Title Sequence

If my life were a movie, this would be the opening scene: a guy and his friend at the mall food court waiting for their dates to get back from the bathroom. I’m the guy, seventeen, somewhat troubled, sitting at a wobbly table with a plate of soggy nachos. This is my natural habitat. My natural, depressing, stifling, lame, pathetic habitat.

The title sequence would start out like a typical high school story, but then reveal that something’s amiss. There’d be a tight shot, or piece of dialogue, or something that would make the viewer uncomfortable. Something to give them that prickly feeling. The kind that you feel deep in your gut.

Yeah, my life is that kind of story.

If I were Quentin Tarantino, I’d open the scene with all the players in my troubled life. We’d wear shades and walk down the streets of the Heights in slow motion, a gritty song playing in the background, just like in Reservoir Dogs. But I think my soundtrack would start with Chris Isaak’s “Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing.”

Or I could rip off the Coen Brothers. Start with a monologue where I wax poetic about life while showing scenes of my hometown, like in No Country for Old Men. I’d cut from shots of our old part of town with its decrepit buildings, vacant houses, and cars resting on cement blocks to the new area where homes sit on perfectly manicured yards and families ride to soccer practice in shiny SUVs. The haves and have-nots in our fourth-ring Twin Cities suburb. I’d throw in the clichéd Minnesota accent for good measure, since it worked so well in Fargo.

You betcha!

Or, if I were M. Night Shyamalan, I’d set up my opening scene in a creepy location—like the empty film editing suite in school—with eerie music playing in the background. But unlike in The Sixth Sense or Signs, there wouldn’t be a supernatural element. I would be the cause of all the trouble. I’d call it Desmond Brandt, since it’s my story. No. No, wait. It’d have to be about the girl. It’s always about the girl. Yes, I’d call it Riley Frost, since it’s her story too.

Most importantly, I’d have to show my character’s re-deeming qualities right away. Show that despite my narcissism, I really do care about others. That I do have a heart. This is critical, especially when they discover that I, like Chris Isaak, did a very bad thing.

Well, fuck Tarantino, and the Coens, and M. Night. And Kubrick, and Spielberg, and Coppola for that matter. No one—except film freaks like me—even cares who they are anyway. This is my show. Here goes.

Opening scene: Take one.