Crime and Mel's Demeanor

So orientation is finally over.  Two long days of mostly obvious, boring, patronizing information sessions (including a powerpoint slide entitled "What is a GPA?"  Uh... isn't going to college a prerequisite for grad school?).

But still, the faculty seems erudite, hilarious and generally kick-ass. And I finally locked down a schedule I'm pretty happy about and met some fun people this afternoon. My classes are column writing, reporting and features, and this magazine publishing intro that has me reading one of the coolest books, "The Journalist and the Murderer" by Janet Malcolm.  

I'm about to hang out with some folks from my program at an apartment in Cambridge, including one woman who proudly describes herself as the "Jersey stereotype embodied," who is studying poetry at age 30 and seems to find humor in everything.  In fact, she was laughing so loudly throughout each session, that infectious, full kind of laugh that fills the room--right from the get-go, I knew I wanted to be her friend.

Walking home through Boston Common today, I noticed a cluster of people surrounding what turned out to be Mel Gibson, in fact, filming a DRIVING scene.  Considering Mr. Gibson's track record in the vehicle operation department, I knew it was risky to go closer.  But sometimes in life you just have to take that risk.

I was there for about 10 minutes when a shirtless young dude with a stubbly chin and glazed over eyes flounced over and asked me what was going on.

"They're shooting a movie with Mel Gibson," I said.

"Oh no wayyy, that is so AHSAHM!" he yelled in a voice that, if it were a font, would be called "New England Foghorn."   

Considering how out of it he seemed, I had to keep pointing out where Gibson was. "Oh my god!"  He yelled, "Is that him the KAHHH?  I love you Mel!  I love you!"

Turns out Danny has an interesting story.  He used to live in an apartment that cost $105 a month.  Lately, he has been working for his father selling pools--but since pool season just ended, he spends his days in Dorcester looking for under-the-table jobs so that he can keep collecting unemployment.  

He says this all rather matter-of-factly and then asks whether I'm from here. I say nope, I'm from Atlanta. He asks me how I liked Boston and I say it's really nice. "Yeah," he looks off to the left.  "Just don't wander down that way after dark--people do some crazy shit then." "Really?  Hmm." "Yeah, and don't get on the 23 bus.  That's the most dangerous bus in Bahstahn, I'm telling you.  People get shat up in theah all the time."  He said he once walked through a dried up pool of blood.

So we swap crime stories as a line of people with tiny screens in front of them watch carefully as Mel Gibson talks to himself inside the car. Right behind me, a woman is holding the crumpled figure of a dying squirrel in her jacket.  She taps one of the policemen standing guard over Saint Mel.

"Do you know anyone who could help this little guy?" she pleads. He shakes his head and shoots her a warning look, fingers his holster.

As she went from person to person, in fact, no one seemed to care a whit about the small grey ball of fur that breathing slowly in her hands.  She looked at me with exasperation before she left, to continue a search in vain for the doomed creature's savior.  

The longer I stood there watching, the more I realized how equally apathetic all of us were about watching Holllywood in motion.  The film, "Edge of Darkness" (a title which hints at its destined crappiness), was just something to do. People stuck around, snapping shots with the cell phones, crowding around to marvel at how many times they filmed the same scene where Mel Gibson gets out and shuts the door.   That door slam must have cost $100,000.

Gibson's celebrity, I think, has never quite recovered from that infamous alcohol soaked, anti-Semitic rant; that disheveled, bleary-eyed mugshot; and the failed films he's produced recently.

The process of film-making isn't exactly glamourous either.  It was hot and muggy enough to make you damp and sweaty just standing in place.  Flies were devouring the abandoned courtesy buffet, which was, like the actors, roped off from us peasants.

Out of the 50-strong crew, most of whom stood around chewing cud, one fellow with an important-looking headset came over and told us to move out of Gibson's view because "he's an actor and needs to concentrate."  Now, I've been to a lot of plays.  And I've seen actors who can concentrate with the knowledge that people are watching... but... maybe that's my elitist theater-going bias.

On my way home, sailboats dotted the "Chuckles River," as John calls it.  Ole Johnny boy is headed into town this evening on a bus that should pull into the South Station at 1 a.m.  Just in time for the predicted downpour.