ured to the extended bump and grind graphics of the last decade. Deep shadows yield up warm flesh that the camera eye seems to caress. The image of a hand moving across a man's chest contains the sweet tension of a complete act of love. The viewer comes away from these scenes breathless and convinced that the open-ended power of skilled suggestion is far more erotic than the imagination-crippling specifics could ever be. Van Sant's organization does not exclude happy chances and lucky shots. “Did you see the neon EXIT sign behind Tim?” he asks after the shoot in the Satyricon. “I should have made sure to get that. I’ll go back and shoot it. Little details like that add up and give you a lot of texture. Maybe the audience won’t really click on it seeing it once, but it helps build up the feel. Details, opportunities. I want to be alert and catch them along the way....” This lust for detail becomes a crew joke as shooting proceeds. “There goes Gus!” is the cry as Van Sant accosts a colorful pedestrian gawker on the spur of the moment, getting him to sign a release and submit to a few moments in front of the camera. An ironic road sign, a police car parked long enough to let Johnny and Pepper stroll by on film, are all snatched from the moment, available because Van Sant is shooting on location with a tiny flexible crew. These are his natural building blocks substituting for massive casting of extras, blocking off streets, or renting locations. The crew meets at the big green house in Northwest Portland that sound technician Pat Baum shares with several roommates. The sign on the porch says Funeral Home. Pat ushers guests into a land- lord-green kitchen highlighted with red plaid contact paper. She calls it “The Acid Nightmare Kitchen.” Pat eats cold cereal at the table. Van Sant comes through the door cautiously balancing a McDonald’s paper cup of coffee. Grip David Thorstein, aka Grasshopper, arrives apologizing for missing work the day before. “You missed the big fight on the set,” says Van Sant. “Really?" “Yeah, a great fight,” Pat chimes in. “I blew up and screamed at Tim,” deadpans Van Sant. “I screamed, Furk You! and threw rocks at his car. Fe jumped out and went storming off into the apple orchard.” Grasshopper is horrified. “It was leftover stuff from the shoot at Multnomah Falls the day before,” explained Van Sant later. “Actors do that, push and test the director. Tim was doubting my ability, questioning my directions. He didn't feel he could trust me. When I blew up it seemed to answer his questions. I went up into the apple orchard after him, to apologize. He had already turned around and was coming back down. We met halfway. “Doug treats me like an authority figure, like a dad. He kicks but in a kid way. Ray is the easiest one to work with. He’s used to working with a trainer and has no problem following directions." “There is a definite, unstated hierarchy in the crew,” muses John Campbell. “And Gus is definitely the father figure. Maybe that makes me the mother figure. I’m not sure how I feel about that but it’s there, and there’s a warm, personal chemistry with all of us.” Six intensive weeks of daily work with Above, Tim Streeter as “Walt”; Inset, writer Curtis (Photos Eric Edwards, Janice Pierce) a small crew under grueling conditions is exhausting. Frictions occur, minor verbal fracases rise out of absurd trivia, as in any working crew, whether they lay gas mains dr make movies. Van Sant’s crew struggles to smooth them over. obay: /\lW 6th and Coned— A few abandoned or closed buildings, a grocery and junk store and the parking PRODUCTS OF THE IMAGINATION —MADE REAL DA VINCI L-A-M-Y Safari pens — so named because of their sturdy dependability — stand up to a lifetime of use, guaranteed! But it's their lightweight, West German craftsmanship and design that make these fine writing instruments such ajoy to use. These and other fine pens from the Becker and Becker collection are available from $5 to $200 at DaVinci. YAMHILL MARKET • 222-5442 Clinton St. Quarterly 9
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