, dress up and wear pretty shoes. B. went dancing primarily to meet someone. And now she has and that’s the problem.

He doesn’t like her going dancing. So she’s decided to stop. Which is great for her, she can spend Friday night snuggling with her beau. But now I’m down a subject, running out of time and feeling petulant and pissed off. I did not sign up for this.

Except that I have signed up for this. This is how it goes. People ban you from filming. Characters clam up and subjects drop out.

One of my classmates, Lina told us that after three months of making connections, attending meetings and pitching her project to the board on the Humane Society, she got permission to make her documentary. Then the executive director – who supported the doc – got fired. A new director was installed and immediately put a stop to the documentary.

Juan (my teach) told us about a filmmaker he knew who became great friends with the son of Pablo Escobar the South American drug lord. The son gave the filmmaker access to private letters, pictures, videos of Escobar to make a documentary. The filmmaker secured funding (a lot of it) shot and edited the film. Unfortunately he forgot to have the waivers signed. When he went to collect signatures, the other family members refused. No release. No doc.

At every stage, from the beginning to the end, something can happen to halt the process, and every time you have to figure out how you can move the documentary forward. You have to pivot, adapt, re-configure, find another angle. And yet people do it. Look at 5 Broken Cameras. Or The World Before Her. Or any documentary that ever got made.

Now I have to figure out how I want to move my doc forward. I don’t know what the answer is yet. I just know that if I stop working on it, it will die. Because know one else is going to do it.

I wanted to develop more tenacity. Looks like I’m getting my wish. I should have wished for an deep dish apple pie.

Here’s my one-liner pitch: Three women in their 50s and 60s hit the dance floor every Friday night. As they “shake their groove thang” looking for love, lust or friendship, they prove that the search for connection never get old.

It was Saturday at 7:00pm. I sat in my first subject’s bedroom ready to start filming. My mom walked in.
“Turn that camera off.” she ordered. “I want to change.”
“But what about my “Golden Girls Gone Wild” trailer?” I joked, turning off the camera. Better respect my subject’s boundaries. Especially when that subject is my mother.

With my mom dressed, I could start gathering some G-rated footage. My plan was to film her getting ready for her night – doing her hair, putting on make up, deciding on jewellery – whatever. And while she was preparing, she could talk about her dancing experiences. A simple approach to my first documentary. Or so I thought.

“So when did you start going to the dance?” I asked to get the ball rolling.
“October.”
“Tell me about it,” I encouraged. My mom loves attention and this time she had my full focus and I knew she had a good anecdote to share.
“It was good.”
I pressed on. “What did you like about it?”
“The music.”

My vocal, chatty mother had suddenly clammed up. It was the camera of course. I knew it was my job to get her talking. But I didn’t know how. I couldn’t shake the stories out of her.

Wait. Could I?

No I couldn’t.

Busted
I had asked permission to film at the dance but hadn’t received an answer. I didn’t let that stop me though. I took out my camera and pressed record. Not that I could get much – the light was too low. My mom started doing a hilarious off-beat Macarena. “Where’s your camera?” one of her friends scolded me. “ You should be taping this!” She was right. I started to record. Suddenly a woman stopped me.

“There’s no filming here.” she declared, staring at me. I shrugged and switched off my camera.

An hour later I ventured outside to collect some exterior shots. Within seconds the the same woman approached me again. “You can’t film outside either.” What the hell? Was the Legion some kind of secret bunker? A hot spot for terrorist attacks? C’mon. It’s a bungalowed building with wood-paneled walls and cheap Coors Light.

But rules were rules. I turned off the camera and went back inside.

Not ready, Freddie
The next day I reviewed the rushes. “Your stories that are going to make this interesting.” I told my mom. “All those fun times that you talk about. Like that time when Dennis passed out.”
“You know we haven’t seen him since that time.” My mom mused. “He passed out on the table and I’m the only one who helped him. And then that lady thinks we’re together just because we’re both black.”
She was unself-conscious and chatting without reservation. Perfect. I reached for my camera and pressed record. Nothing happened.

I looked at it and immediately realized why. The memory card was empty. The battery was out of its slot. And the microphone wasn’t plugged in. I quickly put the camera together but by then the moment had evaporated. I missed it.

Disappointed, I realized that I needed to be ready all the time. I just never knew when something would happen. I kept the camera at my side for the rest of the afternoon.

Even when my parents drove me home, I had my camera in my lap, card in, miked up and ready to go. For 45 minutes, nothing much happened. Then an innocent question turned into a conversation about shoes, sex and men at the dance. As my mom’s light gossip deepened into a rant about relationships I started to record. This time I was ready. And this time, she kept talking.