Dispatch from Les #4 - Do You Want Some Cheese With That Whine?

I'm not complaining, folks. I set myself up for the struggle. I wanted this punishment. I don't want this blog to sound bitter. I'm excited! I feel like the coolest mofo in town. I just don't want to count my chickens before they cross the road, if you know what I mean. (You know why the chicken crossed the road, don't you? To see a man lay bricks.)

One great bit of fortune here at Dilligaf Productions is that we got so lucky casting Having My Baby. There are a lot of talented actors working and auditioning in Dallas, and we were lucky to get so many. Such kind, gracious, wonderful people. Beautiful people. I am deeply indebted to and very proud of all the actors involved in making Having My Baby a reality.

To those of you who got there late for the pizza, I'm sorry. To the actor left bleeding in the creek without a Band-Aid, I'm sorry. To the dear friend with the twisted ankle, I'm sorry. To the set designer with the hijacked back yard, I'm sorry. To all the numerous people who got poison ivy, I'm sorry. To the actor who had to blow into a breathalyzer to operate the vehicle as she drove and said her lines, because that was the only car we could get for that scene, I'm sorry. To the actor who got anthrax in the mail, I'm sorry. (Just kidding.) And to the actor who was persecuted by The Man, I'm sorry. To all the actors who tired of chips and sandwiches (and Wheat Thins, granola bars, cheese sticks and Fruit Rollups), I'm so very sorry.

To the actors who worked for points... thank you. Don't count them out yet in this economy. I just know we're going to be a big hit in Borneo. To the actors who worked for money... thank you. You were worth every penny and more. I'm just sorry I didn't have more. And to those of you who felt cheated, I'm sorry. And to those of you who donated your time, your resources and your money, a great big thank you. You shall forever be in the pantheon of the people I hold dear. And to my evanescent crew of misfits (a term of endearment to me), I thank you. You too shall get credit when the credits roll.

At the risk of sounding megalomaniacal, I really think we have accomplished something huge in the annals of low-budget indies. Our chances of a cult favorite are a million to one, but I'll gladly take those odds. Better odds than the lottery, mon ami. One thing that can be said of Having My Baby, is that the script has universal appeal. The logline can be understood in any language. Yes, even in the jungles of Borneo, they would understand the storyline of Having My Baby. You think I jest.

New York Times movie critic Matt Zoller Seitz called Having My Baby "a classic" after reading the spec script. Having My Baby poured out of me over a few weekends, as if my muse had turned on a faucet. When I passed around the spec script to an assortment of people, most women who had read it told me it made them cry. When big, burly, scarred roughnecks read it and said they got choked up, I knew I had something. I'm talking about guys who can crack a walnut in the fold of their arm, crying like babies. Guys big enough to eat apples off your head, fighting tears. And Having My Baby never slows down long enough for you to get bored. You won't even have time to notice that tripod leg in the frame. (Just kidding!)

A weird twist of fate has willed this movie into being, like memes taking over time and space and nourishing an anemic little movie into an organic dreamscape worthy of the movie gods. Egads, I sound a bit full of myself as I mix my metaphors. No Hegelian dialectics here, friend, just pure poetry of a movie; beautiful actors, beautiful Texas exteriors, southern style, abortion agonized, religion tinged, testosterone and pheremone fueled, action drama, baby! Get the popcorn ready, Mabel.