It’s a love song. The sex scandal I was in, when I was four, this Brazilian mother at the helm, it’s to this tune — hilariously. But the love song, not as a scene, or a moment in the story, but the flow — I think, that’s it. Now I have to figure out WHICH songs. This one, for sure. Jose Leibowitz taking grandma… on a spin, on the living room dance floor. Nicole kicking her feet back. As we danced these years through.
We listened to the love songs from beginning to end, thinking, maybe the “rom com” is back, in a way, Reese Witherspoon. In a sense. Her relationship with her husband was worthy of being recorded. And in TV land, or screenland, a family that expands to one more, over a story like this — maybe gold, maybe. I hope so. Staring Greg Kinnear, something. As the tennis instructor who bursts into a courtroom, family court, like — she is Serena Williams. Me. Excuse me? Order.
“She’s destined…”
I thought, not in the story, because that’s not what happened, she could be, a skilled tennis player, something, and I chucked my racket across the court, when I was four, because THIS MAN sang to me a LOVE SONG? Westside Story. He sang Maria fom Westside Story to me. And I chucked my racket, cued Angelica Leibowitz to fall out of the clubhouse at Mountaingate and JOSE — at the last court down there — to go running. The tennis instructor was — seriously impressed by how FAR I just threw that racket…
This scene was so funny. He just watched me run away, fast, really fast, as this woman burst onto the court, along with Jose Leibowitz. And he would step away from these losers. He stood far far away from them. Arms crossed, just please, these losers. Pointing down, making demands, “come here.” Not happening. He watched me with true respect, enamoured. He just met “one of these special people.” OPENS. We had OPENS to get to.
I could flip out here.
You could picture Greg Kinnear’s face — rewinding, delighted, taking me through ONE pissed off tennis player after another. Roar. Rar. “That’s you.” Could be. Just loving my SNARL, “good, very good.” I flip out, “no issues.” Sitting in a chair, on this court. Legs crossed. “No issues with it.”
And the story gives all this a real real undertone. It’s true.
I knew what rape was, at four years old, so if you SANG TO ME A SONG INNOCENTLY I would chuck a racket — you see. Smiling, picturing a Lionel Richie song, now. My mother was the most innocent woman on earth, and the pitch of it reflected too brightly, like, do people do this innocently?!!! Please! As a quality of action? Is it innocent? A cop would understand me. The innocent routine.
And you can imagine? This tennis instructor — hated every love song ever written. He hated these losers, pointing down on the court. “I AM FOUR. You cannot SING ME LOVE SONGS.”
“No issue.”
Glory of Love, Peter Cetera.
This family charging across the grass towards the mini van because they have to BUST me out of my own house. Michelle, the blond, the lethal one, with soccer ball — spinning it — as this family, this lethal weapon, is going to GET ME OUT of a tight spot, back at home. I had fun, laughing, or figuring out what to do with it. So we’ll see. But it’s all about the love song. So that helped me with just HOW I was approaching these scenes.
“We’ll live forever…”
“Did it all for the Glory of Love.”
Has a good feel to it.