Mikah & Luke’s Excellent Adventure: A True Hollywood Story Far Away From Hollywood (part 1)
The Dunkerque pier, British destroyer and flotilla of vintage boats
Sunday June 5 In just 4 days our son Mikah would be done with Middle School forever. But this fateful night it wasn’t graduation and summer vacation that had him so excited. He ushering Tammy and me to sit down in the kitchen and began, “OK, here’s what she texted: ‘Hey Mikah, my parents said if you're in France you should come stay with us and visit the shoot!’ ” Mikah strained to contain his excitement, but the corners of his mouth suppressed a massive smile. He turned to his mother for support, “So … ?” Tam was already lit by her own Cheshire grin and she beamed at me with an unspoken, “Well … ?!” My first thought: greatest text ever! What’s not to love? Our son had just received a personal invitation from the director and executive producer of one of next summer’s big movie releases, to join them on set, on the beaches of northern France, during filming! Does this kid have a charmed life or what! But a split second later a wave of reality doused my euphoria: this is completely insane! Why the conflict? Well on the face of it, booking Mikah an international flight on short notice would be stupidly expensive. And Mikah would probably need Tam to go with him, so that’s double stupid expensive. But an even bigger roadblock for me was the wasteful excess and environmental impact of this kind of cavalier travel, something I had been campaigning against for years. Quick backstory for those readers who don’t know: I’ve been deeply moved by the threat of climate change and have become a sustainability evangelist. I have worked hard for a decade to reduce my carbon footprint, and that of my family: I became vegetarian, we slashed our electric usage and got solar on our house, I bicycle and use metro when I can, we carpool with our Prius all school year, and use our electric Fiat for all our meetings and errands. And we’ve all cut down significantly on flying, which means far fewer trips to Michigan and the Farm to see family and
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friends, weddings and Bar Mitzvahs, and letting go my annual ski trips with college buddies. I’ve even started declining free vacations offered by my parents-in-law to join them in Hawaii and on a mega-cruise to the Caribbean this summer. Throughout the last decade I have also struggled to evolve my career — which has proven to be a heavy professional & financial compromise — to walk my talk, to work with integrity, and to try to be part of the solution and less a part of the problem. I’m not trying to be a hero, I’m certainly not a martyr, and I don’t think my single actions will significantly change the world. It’s just that I’m so certain climate change is the most urgent, critical, and global challenge humans have ever faced that I can’t stomach living in apathy or hypocrisy. Furthermore, as a parent, I recognize that my decisions, actions, and integrity as a citizen and a consumer — whether they be good or bad — will likely be repeated and magnified by my children as they grow into their own citizenship and consumption. So with that light-hearted perennial backstory hanging over the kitchen, my hesitation said everything: letting Mikah fly a quarter of the way around the world to see a couple days of filming just for fun would be the most egregious waste of carbon-footprint-per-hour ever committed by my family. How do I gracefully slow Mikah's runaway enthusiasm and spare him a crushing disappointment? He radiated optimism but I could tell he was prepared for me to drop the hammer, and it made me deeply sad. Would bursting this bubble be the act of a good Dad, modeling how to make a hard decision and doing ’the right thing’? Or would it be the dogma of an unreasonable Dad, blocking an extraordinary opportunity by imposing his world view? Keep in mind, dear reader, that this invitation was not as out-of-the-blue and far-fetched as it may sound. Not only has filmmaking been the driving force and near-constant focus of Mikah's mind since he was 5, but his connection to the Nolan family has its own growing history. Mikah and Flora have been classmates since kindergarten, and Mikah has developed a friendship with her and her family. Flora’s dad Christopher Nolan is the mind-bending screenwriter and imaginative director of Memento, Insomnia, The Prestige, Inception, Interstellar, Man of Steel, and the blockbuster Batman trilogy. Chris' equally incredible wife Emma Thomas has been the executive producer of all his films, and together they’ve generated over $4 billion of movie magic over the last decade or so. (NOTE: I’ve added links to see more about Chris and his movies at the end of this journal.) Despite their stunning success, the Nolans live with their 4 kids in a fairly modest house a few blocks from ours, and remain wonderfully down to earth — including a chicken coop : ) So Mikah spent much of 7th grade (last year) laboring over a script he wrote around a complex time-machine storyline. At school and on the weekends he brainstormed and refined the plot and dialogue with Flora and his other cinefile pals in the hood. And when his peers could stand no more of Mikah’s obsessive talk about the project, I’m pleased to say Mikah reached out to his old man (that’s me) for deep-dive brainstorming and creative critiques. We spent many evenings hunched over his script or a sketchpad, or just staring into the darkness before bed scheming how his story puzzle would fit together on screen. (I will always cherish this special phase of our friendship!) Along the way it has been exciting and gratifying to witness Mikah’s passion for filmmaking unfold within earshot of the Nolans. Complex storylines are the mainstay of Nolan’s work, and on more than a few occasions Mikah has come home from an afternoon or dinner at their house and excitedly told how Chris had engaged him in discussions about story arc or character development, or even offered feedback on one of Mikah’s own script ideas.
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So after months of preparation and anticipation, Mikah kicked off summer 2015 by enrolling his film friends and me in an intense week of props + costumes, location scouting, and dialogue rehearsal. We stayed up through half the night building our “teleportation machine” props, and jumped straight into a rigorous week of filming that sometimes started before sunrise and once ran until 4am. When principal photography at our 5 locations was “in the can”, as they say, Mikah released his friends to their summer vacations and then trudged, with occasional help from me, through two months of editing, dialogue mixing, sound effects, titles and soundtrack. Finally at the end of summer Mikah put a bow on his creation. We set up an outdoor screening of Tesseract for a small neighborhood crowd, including Chris and Emma and the siblings, friends and parents of the cast & crew. It was a smashing success, even if there are elements of the sci-fi logic that resist full comprehension. (Note: the screenwriter insists that it all makes sense in the end). Anyway, we hadn’t even stopped patting ourselves on the back for Tesseract when people started asking, “What’s next, Mikah?"
Movie poster for Tesseract
Well I’m pleased to report that throughout this school year Mikah and Flora have again been developing a screenplay. Two in fact! And while it has been really fun seeing the two of them maintain their commitment to the craft over the past 9 months, there was a major impediment to shooting their next project with their friends again this summer: Flora’s parents took the whole family to France to shoot a war thriller for the entire summer! Which brings us back to the text from Flora: since she and Mikah couldn’t shoot and edit their own film this summer, would he like to come see the filming of Warner Bros next big production, Dunkirk?! (NOTE: I’ve added a thumbnail of the Dunkirk war story to the end of this journal.)
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As Mikah and Tam probably expected, I reluctantly served my sober response: sustainability, carbon footprint, important choices, … blah blah blah. Tam lowered her gaze to the table. Mikah had anticipated my rejection and tried hard to keep his chin up. “Yeah, it’s totally crazy to go. Maybe we’ll get to see something here at the studios in the fall.” It was the right answer, and I was so proud of him, but it still broke my heart a little. I hugged his slumping shoulders and we all pretended to put it out of mind over the next couple days. But of course we couldn’t. The story of Mikah's invitation leaked out to Tam’s family and the responses were instantaneous, outspoken, and unanimous — OMG, you’d be insane not to let him do this! — Dream come true — Opportunity of a lifetime — The most important experience he could have if he’s interested in the movie business — etc. The responses added gravity to my decision but didn’t significantly change my mind. But then Tam reported that her mother, Annette, was so excited for Mikah to have this opportunity that she offered to gift her frequent flier miles as his Bar Mitzvah present! The insane had suddenly become quite possible, and the debate had radically shifted: an incredibly generous invitation, a truly meaningful Bar Mitzvah gift, and a lifetime experience vs. Dad’s stubborn opinion. I was deeply moved that everyone recognized how much this would mean to Mikah, and I slowly realized I just needed to let this one go. I was overcome with joy, “Pack your bags, dude!” Much hugging and jubilation ensued, and before second thoughts could creep in, Tam and Mikah had booked their tickets to France. Monday June 6 A day later Tam and Mikah realized the week-long excursion would span not only my birthday but also Father’s Day. They schemed amongst themselves, and surprised me by gifting me Tammy’s place on the trip! “You’ve always been Mikah’s film partner, and you’ll appreciate this as much as he will.” Best Father’s Day ever, comin’ right up! Tuesday June 7 Cue the usual pre-travel mayhem. A week before departure I bolted upright in bed, suddenly realizing my passport was expired. I lost the better part of two days traveling across town and standing in lines, squeaking my “rush” application in just 90 minutes before closing. I broke my sudden vacation news to my work partner and our clients, and rearranged some deadlines. And with just one business day remaining I spent a scattered and increasingly frustrating couple hours on internet searches and cell phone tech support calls to learn that my carrier requires several days to activate international service on my SIM card, and that it can’t be done after leaving US borders! I conceded to some online travel advice and resolved to purchase a ‘burner phone’ in France — a cheap, disposable* cell phone with local French cell connectivity and a modest pre-paid calling plan. *Righteous observation #1: the wastefulness begins before we’ve even left! All the while Tam and I tried to make sure the preparations and excitement around our adventure didn't overshadow our upcoming plans for Zoë’s 16th birthday party — a ‘glamping’ weekend (glamorous camping) with a handful of her friends and us in a pair of cabins along the Santa Barbara coast. In fact Mikah and I had to pack before the camping weekend so we could drive straight from the beach to home, pick up our suitcases, and jump in a shuttle to the airport.
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Saturday June 11 - Sunday June 12 Zoë’s Sweet 16 started on the first day of summer vacation and was a truly beautiful and relaxing weekend. I’ll leave that story for another time. But I do have to report that on our first evening around the campfire our travel agent texted that Air France pilots had just gone on strike and our flight had been cancelled! Luckily Mikah and I were re-booked on Air Tahiti Nui (who?), but our flight was going to be earlier in the day on Monday. So after two wonderful days with Zoë & Tam and friends, Mikah and I reluctantly had to abandon everyone around the campfire on the 2nd night so we could be in LA for a dawn shuttle the next morning. Happy 16th, Zoë — I adore you!
Sweet Sixteenager, Zoë (in teal towel), and friends since Kindergarten at El Capitan State Beach, Santa Barbara, CA
Monday June 13 The shuttle was a little late, the traffic was bumper-to-bumper from the final mile before the airport exit, and then virtually gridlocked in the entire airport loop, but Mikah and I rolled our bags into the cavernous LAX International Terminal just under the wire. At the ticket counter the attendant furrowed his brow at our passports. “Did you write on these, or is this a sticker?” He scratched his nail across the bright orange initial and date on the bottom edge of each of our passports. Mikah whispered seriously, “Dad? Are we not going to France?" I had thought it was clever. A week earlier, as I frantically shuffled through our family’s stack of current and expired passports to see if mine was still valid, I found it incredibly stupid that I had to repeatedly open each book to see the names and expiration dates. Tam and the kids had just updated their passports in anticipation of their cruise later this summer, so I went through each of them twice and carefully separated the new from the old. And when I picked up my new passport a few days later, I was totally paranoid that I’d accidentally grab our expired ones. The answer
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was obvious, simple and effective: label each one on the outside. After all, travel agents had put various sticker labels on the backs in the past, and it’s not like I was writing on the holographic photo page.
Steve Jobs would have approved of my usability feature
By the time Tammy had scolded me there was no undoing the permanent paint pens. But she was right — Mr. Agent was not pleased either. “I’m not sure you’ll be allowed to use these.” He flagged down his superior, who also hunched over our books and grimaced at the offending graffiti. “I’m going to have to take these to the customs office. Wait here.” The stern official marched from behind the counter, across the massive floor and through the crowds and disappeared into a corner office. Mikah looked up at me for answers. I leaned casually on the counter, confident that we’d either be able to fly or we wouldn’t. We both eyed the clock. The manager returned with our books in hand but no expression on her face. “This passport is the property of the US Government. As it clearly states on the bottom of page 5, ‘This passport may not be altered or mutilated in any way.’ We are allowing you to fly today, but we cannot say how customs will deal with this on your return.” I apologized and thanked them with an extra serving of courtesy. The supervisor abruptly left us, and as Mr. Agent handed back our passports he pointed out unnecessarily, “It’s right there on page 5”. I tried to cut the tension with a chummy, “Yeah, right there at the bottom of all that tiny print that no one ever reads.” He thrust our boarding passes at us without a smile, and Mikah and I scampered away like raccoons. We joined the tide of travelers surging tediously through two separate layers of LAX’s massive international security screenings. My cell phone was chemical-swabbed and Mikah’s backpack was given a rough colonoscopy, both without explanation. In the mayhem of the previous week I hadn’t managed to make it to the bank for currency exchange, but I didn’t want to land without any Euros so we shuffled over to the exchange window. I hesitated about how much US cash to convert and was flipping through my wallet when a gentleman behind me blurted out, “You’ll get much better rates away from the airport.” I guess he could tell I was a bit out of my element and I thanked him, handing the woman behind the glass only half of what I originally intended. She was not pleased, and let the man behind me know it. “Hey! This is a business, here, sir! And I’m just tryin’ ta do my job. Why you gotta come in here with your opinion?” I folded my Euros into my wallet and we slunk away to the gate. The non-stop flight from LA to Paris is almost 12 hours, and Mikah and I were thrilled to discover that Inception, one of our favorite Nolan films, was on the in-flight movie list. A good sign, no? But half way through the movie, and somewhere over the tip of Greenland, a particularly rough batch of turbulence left us both feeling a little airsick. Hot flash, eyes closed, breathe deeply. I started salivating and glanced into the magazine pocket for an air sick bag.
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The overhead compartment was rattling in a scary way and I looked out the window to see the massive wing tip flexing dramatically. That’s just something you don’t want to see: tons of twisting metal ... flapping like a bird ... held on with bolts ... over the ocean near the Arctic Circle. Mikah looked up at me for assurance. I struggled to casually explain how common air pockets are, and that planes are totally designed for this. We squeezed hands and leaned back in our seats when suddenly the entire plane literally dropped in free-fall for a whole second! We flew up off our seats against our seat belts like on a roller coaster, and half the people on the plane shrieked in panic. It was truly the scariest moment I’ve ever had on a plane. It ended before we could brace ourselves, but for the next few minutes I know everyone on the plane was holding his or her breath. The pilots never said anything over the intercom, and they eventually climbed to smooth air. We were more than a little relieved to land in Paris the next morning without further incident. Tuesday June 14 The Air France strike turns out to have been part of a diverse nation-wide campaign that also affected many train schedules, so it took us considerable time in long lines at the ticketing office to book tickets from Paris to the northern coastal town of Dunkirk (which they spell Dunkerque, from “Dune Church”). Our departure platform was eerily barren, and Mikah and I ended up having an entire business-class car to ourselves. The train erupted from the darkness of the underground station into the blinding overcast sky, gaining incredible speed. Our first views of France at ground level — graffitied brick walls and industrial rooftops — flickered by like a movie, eventually melting into a blur of lush farmland. After 18 hours of travel our heavy eyelids muted our excitement as we gazed silently out the window. Peaceful. Rich. Green. Not so different from Wisconsin — except somehow more French.
In a zombie state, Mikah glazes out at the French countryside.
Half way to the coast we had an hour layover at another station before transferring to a second train. With some time to spare, Mikah and I quickly ‘got our French on’ by inhaling our first of many chocolate-filled croissants. I failed at two convenience stores to purchase a French burner phone, the beginning of a tech and communications frustration that would haunt the rest of my week. And everywhere in the station we noticed circling teams of French military security wielding heavy arms — presumably enhanced since the attacks in Paris just 6 months ago — which made us both anxious and comforted.
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Half an hour later the train lurched to its final stop at a non-descript platform. Mikah and I drearily rolled our bags out onto the public streets of Dunkerque! We quickly caught a bus through the city center and got our first sense of this charming and historic little city by the sea. A beautiful and intricate gothic cathedral hinted at the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, but its face and corner stonework were pitted with bullet holes and scars from WWII. A stoic brick tower, flanked by French flags, stood over the marble tomb of a war memorial. An old fort with a clock tower dominated the modest skyline. Down side streets we caught glimpses of the channels and docks, fishing boats and masted ships, that define this port town. As we passed through shopping areas the sidewalk bustled with people, and we finally felt we were in France. I hugged Mikah’s shoulder in giddy disbelief at our fortune.
City center, Dunkerque
As we crossed a quaint river and came into neighborhoods near the beach, the architecture took a decidedly charming shift, with artistic roof lines and chimneys, balconies, windows & doors. It was easy to imagine it was 1940, and to understand why the Nolans had picked this neighborhood for filming. The bus zigged and zagged down diagonal streets and acute corners and it was clear that the French had no respect for good ol’ American right angles and numbered street grids. I started to lose my bearings on the map and leaned to an elder couple, “S’cuze Moi … Ou est l’hotel L’Hirondelle, sil vous plait?” I was proud of my attempt but they looked blankly back at me and then to each other. My mixed salad of broken French had been sufficient in Paris on a previous trip, but it was already becoming clear that the smaller towns were not going to be as forgiving. The bus turned a corner into a public square that I knew to be very near our hotel. I scanned the marquees and spotted it. “Ah! C’est bon … l’hotel L’Hirondelle est ici!” The elder couple recognized the hotel, “Ah! L’hotel L’Hirondelle” (isn’t that exactly what I had said?) and waving us off the bus with either, “What a sweet father and son! Look how much effort he made to speak our beautiful French language.” or “Stupid Americans can’t pronounce anything! Go Home and vote for Trump you imperialist Mikey Mouse Yankee hotdogs!” We'll never know.
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Hotel L’Hirondelle (the swallow), center left
The hotel was wedged among the row-houses and shops on either side, retrofitted into the original shell of a four story house, I presume. It was modest but clean and relatively modern, in a Euro-90’s way. The receptionist was friendly, welcoming us with decent English lathered in a thick French accent. We checked in and were ushered to a tiny elevator and up to the 3rd floor (which they call the 2nd). Our room was small and spare, with just enough room to walk around the foot of the twin beds and only about 6 inches between them. Tiny shower, tiny sink, tiny desk, tiny side tables. But it was also quaint, with large windows that opened to the street, a beautiful view of the tile rooftops and late afternoon clouds, and fresh air billowing the curtains. We wanted nothing more than to nap, but I hadn’t had cell or wifi service since we left LA and didn’t know if Emma had already tried to contact us. I fumbled through the hotel’s clumsy, outdated, French-language wi-fi registration page on my iPhone. After dropping the signal twice and having to start over with the entire form each time, I finally received her text — a welcome, and an invitation to meet the family for dinner at 7pm! With a couple hours to breathe, Mikah and I both collapsed into the most blissful power nap. But we couldn’t rest long: I was desperate to find a burner phone before dinner because without it I would have no means of communicating with Emma and Chris outside the hotel’s wifi. Unlike in the larger cities, Dunkerque's restaurants, bakeries and coffee shops simply don’t have wifi. We found the stop for bus #3, heading back towards city center where I had noticed a phone store on our way in. We waited and waited, watching #3 busses heading in the opposite direction, but none returning. The locals at the stop seemed perplexed as well, and after an hour with no bus and no explanation we were out of time. Heading towards the beachside restaurant, Mikah and I strolled through the square, past an ancient church, and down a few crooked blocks of the cutest side streets we’d seen yet. At the end of the row the sky opened up to the waterfront. A wide flat sandy beach shot out to the flat North Sea which disappeared almost invisibly at the horizon against an overcast sky. The boardwalk ran straight in both directions along rows of empty umbrella stands and outdoor patios wrapped in glass wind-breaks, but there was almost no one in sight. A cluster of children’s carnival rides and trampolines sat unused at the edge of the sand, and the beachfront shops and ice cream stands were shuttered. Looming just behind the low slung beachfront stood a wall of once-glamorous three-story homes, whose boarded windows I imagine hid stories of an elegant riviera from half a century ago.
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We walked a couple short blocks along the boardwalk to a small but elegant restaurant, and just walking up to the door were Flora and her brothers! Hugs and smiles all ‘round, and a sense of relief that we’d finally landed in friendly hands, followed by a brief awkward silliness between all the kids, seeing each other so strangely out-ofcontext. I introduced Mikah and myself to Alex, the Nolan's friendly new young nanny who had the mixed blessing of wrangling four kids in multiple foreign countries for a summer. And moments later Emma and Chris walked up with two jovial men in happy conversation. More hugs, introductions and appreciations, “It’s so surreal to see you here!” and “Thank you so much for this crazy invitation! We couldn’t be more excited and grateful to be here with you!” We sat at a long table in the front window, Chris and Emma across from Mikah and me, the other kids to Mikah’s side, and the British and French chaps on mine. Emma leaned in and asked about our travels and we dramatically reported about our almost-rejected passports, the plane falling out of the sky, and my frustrated attempts to get a cell phone. Emma listened with genuine delight, and I suddenly realized that as the executive producer of the film shoot she must wrangle a thousand issues like these on a daily basis. Very sweet of her. But our story was quickly eclipsed by the energetic banter between Chris and his mates about boats. Apparently these two blokes were sailors and long time friends of the Nolans, and for this film shoot the two of them had sailed a disrepaired 1930’s yacht across the English Channel to Dunkerque. Along the way a decayed steering cable had snapped setting the boat adrift in a busy sea lane with strong currents. They were saved by the keen recollection of the veteran Frenchman who dug into the bulkheads to retrieve an ancient manual tiller he knew to be among the hardware, and when they discovered the specialized mounting hardware was missing he cobbled together some ad-hoc attachment, steered clear of the cargo ships, and completed the trip. “Impressive," I thought, "but has he tried to purchase a burner phone in France?” More stories followed about their difficulties filming on old boats over the previous couple days, including the challenges of mounting an IMAX camera with a gyroscope on an articulated crane welded to the roof of a fishing catamaran. Chris had commissioned a vintage British destroyer (!) and several other military boats for the project, as well as a dozen war-era fishing boats, tug boats, and private craft which were all moored a quarter mile off the beach. The destroyer had been repainted in its WWII colors and was in pristine form — except it had no engine. So two tug boats were used to pull it along with long tow lines off the bow and stern like a toy on a string. I suppose the tugs and tow lines will either be cropped out or digitally erased from the final shots. “Inspiring," I mused, "but has he tried to purchase a burner phone in France?” Dinner was delicious, thanks to Chris’ pals who had explained the menu and helped Mikah order his steak medium. And of course being with Mikah while eating good food, among friendly conversation, in a foreign country, talking about film with the Nolans & Co, well ... it was exquisite. Emma reminded me of an offer she had made a week earlier: on Thursday (two days away) when Mikah would be with Chris and Emma on a film boat, would I like to escort Flora and her brothers to a Euro Cup soccer — er, football — match between England and Wales? Emma already had tickets which were a birthday gift for her oldest son Rory, but tight film shoot schedules meant she was no longer able to take them to the match herself. I’m pretty ignorant of soccer — er, football — but Euro Cup media hype had bombarded us at the airports and train stations, and even the local bakeries, and it was obvious this was a big deal throughout Europe. Furthermore, Chris and Emma originally hail from England and their whole family has dual-citizenship, so the English players were their
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home team. So while I was a bit disappointed I’d miss one of only three possible film days on set with Mikah, I felt helping Emma get her kids get to this event was a way I could thank them for welcoming Mikah to their shoot. Go England! God Save the Queen! Prepare to meet your doom, Wales! At some point I led the conversation back to the history of the Dunkerque evacuation, of French and British sentiment, and asked Chris how the town received his production. After all, wasn’t Dunkerque primarily known for this epic war story, and wouldn’t they have a strong interest in how it was told? He reported that the city had been very receptive, not so much because they felt beholden to their history, but because Dunkerque was realizing significant revenue from film production and related tourism (which already included Mikah and me!), and was eager to demonstrate their viability for future Hollywood productions. They had let him build sets in the city and close off streets, repaint a prominent bridge, and blow up live mortars and various explosions among 1,500 actors in soldier outfits on this very beach a couple weeks earlier! I wondered aloud whether he worried about how people with different connections to the history here would receive his interpretation of it, and whether he felt any obligation to tell a balanced tale — a cautious consideration which would have caused me some anxiety if I were the screenwriter. But Chris causally explained that this was not a traditional war story, they were filming no major battle scenes, and in fact there weren’t even any Germans even in it! This was his own fictionalized narrative, a humanscale thriller that followed three characters — one on land, one at sea, and one in the air — and their struggles to survive physically and mentally among the chaos around them. When I considered that Chris’ final film may well receive sharp criticism from sensitive descendants in both France and England, for opposite reasons, I suddenly realized that this is exactly the kind of worry that could prevent one from creating anything of significance at all. Note to self: worry less — create more! Over desert the sailors asked Chris if they were on call for another early morning on the water, and neither Chris nor Emma seemed certain of the schedule for the following morning. I was amused at their apparent casualness, and again admired their lack of alarm. What a virtue! I recognized again that I were in charge of hundreds of actors, sailors and crew, plus a fleet of ships, to say nothing of what must be a daily burn rate of millions of dollars, I’d be in utter panic without a rock-solid schedule and a comprehensive spreadsheet with me at all times. Worry less. I was truly witnessing the magic behind movie magic! Chris stealthily covered the check and when the young waitress returned his card she awkwardly asked him something in French. Chris' friend intercepted the questions on his behalf. She walked away politely, and he explained that he had declined her request for Chris to give autographs and be in a photo with the restaurant staff. “I assume that’s what you’d have wanted, especially with the kids here — hope that’s OK.” Chris was relieved, “Yes, thank you.” It’s worth mentioning that Chris is very gracious but famously reserved when it comes to paparazzi and fans. I’ve never asked him myself, but I suspect that glaring publicity of his craft has not always been easy for him to absorb. A true writer. We stepped out onto the boardwalk probably around 9 and the sun was still solidly in the sky. I hadn’t thought about it, but Dunkerque is at the same latitude as central Canada, and as it was just days away from the longest of the year, the sun wouldn't set until well after 10pm. Mikah and the kids ran ahead, with Emma shouting warnings about getting sand in their clothes. I felt sensitive to Chris’ personal space and decided to catch up to the kids. If I were going to accompany them to the soccer — er, football — match, I wanted to connect with them a little better so they felt comfortable with me. Rory and I chatted a bit about his school year and soccer and he eventually jogged ahead to be with Mikah and his siblings. The Brit caught up to me and we chatted enthusiastically about the shoot. I was flooded with memories of my world trip a couple decades ago — how fun it is to meet new people with completely
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original histories and interesting stories. His name escapes me (cursed brain!), but we had an easy connection. In fact we happened to both be wearing bright orange jackets and he wheeled me around to have Emma shoot a photo of the ‘brothers in orange’. Behind her I noticed Chris was approached by some passing tourists who recognized him. He obliged for their selfie. A bit up the beach the boardwalk was blockaded by a massive old industrial building framed in rusting steel beams and clad in weathered corrugated sheeting. Huge chutes sloped down from the upper stories and dumped into metal sheds on the beach. The whole scene was taped off to pedestrians like a crime scene. “This is one of our set pieces,” Emma casually pointed out. My jaw dropped. I walked up and knocked my knuckle against a rusty beam. Painted wood. It was incredible, even up close. I backed away and gaped up at the facade. “We wrapped it right over a convention center to look like an old cement factory.” I laughed aloud at the sheer audacity and total awesomeness. Dammit, moviemaking is cool! “Still,” I thought, “have you tried to buy a burner phone in France?"
Props along the beach
We turned away from the beach and back towards the hotel. I hung with the kid pack and chatted with the other two boys. At the corner of a quaint park we gathered to say goodbye before continuing in opposite directions. Hugs and much appreciating all ‘round. Emma asked again whether it was OK Mikah stayed with me at the hotel, as opposed to their original invitation for him to stay in the house they’re renting. I was secretly relieved — I was having a blast taking all this in with Mikah, and I wasn’t sure he felt 100% comfortable spending the next handful of nights without me, especially since neither of us had a French cell phone. Emma confirmed the next morning was an early start, and that she was looking forward to showing Mikah around base camp and the shoot. She’d pick him up in front of the hotel at 6:15a, and suggested that since I’d be at the soccer — football, dammit — match on Thursday, that perhaps Friday would be a good day for me to come along and see some stuff. It was starting to look like I may not be seeing any of the set or shoot over the next two days. Well, how could I be disappointed? Talk about gift horses! Mikah was about to have the experience of a lifetime, which is why we came all this way, and I truly couldn’t have been more grateful for that. And when I thought about it, Flora’s original note was actually an invitation for Mikah: we had never explicitly talked about how Tammy or I would be involved. So I resolved to have no expectations for myself at all, and enjoy everything as it came. (But yes ... I was disappointed.)
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Back in our room I struggled repeatedly to establish a wifi connection. I looked up the addresses and hours of cell phone stores in Dunkerque to visit the following morning, and discovered that my free wifi ‘license' gets dropped every time the phone turns itself off. I was filling out an entire registration form with my thumbs every 5 minutes, disabling the auto-lock and power-save features to prevent my phone from disconnecting, and generally cursing the awful soul-sucking minutiae of tech problems. When I finally got online again I saw my first messages from Tammy & Zoë back home. “How is it?” (See previous 6,000 words).
With the sun finally setting over the tile rooftops of Dunkerque, on the longest day ever, Mikah and I crawled into our beds. But there’s no rest for the wicked just yet: I had promised Mikah since before we left LA that we would watch Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on my laptop during this trip. So, I wearily pushed ‘play’. Mikah shook me awake minutes later but there was no going forward. We agreed we'd try again the next evening, but for various reasons each of the next 5 nights we would be thwarted from completing this movie. In fact we didn’t manage to make it to the closing credits until several days after returning to California. ----Well, dear readers, thus endeth our first day in France. The adventure continues, but you’ll have to wait until the next captivating issue of The Clutch to read on. In the mean time, if you simply can’t wait, feel free to enjoy links in the two addendums below for more about Chris and his other movies, and my synopsis of the war story behind the movie Dunkirk! Merci, et au revoir! Luke
Mikah & Luke’s Excellent Adventure!
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Addendum 1: Christopher Nolan and highlights of his filmography • • • • •
Christopher Nolan > https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Nolan Memento > https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFuFFdK7i44 The Prestige > https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VaCFcNGTHo Inception > https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1g4PLj0PlOM Interstellar > https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lm8p5rlrSkY
Addendum 2: Operation Dynamo — The Evacuation of Dunkirk Nolan’s Dunkirk will be a war thriller set amidst the chaos of one of the most anguishing moments of early WWII. I confess that I had to read up on the infamous 'Miracle / Evacuation of Dunkirk' and was shocked to learn that it was roughly ten times the scope of D-day. And over the course of our trip I would learn not only how heart-wrenching the struggles and losses were, but that there remains lingering resentment between the French and British on how this evacuation unfolded. A full account of 'Operation Dynamo’ is here (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunkirk_evacuation) but I’ll attempt to paraphrase. In May 1940 the Nazis led a stunningly successful lightning assault that sliced France in half. Almost 500,000 French & British soldiers in the north staggered in retreat and were scooped into a trap against the North Sea. Tens of thousands of Allied soldiers attempted to hold the rear guard in the countryside, resisting the shrinking Nazi noose, while some 400,000 other soldiers lay exposed on the beaches of Dunkirk, a purgatory of depleted ammunition, medical supplies, food and water. Newly minted Prime Minister Churchill sent some British ships to rescue their soldiers off the piers at Dunkirk’s harbors while infighting ensued among the Allies about whether the French would be given equal opportunity to evacuate. German Stuka fighter planes and Heinkel bombers not only destroyed the escaping ships but firebombed the entire city and blew up the deep-chanel piers, crippling any further evacuation. Then, just as the Nazis were poised for wholesale slaughter and comprehensive victory, Hitler inexplicably paused his armored divisions within sight of the coast. Historians still debate the twist: one popular analysis is that Hitler waged a power-play to muzzle his dramatically successful but insubordinate senior tank commanders. But for whatever reason the two-day pause gave the Allies just enough oxygen to assemble Operation Dynamo. In an epic true-to-life drama fit for the silver screen (hey!) Churchill called upon British sailors of every stripe to sail the English Channel and help rescue their boys. The navy sent 39 destroyers and dozens of other military craft, but some 800 other private and commercial ‘little ships' paraded along with them, risking easy strikes by the Luftwaffe, torpedoes from U-boats, and a maze of floating mines. Without docks at Dunkirk, the arriving British destroyers had to anchor a mile offshore while the smaller craft plucked a couple hundred thousand wretched soldiers from chest deep waters, a dozen at a time, and ferried them back out to the bigger ships. Many boats were sunk, some were capsized by panicking soldiers, and over the next week roughly 100,000 men lost their lives in the sand. But despite the harrowing losses and suffering, the Miracle at Dunkirk ultimately rescued 338,000 men from death or capture, embodying patriotism and cherished bravery in the face of hopeless odds. Many speculate that had these soldiers not been delivered home, to be dusted off and sent back to fight the Nazis in southern France and elsewhere, that Britain may have fallen shortly after Dunkirk, and the end of WWII would have been very different. Now you know.