Her frantic attempts to hold him back violently warded off, she collapses onto her knees, falling to the pavement. She tilts her face to the dark sky, her hot tears indistinguishable from the freezing rain.
Stationed in front of the television, she hunches over a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey. Brightly striped clown fish flash across the screen, prompting her to sob into her heavily laden spoon.
She sits alone wherever she goes. She has no friends, but far more depressingly, crowds magically disperse in her presence, even during peak hours at Lilly Library and Trinity Café.
Such is the inexplicable stuff Froshlife movies are made of. When asked by our dorm's impressive crew whether I was interested in helping out, I didn't hesitate to give my enthusiastic consent.
When I found out I would be working on camera rather than behind the scenes, I remained surprisingly calm. This was no big deal, right? And so it wasn't until I reviewed the first take that I remembered I've historically had problems with this whole being recorded/looking ridiculous/people watching thing.
The last time I recall being on film, I was an eighth grader arguing pro-Kerry in a mock debate prior to the 2000 presidential election. The tape shown to my social studies class revealed my painfully conspicuous nose-twitching tick, a brief stage I was unluckily going through at the time. I hid beneath my desk all day.
If that doesn't sound bad, it's only because I've blocked out the worst of my memories. This dread goes beyond standard recognition of the asymmetry of your face on screen or bafflement at the bizarre nasality of your voice on playback. It's about cringing and coughing, crawling into cupboards or through barbed wire for the sake of leaving the space that has been afforded your prerecorded double.
So my opinion seemed settled, as a wise freshman entering college with a world of experience tucked into her carry-on. Cameras are dangerous. And I didn't intend to get in front of one until well into the future, when for a cool and calm Duke grad, it would cease to pose a threat.
Man plans, and video recording devices laugh.
And so in the name of Froshlife 2006 and Wilson House victory, my newfound friends and I broke mirrors and busted milk bottles, fractured kneecaps and put homework aside for a week of Frosh fanaticism.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped railing against the director's choice of cuts and close-ups. Well, I complained less often and less ferociously. Somewhere between criticizing the unflattering and the unconvincing, the unpretty and the imperfect, something changed. Maybe the fun I was having skewed my objective perspective-of my lack of experience acting and the funny way the light bounced off my face.
It was fun, bonding in the rain. It was pretty fun despite the rain and the bitter cold. It was great fun despite the rain, the cold and Shang the Deranged Director's insistence on using the water hose because the real rain wasn't "visible enough" on the sadly outdated camcorder.
It was unexpectedly fun, just laughing at freshly filmed scenes, watching Muyan shatter my Hollywood heart, sympathizing as Jake suffered stunt after stunt, observing Yi compose and play an incredible original score, listening to Jeff the Editing Expert scream late into the night when equipment malfunctioned. We admired the good, poked fun at the bad and improved whatever we could. And it was fun.
A few days ago, I received a very special card from the Wilson Froshlife crew. As wide as I am tall, complete with metal hinges, this magnificent artwork included 32 blooper shots of me at my worst. The most hideous pictures they ever did see, they admitted. And I loved it.
If you're like most people, you probably realize you're not perfect. In fact, sometimes you probably think you look horribly unattractive or hopelessly foolish. The thought of that being captured on tape, or get this, streamed onto the worldwide web, might be enough to scare the Chunky Monkey out of you. But perhaps it's time for you to reassess.
Instead of attempting to attain the altogether miserable Objective Perspective, try what five great guys taught me: love your own charm, howl at your own quirks and of course, marvel at the magic the technicians spin behind the scenes.
Because let's admit it. You're a Dukie. You could very well face the press and grace the screen in years to come.
So get ready for the world, and get ready for you. Grab a spoon, don a smile, settle down with a sweet treat. Just watch yourself.
Jane Chong is a Trinity freshmen. Her column runs every other Friday.
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