acclaim
she made it - a film
noir comedy featuring sock puppets
Creative Loafing
By Hollis Gillespie
June 9, 2005
When I turned 16, I went through a phase in which I liked
making incredibly complicated things from scratch. For
example, that Christmas I gave my boyfriend an entire
ski jacket that I made my own damn self. It had 143 nylon
pattern pieces - the edges of which I personally seared
while hunched over the tip of a tiny candle flame - reversible
zippers, hidden pockets and a waterproof lining stuffed
with the contents of eight bags of duck down. It was the
color of burnished rotten pumpkins (so popular in the
early '80s), with multicolored racer stripes that formed
a peacock-feather fan pattern across the back.
Of course, he was horrified the minute he opened the
gift. Not that he hated it - I mean, c'mon, it was a masterpiece
- but it was obvious from my bleeding fingertips that
I'd spent so much time on his gift, when all he'd gotten
me was an opened container of cream rinse from his cousin's
hair salon.
Even so, I didn't stop. Next I made a lamp out of an
empty gin bottle. It doesn't sound complicated, but wiring
was involved, and the lampshade was fashioned from woven
silk ribbons with a fringe of tiny glass beads. After
that came cakes. Yes, cakes. For some reason, even though
my ability to draw never went past the pirate face you
were always asked to trace in those comic-book advertisements
for correspondence art courses, I discovered that I could
nonetheless create, with wax-figure exactness, any cartoon
character in the world using a tank of food coloring and
20 buckets of vanilla frosting. I made a Mother's Day
cake that year depicting a cross-eyed cartoon otter doing
a flamenco dance around a sombrero with the caption, "You
are like no otter motter."
It goes on. Don't even ask me about the Christmas wreaths,
the toilet-paper cozies or the giant octopus, which, believe
it or not, was actually part of a massive headdress I
crafted at a hat-making contest on a cruise ship.
It all came to a relative end two years later, thank
God, when I started doing drugs in earnest, as opposed
to the occasional smoking roach clip that was passed to
me in the bathroom stall at the roller rink. Yes, who
says cocaine can't solve your life's problems, what with
its ability to suck every molecule of creativity from
your being? So after that, instead of using my time creating
things that were useful to society - like all those lovely
hand-painted, plaster sculptures of giant smiling snails
- I spent my days snorting lines with my restaurant-worker
friends and swearing that their grasp of all things meaningful
was particularly evident that day.
Of course, that could only last so long before it became
clear that if I kept it up, I'd end up like that lady
with snarly hair who lives under - not on, but under -
the bench in front of Starbucks and seems to subsist on
the crumbled muffins they put on a plate and serve as
samples by the cash register. So I pulled my shit together
and made it through college, but that was the last time
I made anything for years.Which is why I really admire
people like my friend Lynn Lamousin. She made a movie
... like, by hand. From scratch. And not just any movie,
but a real feature-length film that is winning awards,
a movie with sets and sound effects and sweeping cinematic
panoramas and Oscar-worthy acting (probably) and witty,
acerbic dialogue and artistic camera angles - a movie
in which, I swear to God, the entire cast consists solely
of talking sock puppets.
And Lynn is the least sock puppet-type person you would
ever meet. She's all tall, exotic and model thin with
long sleek black hair and the kind of fashion sense even
rich people can't pull off. I was in Lynn's kitchen not
too long ago, and the only food she had in there was shoelaces.
I'm just saying, I always figured if you were going to
create, by hand, an entire world of sock puppets, you
would be the kind of person who has a halfway stocked
kitchen, because people like that have a heavy craft-making
chromosome. Lynn, though, is not a craft maker, she's
just a genius with a compulsion to create an immensely
intricate piece of cinematic art using the least likely
of media. Who would have thought? The movie is called
The Lady from Sockholm.
"It's a film noir comedy," Lynn said, "with
sock puppets."
I did not believe a damn word she was saying when she
first told me her plan, because for what she spent making
this movie, she could have bought a couple of rundown
crack shacks in southwest Atlanta with money left over
to spay some stray cats. But that was a few years ago,
and now her movie is finished and premiering at the Rialto
Center for the Performing Arts.
It's an amazing achievement. All the writing, editing,
screening, set building, sewing - all of it funneled into
this lovely little gem that is her life's work. "I
can't wait to look at this movie on that screen,"
Lynn said recently, her grasp of everything meaningful
particularly evident that day, "and I'm going to
know that I made it."
The Lady from Sockholm premiers Sun., June 12, 5
p.m., at the Rialto Center for the Performing Arts as
part of the Atlanta Film Festival. Ticket information
at www.sockholm.com.
Hollis Gillespie is the author of Confessions of
a Recovering Slut and Other Love Stories (HarperCollins),
which is due out June 28. |