A Personal Nightmare: The Monkey's Paw

My trailer for October Kill Fest ends its list of upcoming features with "and a personal nightmare just for you." Well, here it is. It's a true story, every word of it. I wish it wasn't.

Most Cinema Styles regulars know that I attended Catholic University and studied theatre. I had many rewarding experiences on the stage while there, some not so rewarding but ultimately enjoyable, some bad and one nightmare. One big nightmare. One that stands apart. One that puts every other bad theatre experience of mine to shame. One I can never forget. The Monkey's Paw.

When I hear that title, even on an old rerun of one of The Simpson's Halloween Specials, I get a chill. And the memories flood back in. Allow me to explain.

It was my sophomore year and I went to a cattle call for the Directing MFA projects. For the non-theatre folks reading this, that means the students getting their Masters in Theatre, with the concentration on directing, held a massive audition, or cattle call, in which no one is auditioning for a specific part but for any number of parts in any number of shows. Three directors chose me for their projects (there were seven of them) all to be juggled schedule wise throughout the semester. The one that has forever stayed with me is The Monkey's Paw.

It was to be directed by Amy (Last name withheld) for the first part of her Masters Thesis ( a one act in the first semester followed by a full length play in the second). Why she chose this particular clunky one act for her thesis I have no idea but can tell you from my experience with her during the show that forethought and common sense were not among her strong points. The Monkey's Paw would play in October and I believe she was attempting "get into the spirit" of the month much like we do around the blogs this time of year.

The Monkey's Paw tells the tale of a Sergeant Major who has come into possession of a monkey's paw that will grant three wishes to the holder but beware, each wish could lead to misery. He gives the paw to the Whites and Mrs White wishes for 200 pounds to pay off debt. Her son is then killed in machinery at his factory and Mr. and Mrs. White are compensated with 200 pounds. Then they wish for him to come back and his unseen corpse is heard outside the door pounding away until Mr. White wishes for something unspecified in the play to himself and the pounding stops. The end. I played Mr. White.

The rehearsals started as all rehearsals do: Introductions all around, a read-through of the script and the director enthusiastically telling the cast how wonderful it's all going to be. Amy told us one of her objectives was to really spook the audience. Having just read through this poorly written one-act I had to stifle my laughter at this notion but gave her the benefit of the doubt. In the hands of a well-prepared director anything is possible. So we left the first rehearsal with optimism and good cheer.

And then? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Amy cancelled one rehearsal after another because she had new ideas for what was going to happen that she needed to work on. When she was there she did homework, prepared for tests and wrote papers. It was clear these rehearsals were at the bottom of her list of priorities. Eventually the four of us in the cast started to complain. The show was quickly approaching and we had no costumes, no props, no set and without that we had no blocking. Blocking is your map of movement so to speak. It's where you walk and move around on the stage during the play. Without knowing where any of the furniture would be we couldn't map out our movements on the stage. Amy assured us this would all be taken care of in time. It wasn't.

The four of us bitched to each other daily about the rehearsals and what was going to happen. Then, two days before the opening - Two Days! - Amy brought in furniture for the set and decided on costumes. As for the set, still nothing. Sound and lighting? Nothing. Final rehearsal? Cancelled. Too much for her to do and she had confidence we all knew our parts well enough anyway. Then came opening night. What follows is my description of that opening night taken from my direct experience as well as what was going on offstage that I was told later by the parties involved when the show was over. Here goes.

My fellow actors and I arrived at the theatre only an hour before the show because Amy had asked us to show up then and no earlier. When we arrived we were horrified to discover that Amy and the Directing Program T.A. were assembling and painting the set. And it was only happening because the T. A. had been sent by Dr. James Waring, head of the Directing Program, to get it done. He was furious it had not happened sooner. At the scheduled time for the show to start the theatre doors were still locked. The four of us were getting in costume and trying to desperately work out our blocking while Amy and the T.A. were still painting. We asked about make-up. Amy said she had some grey hair spray paint and told Mrs White and I to spray our heads with it. She threw me some prop glasses as well. "Wear these!" Finally, Waring ordered the doors opened. We went backstage to prepare for our moment of truth.

This stage was a small one. The theatre held about 75 people and the backstage area was a small hallway running along the back of the set. I mention this because it occurred to us as the lights went down that Amy had not set up any lights backstage. When the lights went down it was dark. Pitch black dark. We couldn't find the prop table. We bumped into each other. We made lots and lots and lots of noise. And everyone could hear us. We finally figured out how to get to our positions in the dark and the lights came up. Something else came up too - the sound! You see, Amy had decided that the first scene should take place with a raging storm outside for atmosphere. She had never told us about this nor anyone else. She was in the soundbooth running this herself. The effect was overwhelming, in a bad way. It was loud. Beyond loud. It was Who concert loud. We, nor anyone in the audience, could hear a word we were saying. My fellow actors and I were not yelling our lines, we were screaming them. We were attempting to read each others' lips to know when it was our cue. Somewhere in all of this, I noticed that Mrs. White and I had grey hair paint all over our costumes from our mad dash to "apply our makeup." And the Sergeant Major had set paint on his costume from coming in contact with the freshly painted flats. Things were not looking up.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only one or two minutes at most, Dr. Waring turned to his T.A. (again this was related to me after the fact) and said, "You get up there right now and turn that GODDAMN SOUND DOWN!" The T.A. made his way to the sound booth to tell Amy about the problem. The volume was too high. And what did Amy do? Do I really have to tell you? Don't you just know what Amy did? She turned it off. Not down. Off. Abruptly. Who was screaming their lines onstage at that very moment. Me. Do you know how awkward an adjustment it is to go from screaming to normal conversational tone without warning? No? You don't want to know. I felt like an idiot and wanted that monkey's paw to be real so I could wish for all of it to be over. The first scene mercifully ended and the lights went down.

And now the fumbling about backstage happened again. We couldn't find anything and were each tripping over furniture onstage. Again, Waring told his T.A. to go up to the booth and tell Amy to stop lowering the lights. Just leave them on between scenes. The lights came up and we could finally see but now it was even stranger for the audience. The lights were up but no one was onstage. And when Mrs. White and myself walked onto the stage it was uncomfortable at best. We had to walk onstage in full view of the audience and then start the scene as if we'd been in that room the whole time. My humiliation was quickly turning to rage until I noticed Mrs. White's lips quivering because she was attempting to suppress laughter. What was so funny I wondered. Well, as it turns out, a combination of sweat and grey paint had created an abstract dripping design across my forehead, which when viewed in the mirror after the show was quite a sight to see. It was embarrassing but that wasn't the main problem. The main problem was that I was now improvising because Mrs. White could not speak her lines because she was trying too hard not to laugh. So I was doing the lines for both of us. Oh joy. Then the news comes that the son is dead and Mrs. White breaks into hysterics which finally allowed her to laugh out loud and pretend it was sobbing. End scene.

Now we're at the end where the son's mutilated corpse returns knocking at the door. Fortunately this is only implied and not shown in the play because I imagine Amy's makeup idea would have been to throw spaghetti on his head and have him wear a skeleton Halloween costume. Or maybe just the spaghetti. So we're at the end. The son's at the door. And you know what makes a dead son at the door even more chilling? That's right, a storm! It was clear at this point that Amy was not in possession of even the most rudimentary learning skills. Yes, it was loud. Again. This time, Waring did nothing. I honestly believe he was in shock. I think we all were. And so the screaming began again, our costumes were now practically covered in paint from fumbling around in the dark and interacting with the set, a Jackson Pollock painting covered my forehead, I had long since lost the glasses, Mrs. White was now a casualty of the production leaving me to wrap up the plot by myself and Dr. Waring looked like a ghost. My character makes his final wish, the knocking stops, the storm once again abruptly cuts off and we exit the stage. What followed was the saddest curtain call I have ever been a part of.

The four of us walked onstage, our heads held low. We did not look forward as is customary with a curtain call but down. And then there was the applause... of five people. Maybe it was more but it sure didn't sound like it. I'd say it was around five people. When I did look up I noticed the theatre, all 75 seats filled when the show began, had about twenty remaining members, all students in the department. We had made so much noise backstage in between scenes I hadn't noticed the sound of hordes of theatre goers fleeing for the exit. Then we went to the dressing rooms to take off our costumes. Amy told us it was a great show. At this point, I honestly felt sorry for her. "You're kidding right?" Those were my words to her in the dressing room. She said, no, we were all great and everything went off without a hitch. We just stared at her, numb. And then we left.

There was supposed to be three performances but Dr. Waring nixed that and the premiere was all there ever was. As I headed out of the theatre I received the strangest accolades I have ever received after a show. The theatre students I encountered said things like, "Hey listen... um... I'm really sorry. If there's anything I can do. I mean, really, you weren't bad considering, you know, everything. Again, I'm really, really sorry." It was depressing. Years later, new students would be told the story of The Monkey's Paw as it morphed into a bizarre cattle call cautionary tale. I would get reactions of "You were in that? That was you? Oh man I wish I could've seen it!" Amy never did that second semester three act play as she was booted out of the program. And I fortunately went on to much better productions and enjoyed many great successes while there. But that night has always stayed with me, sometimes making me laugh, sometimes sending chills down my spine.

That night as I walked into my dorm room depressed and dejected, Joe from across the hall saw me and let out an audible gasp.

"What the hell happened?" he said looking at my gray hair and head.

"I did a play tonight," I said.

"Oh," he said, "for a minute I thought it was one of those freak occurrences where someone has a traumatic experience and their hair turns white."

I stared at Joe and said, "Actually that may have happened. I won't know until I wash my hair."

Friday's a funeral and Saturday's a Bride

I often find myself looking up old friends, acquaintances, college chums and the like on the internet. Who doesn't? Having majored in theatre in college I have more than a few old friends and acquaintances listed on IMDB or IBDB. This week I decided to look up one of those chums on a whim. I was thinking about my 21st birthday (not sure why) and he came to mind (more on that in a moment). I had a nagging feeling he was no longer with us due to health problems he had when I knew him way back when and I was right. Charlie Murphy died September 9, 2006 at the far too young age of 65.

I met Charlie at the Catholic University of America where he found himself in the theatre department for a year or so while I was there getting my undergraduate degree. I was never sure if he was taking classes, auditing or just hanging out for the hell of it and I didn't really care. He was so damned entertaining to be around, so loud, so funny, so full of stories. He was old enough to be my father but there was no "wise old mentor" feel about him. He could never be that starchy. He smoked and drank like tomorrow there was going to be a prohibition against tobacco and alcohol and all that legally remained must be finished today. Before I met him he worked in television throughout the seventies appearing in one sitcom and drama after another. I still remember when I asked him what shows he'd been on and he gave me the rundown. One of them was Barney Miller and I told him I loved that show. When he told me he played the guy who turned in the found money and was checking back each day to see when he could claim it I shouted, "I know that episode! That was you?" Sure enough, I caught that very episode in syndication a couple of years later and, now recognizable to me, there was Charlie acting up a storm.

He might have gone on to bigger parts as his appearances were increasing but in 1982 he was hit by a drunk driver while crossing Sunset Boulevard and was forever after neurologically impaired. That is to say his memory was affected more than anything else. He had trouble remembering names and faces and this, coupled with difficulty in memorizing dialogue, was a nightmare for an actor. Nevertheless, with great difficulty and discreet onstage assistance he managed to memorize lines and was cast many a time in productions on campus. He didn't have the look or feel that Hollywood goes for in leads or even major supporting roles but the theatre is more open to eccentricity and Charlie fit in perfectly with his gravelly but booming voice and his hearty laugh.

A laugh very much in attendance on the night of my 21st birthday. The legal age for drinking the hard stuff changed from 18 to 21 long before I reached 18 so I had to wait until I was 21 to buy it legally in a bar, even though I'd had plenty before then. Down the street from the dorms was Colonel Brooks Tavern, a local hangout for the CUA crowd. Naturally, it was the first place I headed after rehearsal for some play of which I now have no memory. What I do remember was Charlie insisting he buy me the first drink. He asked me what I wanted and I said, "Bourbon." He ordered me a shot (they served drinks that way back then kids) and one for himself and we toasted my 21st. Then another. And another. Then he insisted on tequila. Then I said, "Hey how about shome Sh-sh-shcotch?" Before long there were a few tables pushed together and about eight to ten (at times I'm sure I saw 16 to 20) of my fellow students all buying me free booze and enjoying the show. I am someone who, as they say, prefers to be onstage at all times and this night I was, pun intended, drinking it up.

Later that night, upon arriving back at my dorm, my body decided, quite independently of my own wishes, that it no longer wanted any of that alcohol inside it anymore and thought it best that the booze make a grand exit for the ages in the water closet just around the corner. Which it did. Dramatically and loudly.

I think about all of this with fond memories of Charlie. Sure it would've happened without him but he got the ball rolling that night and I'll never think of it without thinking of him. And now he's gone. The article says he died of natural causes and nothing more so I don't know if it had anything to do with that accident all those years ago. But I do know this: 65 is far too young to leave this plane of existence. And once you've left, you're not coming back. And that makes me restless.

I started this blog due to some of that restlessness. It's had its ups and downs and there have been times when life seemed to be conspiring to keep me from doing it. Financial problems have been the main thing (lawsuits, I.R.S. actions). My wife and I built up a mountain load of debt trying to build a stable environment for our children after a rather messy divorce and custody entanglements. No matter how bad you think your finances suck they're nothing compared to mine. Tens upon tens of thousands and tens of thousands more owed to the IRS because we didn't pay taxes on our take home because we needed money to pay rent, buy food and keep the phone hooked up. Believe you me, some phrases become cliche because they're simply unbeatable when it comes to revealing the truth and in this case the cliche that springs to mind is "when it rains, it pours." But feel no pity for me (and Argentina, if you're reading this, don't you dare cry for me). I've got a wonderful, beautiful family and just about the most understanding, caring, thoughtful and most beautiful wife a man could possibly hope for. And on top of all that, she's an inspiration.

Right now my wife and fellow artists are putting the finishing touches on a gallery that will be opening soon and featuring their art. They had a very successful art show a couple of months back and this gallery opening is an extension of that. The gallery has only a temporary lease so it's not permanent but it is inspiring. It's inspiring because we get up before dawn and drive into work before anyone else gets there so that she can leave early to pick up our seven year old (she of the milkshake line) from school or camp, get home and make lunch and dinner for everyone. And then once I've gotten home late from taking the bus and metro and get the kitchen, and whatever else needs it, cleaned up and help with laundry and homework I go downstairs and peruse DVDs for ideas about upcoming posts. I find that hard enough but how she finds to time to paint incredible works of art I don't know. But she does. She is an artist and that's all she wants to be and nothing is going to stop her. And this I know about myself: All I want to do is make movies.

I enjoy writing about them too and have no intention of ever willingly stopping that aspect of my love for movies. But I want to make them. I have no camera equipment and no money to purchase any so my digital camera with it's video capability will just have to do. And that's just fine. One thing my wife and I always talk about is how someone can have the most expensive, bells and whistles laden guitar in the world and not play a lick (*cough*my rich roommate in college*cough*). Another buys a ukulele for fifty cents at the thrift store and makes beautiful music. It's not the camera that matters, it's the movie it's being used to create. To a degree.

I often wonder - Was it more difficult to make a good movie in the early days of filmmaking? Should I admire the silent screen giants more than some hot young director today? Did working with limited technology necessitate more creativity? These aren't questions one can find the answers to through research and collection of empirical data and yet I am inclined to answer "Yes" for all three.

With the prevalence of relatively cheap digital technology available today we have become a world of photographers and filmmakers, loading up our Flickr accounts with our latest works of art and wondering why Pulitzer hasn't called yet. And I don't necessarily mean that flippantly. I've seen amateur photos on Flickr that I found extraordinary in composition and subject matter and knew that whoever took them had a gift for photography. I've seen others where just because someone learns how to adjust the light filter for their 578th picture of a sunset they think they've done something the world will never forget. It goes both ways.

Same with YouTube as well as short subjects that I get sent for reviews. People send me links to their short movies to review (any film blogger out there is probably all too familiar with this - I usually send them a reply saying that I'm not really a review site) and some of them are quite good while others have been made only because they could be made. Because it's so goddamn easy to put together a movie of any kind at this moment in history. Because high quality special effects and green screen software cost a couple of hundred bucks, not hundreds of thousands. If you want to make a movie go right ahead. Really, there's nothing stopping you at this point. But can you make a good one?

In the early days of movies there was limited technology. There was no sound (except for occasional pre-recorded effects), no color (except for hard to light two-color saturation processes) and poor film stock that easily and quickly degraded and had a tendency to burst into flames if not properly stored. Putting together an hour and a half to two hour film with only inter-titles as your dialogue required generous amounts of creativity. It makes the works of those early filmmakers all the more impressive to me. If you've seen Lumière et compagnie (1995) you know what I mean. In that film, directors from David Lynch to Spike Lee were asked to make short movies using the 1895 technology and the results are mixed at best. They give it a go but still maintain a modern sensibility or play off of the limitations in a modern way that, to my eyes at least, made their efforts underwhelming. And even if their short movies are still decent efforts they don't compare to their greatest modern works because there is just so much one can do with century old technology. But that's the point. So when I see a movie like Sunrise with it's multiple exposures, optical effects, indoor and outdoor photography and above all, a great story and well told, I am amazed.

So as not to confuse, I'm not saying that filmmakers today don't hold up to the filmmakers of the silent era. As with any era, there was more dreck and mediocrity than quality work at any given moment. I'm saying that it's so easy to put a movie together now that artistic laziness can all too often creep into the mix. Decades ago writers and directors had to come up with creative work arounds for effects that couldn't be achieved. Often, it made the film better. Cat People and Jaws are two examples where NOT showing anything was much more effective than showing it. And on Jaws, by the time they could get the damn mechanical shark to work ... well ... let's just say there are times when I wish they hadn't. I like not seeing it in the beginning much more than seeing it at the end.

On Night of the Demon, another film directed by Jacques Tourneur of the aforementioned Cat People, the demon is not seen and the film works to great effect as a result. Until... you see the demon, the demon that the producer insisted be in the movie. And let me tell you, Tourneur was right to protest until his throat was bloody and sore. That demon is not only ridiculous looking, it's movie crushing. The whole film comes crashing down in the all important final minutes because of it.

Today of course, Night of the Demon, Cat People and Jaws would have CGI demons, cat women and sharks from the opening credits until the lights came up. And they'd be lesser movies for it. Even when the rare movie comes out that shows less (The Blair Witch Project) and is a success as a result, no one learns from it. The Blair Witch Project would and could have been made in the early days of filmmaking. It understands work arounds, it understands creativity in the face of minimal technology. And even if the characters are a little on the dull side and do things like cross over flowing water twice without thinking to simply follow it downstream, they were improvised and inhabited by young actors willing to take a chance on a different concept. And above all else, without showing a single thing, it provided one of the creepiest endings to a horror film I've seen in many a moon. But there aren't many Blair Witch Projects out there and filmmakers today would much rather show the witch anyway. To use that old canard, just because you can do something doesn't mean you should do it.

So how many of us are making movies because we can, and not because we must? The most important thing for me is the love of the form and that's where the dilettantes are exposed in the face of those who have it in their blood. Charlie Murphy acted because he had to, even when a drunk driver nearly made it impossible. My wife paints because she has too, even when there are only 30 minutes in the day when she can. And those filmmakers of old, from Murnau to Keaton and from Eisenstein to Chaplin, made movies because they had to, even if they couldn't always achieve the effects they wanted (although Keaton probably did). They're an inspiration to me, all of them. And in Charlie Murphy there's a reminder; do what you must and do it now because we're not here for very long. And when we're gone, we're gone forever.

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Charlie has two IMDB listing based on his two different name billings. First one is here and the second one is here.

Anecdotal Review: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)

I was a theatre major in college at the Catholic University of America, not because I was Catholic but because they have a highly touted Drama Department. At the Drama Department on campus was an area we students called "The Fishbowl." It was a lobby area with two offices on either side, one with a receptionist's window and on the far side glass walls with a glass door leading out to the courtyard. When you sat in there you were in full view of the receptionist sitting at the window and anyone in front in the courtyard, or just passing by in the hall, hence the name "The Fishbowl."

The Fishbowl was a place to congregate, talk about class, discuss new plays, smoke and relax. It was also an area to observe fellow students going into the office of the Chairman of the Drama Department, Dr. William Graham, who had one of those offices on the side. Students would discuss plays, acting or class schedules with Dr. Graham, a gracious yet gruff man. He was large and imposing with grey hair and a voice that was booming even when he whispered. If you want to get a good visual representation of him in your head for this story, simply cross Brian Dennehy with Jackie Gleason, or just choose one or the other to be your visual representation of Dr. Graham.

Dr. Graham was a determined man who never (it seemed at least) went anywhere or did anything without a purpose. He had no time to dilly dally, as it were. One phrase of his that lives on in my household, and probably in the household of anyone who went to college with me, is "walk with me." If you saw Dr. Graham leaving his office and needed to ask him something he would not stop for you. He would say, "walk with me." Forcefully. Not scarily, although to new students he was quite intimidating, but forcefully. "Walk with me." It meant, "I'm not stopping but if you can get your question out and I can answer it before I reach my destination I'll oblige you." And so you walked with him. And you walked quickly.

I had the pleasure of having Dr. Graham as an acting instructor in my senior year and it is the best acting and one of the best learning experiences I have ever received. He taught Classical Acting and he was a master. First, we watched videos of actors at the Old Vic telling stories of past performances and demonstrating how to properly do soliloquies and scenes in Shakespeare. Among those present in the video were Ben Kingsley, David Suchet, Judy Dench, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen. Those videos alone were worth going to class for. Then we did soliloquies and scenes from Shakespeare and Johnson and were guided by Dr. Graham as to how to best capture the moment in each reading.

He did something invaluable for we students as actors. He told all of us that if the very first reading of our soliloquy was not absolutely one hundred percent over the top he wouldn't even pay attention. Odd, you may think, but the point he was making was that too many actors attempt to hone their performance from the get go and Dr. Graham knew that you must first explore wild abandon and then, and only then, start to edit and refine and pull yourself back in. What was amazing was that when we would watch the videotapes (he recorded us) none of us were nearly as over the top as we thought we were. When you grow up in an age of naturalistic acting you quickly lose the beauty of the classical acting art form. You don't understand it. The classical actor needs to play his role differently than the naturalistic actor. The classical actor is reciting lines that in many cases are completely unfamiliar to the average theatre goer if they are to simply read them. So the classical actor must make greater use of emotion and mannerism to convey what the words mean to the audience.

During one of those classes I was front and center doing a soliloquy in which I had to show anger. I do not now recall the piece now or even what play it was from. I simply remember the emotional experience. I performed my piece for the class and naturally, to my mind, thought I did a splendid job of hitting just the right notes of fury with my reading. Dr. Graham was not impressed. He got up and walked over to me. He knew that the first step was feeling the emotion. As a trained actor you are not supposed to feel it every time (that would necessitate a lack of control), instead you should recall the emotion for your performance later, but to recall it you need to first feel it. Dr. Graham was not one to employ tricks on actors where one goads them into doing something by deceiving them as many lesser directors feel it necessary to do. No, not Dr. Graham. But he did understand that simulating an emotion sometimes required a physical act to set it on its course. He held his hands out in front of him and told me to slap them as hard as I could as I read the piece. I chuckled at this, thinking it overly simplistic. He insisted. I started slapping. Hard. He told me I wasn't slapping hard enough and to start over. I began again and was shouting my lines at this point. He would shout back (much louder than me) "No good! Start again!" I would start again. I would get into a rhythm. He would stop me. "Harder! Start again!" This went on two or three more times. As I said at the beginning of this paragraph I do not recall the piece now, all I remember is this: By the end of my exercise with Dr. Graham, I - WAS - ENRAGED! Veins were popping out of my forehead, my body was shaking, I was sweating. And Dr. Graham? He was at ease, collected. "Excellent. Sit down."

So now you should have a pretty good picture of Dr. Graham. To use the old cliche, he was a man of bold strokes, not gentle flourishes. He believed in speaking one's mind, in strength of character and actively pursuing one's own purposes. He was a great teacher and mentor and an admirable role model. Which brings us back to that fishbowl that started this whole story off in the first place.

There we were, myself and my theatre student compatriots, huddled around as always, smoking cigarettes (back in the day when you could smoke indoors) and talking. Fellow student Patrick walked into the fishbowl and towards Dr. Graham's office. He needed to talk to him about points being taken off a paper because it had been turned in late. As best as I can recall he had what he felt to be a suitable reason for turning it in late. He wanted to get the points back and was there to argue his case with Dr. Graham. Once in his office we heard nothing as the office was fairly soundproof with it's concrete walls and two-ton wooden door. But whenever that door was open Dr. Graham could be heard. Always.

Inside Patrick argued his case to Dr. Graham. As we soon found out Dr. Graham was not impressed with his reason and stood by the docking of points. Dejected and defeated Patrick emerged from the office, hand on door knob to close the door behind him.

And then, at that moment, an extraordinary act of fate occurred.

Patrick stumbled and lunged forward. He held onto the knob to keep from going face down which resulted in the door slamming as hard as any door has ever slammed in the history of door slams. It practically shook the building.

Immediately Patrick went into a panic. "Oh my god, " Patrick said to we huddlers, "he's going to think I slammed the door because I was angry with him for not taking my side."

Being sympathetic twenty-something college students, we laughed. It was just too beautiful a conundrum not to. He asked us if he should knock, open the door and explain what happened. "Sure why not," we said, "if it'll make you feel better," but honestly we didn't care. Patrick hemmed and hawed for a few seconds then gently knocked on the door, opened it and explained what had happened. He apologized profusely and said it was wholly unintentional.

And then... then there was silence. For Patrick, an unbearable silence. One second passed, two, three, four seconds until finally Dr. Graham spoke. The door was open. We all heard that familiar booming voice:

"You should have left it with the slammed door. It made more of a statement."

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This has been a Cinema Styles Anecdotal Film Review of Artificial Intelligence, directed by Steven Spielberg.