wives; they told us about moments of tenderness, shared joy, or sorrow, a walk in the park and ducks. But the cinematographers' union allowed us a cameraman only for a certain number of hours. We would show up in the morning and the dads would say, "You should have seen us last night," but we could only shrug and say, "Sorry."
THEN THE WIVES got pregnant. The dads inseminated the wives with their sperm, which shot out of a dad's penis and into the corresponding wife's vagina, etc., and nine months later a baby plopped out like a prize. We had to find some stock footage for the delivery, because the doctors wouldn't let the crew into the delivery room. The result was a beautiful montage with flowers blooming and shots of the universe and the emergence into the world of living things, hippos and such, all set to a specially commissioned soundtrack of synthesized brass and drum machine. At the hospital, the dads stood in the hallway with unlit cigars wagging from their mouths, talking to anyone who would listen. "My wife is having a baby!" they hollered, thrusting a cigar in whoever's direction. The person, usually no one the dads knew, would decline the cigar and back away nervously, as if from a bear.
WHEN THE DADS saw the babies, shrivelled and purple in their wives' arms, they declared, "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life," and then cupped the babies' skulls in their hands as though they were testing fruit. The babies cooed and gurgled and so did the dads; it was unclear who was imitating whom.
TWO YEARS LATER there was a plan for another baby, and the process repeated itself: the sperm, the vagina, the cigars, the unintelligible exchange of sounds. We used different stock footage this time, crosscut with scenes of the first child, confused and alone in a field of lavender (this we staged using a blue screen).
NOW, WITH Two kids, the dads were really cooking. Along with the children, they had gas barbecues, station wagons, digital cable. They were no longer stuck in middle management; they were somewhere better. The kids got older, and the dads coached their soccer teams. The dads drank beer on Sunday afternoons and watched football. But the dads might add something incongruous. "I also have season's tickets to the opera," they might say. Or: "It's fine if one of the kids turns out gay." These things, we decided, would best be snipped right out of the film.
WHEN IT WAS time for the children to move away from home, the dads were strong. The wives wept in the driveways as the children pulled away in cars with couches strapped to the roofs, and the dads held the wives and stroked their hair. It would later be easy for us to erase the tears that ran down the dads' faces. We have computer programs for that sort of business.
THEN THE DADS became granddads. Their sons were now dads. In minivans the sons brought grandchildren, and the dads crouched in front of the babies among them and produced noises as they had at babies they themselves had once sired. For older grandchildren small change was produced from unlikely places, behind the grandchildren's ears or the couch, and then displayed magically. "Grandpa!" the grandchildren said. When it was time to go, the dads hugged their sons and their grandchildren and marvelled in the driveway that the boys among them, although they had their shoes on the wrong feet, would one day also, somehow, be dads.
AFTER SOME TIME, it became difficult for the dads to sit down, nearly impossible to urinate. The dads' pee came in a dribble. There was some putting off and some more putting off, but at the wives' insistence a medical examination confirmed it: the dads had very advanced-stage cancer of the prostate. There was no hope, the cancer was everywhere, they would be dead in six months, said the doctors, with their hands on the dads' shoulders and a look of caring in their eyes. We scored this segment of the film with a single cello sawing away, sad and lonely. Back
THEN THE WIVES got pregnant. The dads inseminated the wives with their sperm, which shot out of a dad's penis and into the corresponding wife's vagina, etc., and nine months later a baby plopped out like a prize. We had to find some stock footage for the delivery, because the doctors wouldn't let the crew into the delivery room. The result was a beautiful montage with flowers blooming and shots of the universe and the emergence into the world of living things, hippos and such, all set to a specially commissioned soundtrack of synthesized brass and drum machine. At the hospital, the dads stood in the hallway with unlit cigars wagging from their mouths, talking to anyone who would listen. "My wife is having a baby!" they hollered, thrusting a cigar in whoever's direction. The person, usually no one the dads knew, would decline the cigar and back away nervously, as if from a bear.
WHEN THE DADS saw the babies, shrivelled and purple in their wives' arms, they declared, "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life," and then cupped the babies' skulls in their hands as though they were testing fruit. The babies cooed and gurgled and so did the dads; it was unclear who was imitating whom.
TWO YEARS LATER there was a plan for another baby, and the process repeated itself: the sperm, the vagina, the cigars, the unintelligible exchange of sounds. We used different stock footage this time, crosscut with scenes of the first child, confused and alone in a field of lavender (this we staged using a blue screen).
NOW, WITH Two kids, the dads were really cooking. Along with the children, they had gas barbecues, station wagons, digital cable. They were no longer stuck in middle management; they were somewhere better. The kids got older, and the dads coached their soccer teams. The dads drank beer on Sunday afternoons and watched football. But the dads might add something incongruous. "I also have season's tickets to the opera," they might say. Or: "It's fine if one of the kids turns out gay." These things, we decided, would best be snipped right out of the film.
WHEN IT WAS time for the children to move away from home, the dads were strong. The wives wept in the driveways as the children pulled away in cars with couches strapped to the roofs, and the dads held the wives and stroked their hair. It would later be easy for us to erase the tears that ran down the dads' faces. We have computer programs for that sort of business.
THEN THE DADS became granddads. Their sons were now dads. In minivans the sons brought grandchildren, and the dads crouched in front of the babies among them and produced noises as they had at babies they themselves had once sired. For older grandchildren small change was produced from unlikely places, behind the grandchildren's ears or the couch, and then displayed magically. "Grandpa!" the grandchildren said. When it was time to go, the dads hugged their sons and their grandchildren and marvelled in the driveway that the boys among them, although they had their shoes on the wrong feet, would one day also, somehow, be dads.
AFTER SOME TIME, it became difficult for the dads to sit down, nearly impossible to urinate. The dads' pee came in a dribble. There was some putting off and some more putting off, but at the wives' insistence a medical examination confirmed it: the dads had very advanced-stage cancer of the prostate. There was no hope, the cancer was everywhere, they would be dead in six months, said the doctors, with their hands on the dads' shoulders and a look of caring in their eyes. We scored this segment of the film with a single cello sawing away, sad and lonely. Back
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