The Crack of Dawn

Volume #503

11/4/23

Newsletter #503

The Crack of Dawn

It was the early summer of 1976, and I was 16 years old.  I was out taking a walk around my scenic neighborhood of Franklin, Michigan, on a warm, sunny day.  Who should I run into, also out for a walk, but my neighbor, Sam Raimi.  Sam was 15 and was the little brother of my good pal, Ivan.  Until then, I had never taken Sam very seriously.  We had both been at the same bus stop since we were little kids.  Each morning waiting for the bus, I’d read a book and Sam would test out his new magic tricks on me – he was a magician and had actually played a few Bar Mitzvahs.  Luckily for him, I am exceptionally gullible, and easily fooled by most magic tricks.  His standard magic tricks were OK – pulling handkerchiefs from his sleeve or shooting me in the face with a pistol that fired a flag stating, “Boom!” – but I was most impressed by his ability the roll coins across his knuckles.  Nevertheless, Sam was nothing more to me than Ivan’s obnoxious little brother. Emphasis on obnoxious.

But as I walked up my street, Franklin Park Dr., there came Sam walking up from his street (Devon) and he stepped up beside me.  I was smoking a cigarette and Sam bummed one.  Sam didn’t smoke, and had never bummed one at the bus stop all those years. This turned out to be perhaps the third or fourth cigarette of his entire life and he had no idea how to hold it or if you inhaled, or what.  It dawned on me that even though I had been best friends with his brother for several years, having spent a great deal of time at his family’s house (I was friends with both Mr. and Mrs. Raimi), I had never really talked to Sam.  In my mind, Sam was simply Ivan’s annoying little brother that Ivan and I would occasionally have to toss out of Ivan’s bedroom, then throw his stupid Spider Man comics out after him.

Not long before this walk, and strictly for shits and giggles, Ivan and I decided to get Sam fucked up.  We were seated in Ivan’s old, beat up, green Buick, the “Green Ghost” – Ivan was driving since he was the only one old enough to have a driver’s license – I was in the passenger seat, and Sam was in back.  We lit up a joint, handed it to Sam and said, “Here, smoke this.”  I distinctly recall this befuddled kid awkwardly holding the joint and saying, “But what would mom and dad think?”  Ivan said, “Shut up and smoke the joint.”  Sam did as he was told.  Meanwhile, we drove up to the nearby liquor store, Bottle & Basket, and though none of was 18, I already had a beard, so I went in and bought a six pack of beer.  Ivan handed Sam a beer and said, “Here, drink this.”  Sam said, “Well, if you say it’s OK,” and did what he was told.  When we’d finished all the beer, and another joint, Ivan and I dropped Sam off at their house, where his mother and father were waiting inside.  We said, “Have fun,” and took off.

So, there we were walking through Franklin on a beautiful warm day.  I asked, “What are you up to these days?”  Sam said, “Making movies.”  I was taken aback.  I was the movie guy in the neighborhood, he was a magician.  “With who?” I asked.  He said, “Bruce Campbell and Scott Spiegel.”  I knew that Scott made Super-8 remakes of the Three Stooges’ shorts because he’d shown a couple of them in class.  In that class, I showed my films first, and they received a thoughtful nod of approval.  Scott showed his films and got big laughs.  I was horrified, rationalizing it with, “Well, he’s just ripping off the Stooges.  His films aren’t original.”  No, they weren’t, but they were funny.  And I suddenly put the pieces together.  “Hey, you and Bruce are both in Scott’s movies.”  Sam nodded, waving the cigarette around like a sparkler, but not smoking it, and said, “We’ve made a bunch of movies, want to see one?”  I said sure and we walked back to his house.

Sam had taken over a back bedroom of the house as his film studio.  He had a Super-8 sound projector, which was brand new technology at the time.  I had just purchased a Sankyo Super-8 camera, my first camera with sound, but I hadn’t shot anything with it yet.  Sam and Scott had already made a few short sound films that (thankfully) weren’t Three Stooges remakes, entirely due to Sam’s influence.  He now showed me their new, 12-minute film, Six Months to Live.  They had ripped off the plot from Jerry Lewis’ film, Hook, Line & Sinker (which we all called Hook, Line & Stinker), about a guy who thinks he’s dying, runs up a huge credit card bill, then finds out he’s going to live.  Anyway, Sam and Scott’s film was disjointed, but pretty good, and made me laugh a bunch of times.  It got me all fired up.

Young Josh and Sam.

I said, “We should make a movie.  I just bought a new camera.”  “What kind?” he asked.  I said, “Sankyo.”  He said, “You’re welcome.”  Then Sam said the apocryphal words, “Write a script and we’ll make it.”

I was 16 years old, I’d made a half-dozen movies, none of which made much sense, and had never written a script.  The joke of this, by the way, was that neither had Sam or Scott.  Six Months to Live was pre-planned, but they only had some notes, not a script.  And they just shot a couple of scenes at a time, finally accumulating enough for a whole film. As I walked the block back to my house, I thought of Sam saying, “Write a script.” Write a script, what a novel idea.

I’d seen screenplays before and knew what they looked like.  I owned a typewriter, which I used when I occasionally attempted to write short stories or poems.  But now I needed an idea.

Stay tuned.

Good on ya.