Camp Movie

                                     

Camp Movie
 Noel Laflin
January 6, 2001

By Friday afternoon Dave Herzberg had captured all that was necessary for our purpose, which was to make a film about our summer camp.   What was needed now, as he had some left-over film, was just some improvisation based on music and lunacy.  Fred La Velle would be our star.  After all, it was his music along with his lunacy that inspired the idea. 

  

We had but one week by which to shoot all of the footage needed to represent our typical day.  We wanted to show every aspect of what a Scout could expect at Ahwahnee - from his arrival on Sunday until his departure on Saturday. 

Over many a cold beer Dave and I had begun the planning some months prior to camp’s opening.  With planning came reminiscing. My friendship with Dave had begun eight years earlier.  We had spent a lot of our youth on this mountain.

Years began to ebb and flow as we drank and shared our experiences.  Summers blurred one into another.  There was a lot of material to consider.  Ahwahnee and adolescence - they were synonymous.  Memory reigned and then rearranged it all again.  

And so we began the filming on a bright Sunday morning in August.  It was the country’s Bicentennial.  

Throughout the week Dave would roam the camp, zooming in on kids, staff, adults, and their activities.  He was out at the rifle range, archery range, nature center, craft area, mess hall, pool, campfire rings and trails. If there was an activity happening, Dave was there to catch it on film.  

As it turned out, he was a master with that little whirling machine.  One moment folks were diving into the bright blue pool and the next they were flying out again.  Faraway vistas would gradually pull back and zoom in on a singular sugar pine cone hanging in the breeze.  A half-built log cabin magically became a completed structure sitting majestically under a canopy of ancient oaks.  Ghostly troops mysteriously appeared at a previously deserted assembly area.  The camp rooster, Horatio, jumped out of flames. The old camp ranger, Gene, ran the obstacle course in sped-up triple time.  Dave had fun with his art, but dissolves of one scene into something totally unexpected were his specialty.

And so Fred’s Revolution evolved. 

With the promotional end of the project in the can and un-shot film just burning a hole in Dave’s camera, he turned to Fred’s music for inspiration. Fred had a passion for the Soviet Men’s Chorus in particular that year.

Thus Fred was transformed from camp counselor into Lenin.  Deep male Russian voices sang in the background from the cabin stereo. Fred, now scowling into the camera with a white sheepskin floor rug thrown about his shoulder and a Scout hatchet in his belt, read fiery oratory to passing Scouts. The fiery passages were actually some of Fred’s own poetry.  His bountiful use of the English language surpassed what most of those kids, not to mention most adults, had ever encountered in-or-out of school. Simply put, it was hypnotizing.  Not knowing what to make of it all, most of the Scouts stood transfixed, taken in by the scene, the flowery prose, and foreign marching music. The filming had taken on a force of its own at this point and Fred worked it accordingly. 

As his assembly grew, he then led the swelling troops back to our cabin, situated in the middle of the camp.  Kids picked up steel rakes, shovels and axes, cheering as they followed their new leader. The insanity took on a life of its own.   Dave followed dutifully, the camera whirling. 

I don’t know if it was madness or pure dumb inspiration that gripped Fred next, but as he reached the cabin, he grabbed a small white fir tree and took a giant bite out of it.  Chewing with great vigor, he swallowed the whole damn mouthful of young pine.  He then reached into the cabin and pulled out a two-liter bottle of Listerine mouthwash and gulped deeply.  Gargling with great gusto, Fred accidentally swallowed most of the nasty amber liquid before spitting what was left into the adoring crowd.  Not fazed in the least, he picked up his book and began reciting more poetry. 

The mob had had enough.  One-by-one, and then two-by-two they dispersed.  All that was left by the end was Horatio, the camp rooster.  Fred had beckoned the troops to come back, as the revolution had only just begun. But they did not.   He then crouched low and beckoned for the rooster to stay.  He too, turned tail and bobbed off into the woods.  Fred stood there, a broken warrior, disheartened at his change in fate before finally sauntering back into the cabin, kicking the door closed in last defiance.  Dave faded the scene away.  The revolution and film were over. Our summers at Ahwahnee were now over as well. 

There were accolades for Fred’s near-Oscar-winning performance by all who partook of those final scenes.  The poor man tried to thank us, but had somehow lost his voice due to the eating of the raw tree and the drinking of the Listerine.  He had no voice for the next two days. Fred was undeterred, however.  Russian voices sang in his stead as he cranked up the stereo.

Of course, none of this ever made the final cut of the camp promotional itself.  But Dave made a separate, unedited version for a select few of us.  I have been rummaging the house for the last week in search of it. I can’t seem to locate the tape.

I need to look up Dave Herzberg and have him stop by with a copy of that film.  He put it on video years ago, once there was such a thing.  Good thing, too, as my old Super 8mm projector bit the dust long ago.  Might as well call Fred while I’m at it.  We’ll have a viewing, the three of us.  It may have been half a lifetime ago - but only seems like yesterday. It flicked by - like the click of a lens.

Some cold beer will be in order.

Post Script -  September 2010

A package arrived from my good friend Dave.  Inside was a CD of the Ahwahnee film.

Dave, Fred and I finally did manage to get together.  It was at a premier showing at the Newport Beach Film festival of a new documentary by Dave. It seems that he is still a master with that whirling machine.

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