It was the low-budget side yard equivalent of a classic old silent Western, complete with nearly every stereotype one might imagine and several no one ever should.
The filming instrument itself was the temperamental star of our production. Until I was in the fourth grade, we had a silent movie camera that could record only about two minutes of action before the reel required a swapping out. That meant any film shoot had to be extremely economical, with no room whatsoever for outtakes or bloopers. By far the most irritating feature of the camera, as far as kids were concerned, was the light attachment[1]. Thankfully, filming outdoors on a bright summer’s day negated the need for this heat ray.
Nearly every event recorded by our camera (birthday parties, camping trips, play dates with other youngsters, soccer games, excursions to the pumpkin patch, extended family gatherings) was carefully choreographed by our mother. Rarely did the reel begin rolling until the set was firmly under her charge. That our father controlled was the delicate, unwieldly apparatus itself went unquestioned, but our mother was his co-director, responsible for casting, costumes, catering, and script supervision. She developed such confidence with regards to coordinating these departments that she soon began writing her own film treatment — and what a legendary film it became.
Technically and eventually, the script greenlit by the respected studio of Fay Family Productions became known as Superfriends to the Rescue. But in our family lore, it has long been referred to by the character who completely stole every scene he was in: The Villain.
Mom’s inaugural treatment was loosely based on a film we’d all watched together on our Quasar television set. The original starred Kirk Douglas as a hapless Old West bandit opposite a capable Ann-Margret, and cast (somewhat incredibly) as a bumbling would-be hero, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Our parents found the story endearing and their kids repeatedly cracked up over its many minutes of comic relief. This broad, multi-generational appeal must have inspired our mother to concoct a similar script of her own, starring her husband and offspring. We were the studio’s first Nepo Babies.
She’d overseen the filming of countless documentaries previously, but our mother considered this to be her directorial debut. Setting the standard for later Hollywood moguls like Quentin Tarantino, M. Night Shyamalan, and Peter Jackson, she not only wrote and directed action backstage, but stepped out from behind the camera for an onscreen cameo as well. Her small yet critical role called for her to witness a horrific crime, then summon the film’s unlikely heroes and point them toward their destinies. “Unlikely” only because the script was originally written and marketed as a Western.
My brother Jim and I (ages three and five respectively) were the typecast divas who refused to break character, even when the camera wasn’t rolling. Our method tactics were the result of a sneaky, successful, years-long ploy on our mother’s part to persuade us to voluntarily don “dress up” clothes for Sunday mass and formal events by convincing us we were superheroes in disguise[2]. Her strategy worked so well it occasionally backfired. In this instance, we balked at the chance to play cowboy heroes, insisting instead on our comfortable roles of Batman and SuperJim. Her rational explanations that these characters did not exist in the Old West fell on deaf ears, prompting the script’s first rewrite and eventual title change. We were now filming a science-fiction film of sorts, a bizarrely anachronistic plotline where genres collided.
To Jim and me, however, nothing could have made more sense. After all, when we returned home from church each Sunday, we rushed to the television with our capes to catch the final minutes of action[3] depicted on old Batman reruns starring Adam West. The conclusion of this show was followed immediately by episodes of The Lone Ranger, so in our minds, we sincerely believed the mythology of the Old West and that of the DC Superhero universe to be inextricably intertwined.
Our father, it was decided, would play the unofficial titular role of The Villain, a hilarious casting decision for one of the kindest, gentlest people I’ve ever known. However, his jet-black mustache provided a handy natural prop for communicating nefarious intent to silent movie audiences with naught but a simple twirl. A matching black cowboy hat helped him lean further into the stereotype. A cape around his shoulders may have broken with the Old West theme, but bridged the gap toward the superheroes with whom he’d soon be doing battle.
Our baby sister, walking but not yet speaking, played the Damsel in Distress. It was her job to wail and appear terrified when The Villain arrived to kidnap and carry her away to his lair, no doubt planning to hold her for some exorbitant ransom. This was outstanding work by the casting department. Screaming and crying were the two things at which Annie excelled.
******
Flash forward to green carpet premiere night[4]. Imagine a Portland living room, the sound of our father fumbling in the dark with the old Bell & Howell movie projector. Then a click and whir as the film catches and is pulled through the machine. “He’hey!” he calls out, Dad’s trademark celebratory phrase[5]. A whiff of heated celluloid wafts across the audience’s noises half a beat before the fuzzy rectangle of projected light next to the fireplace hearth fills with colorful silent figures.
Remember, all our hard work had to be condensed to a running time somewhere in the range of two minutes. (Caveat: subsequent scene descriptions and time estimations are from memory and approximate.)
Old Silent Movie Card Displayed: Fay Family Productions Presents... {2 sec.}
Another Title Card: “Superfriends to the Rescue” {3 sec.}
A Third Card: “Once Upon a Time... On a Beautiful Day Near the Border of Gotham City and Metropolis...” {4 sec.}
Live Action shot of our mother and Annie hosting a tea party in the sideyard sunlight. Our mother is smiling broadly, speaking energetically, and gesticulating frenetically, as if having any other normal conversation in her life. Annie grins sweetly in her Little House on the Prairie dress and bonnet, not entirely certain why the paparazzi is so interested in this particular tea party. {4 sec.}
Cut to a shot of our father, a beach blanket tied around his neck to simulate a cape, a black cowboy hat atop his head to drive the spike home on his status as an Old West bad guy. His mustache gleams, filled with some type of shiny grease (more likely Brylcreem than Valvoline, but who can remember?). He stands sort-of facing the lens, chatting amiably with someone off-camera, then twirls his mustache with a raffish charm. Here is the celebrated anti-hero of the studio franchise. {3 sec.}
Cut back to the tea party. Critics or hunters of editing mistakes will notice how Annie is now inexplicably sitting alone at the table with her dollies and plastic crockery[6]. Suddenly, our sister’s face splits with an enormous grin and silent squeal of abject delight (a strange theatrical choice from an actor meant to be conveying abject terror) as she sees her daddy swoop toward her like a swooping hawk, his cape billowing and flowing behind. He bends to gently scoop his hostage out of her chair, then races away from the camera lens across the lawn. Annie’s tiny face is clearly visible above The Villain’s shoulder and the audience can watch her setting the world record for speediest onset of Stockholm Syndrome. She is howling with thrilled laughter, bobbing above her kidnapper’s shoulder as he bundles her away to captivity. All of this action somehow takes no longer than {6 sec.}.
Cut to a shot of The Villain typing his captive to the twisted, bending trunk of the flowering Tamarisk[7] that dominated the front yard. Annie is still giggling, but mild confusion is beginning to creep across her face[8]. {3 sec.}
Silent Film Action Card: “Meanwhile, at Wayne Manor...” {2 sec.}
Live Action shot of Jim and me in our Sunday clothes (sweaters, clip-on ties, corduroys, combed hair!) relaxing on the elevated main platform of the Jungle Gym. Bruce Wayne (me!) is reading the financial section of The Gotham Daily Newswhile Clark Kent struggles to open and refold The Daily Planet. {3 sec.}
Cut to a shot of our mother hysterically boo-hooing at the sight of Annie’s kidnapping. {3 sec.}
Cut back to Wayne Manor, where Clark Kent’s superhearing picks up cries of distress. He tosses his paper aside (he’d been reading it upside-down) and alerts Bruce Wayne. {5 sec.}
Cut to Superfriends tearing off their Sunday Best, revealing their superhero identities and homemade, safety-pinned capes. They debark the Jungle Gym (one via the fire pole, the other down a slide). {This is a longer reveal, maybe 8 sec.}
Cut to Batman (me!) and SuperJim racing across the lawn to the scene of the crime. Well, Batman races and SuperJim ‘flies’, his arms extended out in front of him as he simulates soaring in low-level flight. {3 sec.} ...... Wait!!! Was I on my Big Wheel low-rider tricycle? I seem to recall a heated argument with the director(s) that Batman would never merely run when he could fire up his Batmobile... not sure if that take made it into the final cut, though...
Cut to Superfriends interrogating the distraught witness (our mother), who dabs her eyes with a handkerchief as she weeps and describes Annie’s abduction. At one point, she grits her teeth, hunches her shoulders, and attempts to convey to the audience the menacing nonverbal idiosyncrasies of The Villain, including several pantomimed twirls of her imaginary mustache. All of this is performed with such vim and sped-up gusto that, but for it being filmed in color (and the presence of two pint-sized superheroes wearing capes in the foreground), one might almost believe this was truly a turn-of-the-century Tinseltown frontier drama. {Miraculously, only 6 sec.}
Silent Film Dialogue Card: “Oh, Won’t You Heroes Please Save Our Sweet Little Damsel In Distress?” {3 sec.}
Close-Up Hero Shot of SuperJim and Batman, swirling panoramic worthy of Michael Bay cinematography. The Superfriends flex our tiny muscles, then race out of frame to save the day. {5 sec.}
Cut to Annie stretching out her petite arms through the ropes and bawling for help[9]. {3 sec.}
Silent Film Dialogue Card: “Help me, Superfriends!” {2 sec.}
Cut to SuperJim and Batman tackling The Villain, bowling him over and pinning him down. For some reason, this scene was shot more than once and from multiple angles, so it looks like an Instant Replay in sports. {About 6 sec.}
Cut to Superfriends untying Annie, who continues to wait. Once freed from her bonds, she staggers right past her rescuers out of frame to immediately begin years of therapy. {5 sec.} Her facial expressions are completely incompatible with a happy ending, creating a massive, unanticipated plot hole and necessitating the insert of another hastily-scrawled...
Silent Film Dialogue Card “Thank you Superfriends! You’re true heroes!” {2 sec.}
Cut to final live scene of the film — Batman and SuperJim tying The Villain to the Monster Tree. {5 sec.}
Silent Film Card: THE END {2 sec.}
The remainder of the reel was supposed to be devoted to the film’s closing credits:
Director(s), Writer, Cast, and Crew. Astonishingly, there are still two seconds of film left on the reel, so actors get back into costumes for one more out-of-sequence bonus shot of SuperJim and Batman tackling The Villain again.
The reel runs out. The tail end of loose film slaps ferociously, then gently against the projector as our father incrementally powers down the machine and the fuzzy rectangle of light reappears on the wall.
The audience goes wild with applause, which reaches a heretofore unknown level of feral enthusiasm when the projector operator’s shadow moves unexpectedly into the light and dons a recognizable cowboy hat. The cloaked silhouette raises a hand to slowly curl his mustache with sinister intent. From somewhere in the darkened room, a previously calm Damsel now shrieks with Distressed glee. Two other anonymous audience members scramble to frantically find our capes.
Somehow, Superfriends to the Rescue (The Villain) will go down as one of the most blatant, egregious snubs in Academy Award history.
******
Decades later, a strange family Tradition would arise which resurrected the legend of The Villain. Mom decided her firstborn was allowed to bring a new girlfriend over to the house twice before she felt ethically obligated under the Truth in Advertising Act to reveal just what this young woman might be signing up for. I continued to walk blithely into this trap over and over, which demonstrates either my extreme naiveté or a penchant for psychotic masochism. After dinner we’d be ushered to the living room, where the lights would dim and the fuzzy rectangle would appear. A carefully selected series of action-packed home movies would then be screened, revealing the true depth of silliness hardwired into Fay DNA. The grand finale would inevitably be Superfriends to the Rescue (The Villain).
(In an unrelated and totally unforeseeable coincidence, my romantic relationships generally survived only a matter of days following these exclusive screenings.)
Jim was far more savvy, only once bringing home a girlfriend, and then waiting until after they were already engaged. By the time she witnessed her first Fay Family Production, the church had been reserved and the invitations sent — making it much too late for her to back out gracefully.
Word from afar is that the three offspring of that union have since been press-ganged into many loosely scripted films of a similar nature, all overseen by the watchful eye of Fay Family Productions. No word yet on any responses or recognition from the Academy. | RF
[1] The device bore a striking resemblance to a 19th century miner’s lantern, and it burned with the fury of a thousand suns. The joy attached to Christmas mornings when we were young was always muted with the knowledge that we’d be immediately blinded the second we appeared in the living room to survey our colorfully-wrapped loot. Any silent home movie filmed inside with this equipment invariably begins with everyone onscreen holding up their hands to shield their eyes from the overpowering glare.
[2] Mom’s argument was logical: Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent never objected to wearing clean, buttoned shirts, pressed slacks, or ties. These items were simply a form of deep cover, allowing their secret identities to blend into polite society. Her elaborate scheme didn’t stop there. She sewed each of us a personalized superhero cape which she’d offer to affix to our shoulders with safety pins only after we’d returned home from some “dress up” occasion where we’d behaved properly.
[3] POW! BLAM! CRASH!
[4] The green shag carpeting in our living room was exceedingly comfortable to lie on. As far as we were concerned, Hollywood could keep their red carpets.
[5] After literally decades of hearing our father emit his joyful noise, this historian finally asked him to explain himself. What was it? And how on earth would one spell it? He was almost insulted — it was his impression of Henry Winkler’s character (Arthur “The Fonz” Fonzarelli) on Happy Days, of course! Knowing this is what he was going for, one must admit his adaption bears some resemblance, but only if the Fonz suddenly developed a constant, lovable stutter. In any case, it makes him happy to say, it makes us happy to hear it, and who are any of us to judge?
[6] Some adult had to handle the bulky yet fragile movie camera, and Dad was already in the scene. So Mom’s character stepped away briefly, hoping no one would notice. Unfortunately everyone did.
[7] This is a footnote (almost worthy of its own story) about the “Monster Tree,” as we kids affectionately called the Tamarisk, because:
a) ‘Tamarisk’ is really hard to say when you’re a toddler, and
b) we were then at ages which limited our involvement in serious yard maintenance, so it was easy to be cluelessly affectionate about a tree that required such a ‘monstrous’ degree of upkeep.
By the time we were old enough to discover the nickname we’d been using was actually a gentle curse invented by our parents, the name was too deeply embedded in our vocabulary for a change to be made. The resilient Monster Tree survived countless winter storms, getting flattened under sleet and ice until its height dropped from about fifteen feet to maybe five, but it always managed somehow to bounce back. It loomed, scraggly and ominous, fuzzy and comforting, near the edge of our property, a sort of botanical Green Monster between the foul lines of Fay Stadium. (Given that our mother grew up in the suburbs of Boston, being involuntarily dragged to Red Sox games at Fenway Pahk on occasion, is it possible one nickname influenced the other?) Wiffle balls lost in its impenetrable tangle of branches resulted in an official time out and a ground-rule double. Matchbox cars and He-Man figurines regularly patrolled its nooks and crannies. None of this really relates to the film, aside from the fact that, in faithfulness to the genre, Dad had to tie Annie to something and, as our yard didn’t include railroad tracks, the Monster Tree was probably our most recognizable landmark, other than maybe the Jungle Gym in the backyard. As you’re about to learn, the film’s location scout had already designated this for a different purpose.
[8] I don’t recall this at all, but our parents claim that as this scene was being blocked and shot, multiple neighborhood cars slowed to catch a closer glimpse of the infant being bound to a tree by a mustachioed, caped outlaw. If this would have been filmed today, all sorts of online videos shot by Karens with cell phones would have doubtless flooded social media, halting production altogether until local police could sort out the mess or/and leading to a #boycott of the premiere, but this was 1983.
[9] This shot was captured completely out of context. Annie was perfectly content to remain tied to the Monster Tree indefinitely, so long as her kidnapper lingered nearby. Patty Hearst would have been proud. Once her captor stepped away (to pick up the camera again), she turned into a blubbering mess.