"A lot. Come on, who's the greatest camera-movement director of all time?"
"Fellini."
"Who said that."
Kristi slides over. She raises her hand.
"I did."
"What's your name, 'I did'?"
"Claire."
"Well, Claire, I happen to agree with you. You can learn 90% of what there is to know about camera movement by watching 8½. You learn the other 10% from watching Goodfellas. And you catch a glimpse of what the future holds by watching Enter the Void. Who's seen it?"
K half-raises her hand, keeping her armpit protected.
"My little overachiever! Anyone else? No? Well give it a look sometime. Enter the Void doesn't even fit most people's definition of what a movie is! The acting is horrible—or you can think of it as realistic. Every single shot in that movie is a visual effects shot. Every single shot is technocrane! And Gaspar Noé, the director, the camera operator—it's like god built Gaspar Noé specifically to operate a technocrane. It's a view into the future, my friends. It's not my favorite film by far. But in some ways, there is Enter the Void..and then there is every other film."
Kristi blurts out: "So how are you going to grade us?"
"Well, since your remedial school would not budge on the antiquated idea that grades are what is required to motivate young people to do anything, I suggested a number of alternatives to them—none of which they liked."
"Who exactly was on this committee?"
"Ah-ha! Wouldn't you like to know. You're John Amp, right, student body president?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, believe me, I respect your desire to punish those in power for being stupid—I share that desire with you—but if you'll allow a humbly offered piece of advice..don't worry about it. I mean, fuck 'em. What's your major?"
"Film directing."
"Then direct. I know you've gotta do your political stuff and I will support you in any way I can, in your political goals within this school. But: forget about it. Decide what's most important to you. If it's film directing, then stick with me and we'll direct some films. If it's fighting the administration on how they approve and disapprove of your behavior in my classroom, or any classroom, then quit film directing and focus on that. Ok?"
Mr. Amp nods.
"Great. So here's how we're going to grade you—"
"Is that the royal we?"
"No, smartass. You see that woman sitting over there? Looks too old to be a student, yet too young to be me? That's Kristi, she's my assistant."
Kristi grins.
"We work on films together and she is my assistant in that context as well as in the context of this class. One of the options I presented to your precious administration is that I teach, and we leave the grading to Kristi. That way I can forget about the absurdity of grading and yet Kristi, who will be present for every class, every exercise, will be in a position to give you a pass/fail grade in a fair and informed manner—"
"This class is pass/fail?"
"Just hold on one second, ok, John-Boy? Is your concern about this possibly being a pass/fail class based on some misguided effort to maximize your GPA and use that meaningless number to catapult yourself into some other, more prestigious, film school?"
"I just wanted to know."
"Alright. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, but I strongly encourage you to listen to what I am about to say. I am not a wise person. I don't believe in absolutes. But what I'm about to say is one of the wise absolutes that I have come across walking this beach of a life, and among all the syringes and broken glass, somewhere in this metaphorical sand.."
We both roll our eyes.
"..I have discovered that if you work primarily for the approval of others, your life will be unfulfilled and your art will be shit. And I do mean unfulfilled, not unfulfilling.."
Kristi pretends to take notes.
"..because unfulfilling is bad, yes, but that's just you being unhappy. Unfulfilled, however, indicates what I want to indicate, which is that—not some theological idea about your life having a predetermined purpose—I don't believe god put you here to do shit. But the fact is that each one of you is capable of doing something, and seeking others' approval is a losing strategy if your mission is to do the greatest possible thing that you can do in the incredibly short time you will be alive. End of soapbox."
Kristi wipes her brow.
I continue.
"So I'm sitting there with the most boring people I have ever encountered on the face of the Earth—your school administrators—and they tell me I have to give grades in order to teach here and you know what I said to those motherfuckers? I said: You asked me to teach this class. I'm not a fucking college professor. I'm a film director and my films make money and therefore, Sherlock, I don't need to teach this class."
"Don't you wish."
"Here's hoping. So I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want in the grades department or else I'm walking out this door and you'll never see my self-righteous ass again. Then your boring school administrators start explaining to me that grades are a requirement of accreditation and if they fail to fulfill the requirements of the accreditation committee—"
"Fast-forward it."
"—then they could lose their blah blah blah blah blah. If I had had a shotgun with me I would have blown my head off rather than listen to a bunch of legalistic mumbo jumbo so I stopped them and I said, Ok, I'll give grades. And they said, Not pass/fail, all worried, like they were going to have to live in a smaller house if I graded this class pass/fail. So I said: No, not pass/fail. Film Directing 421—"
"It's Film Directing 401."
"What. Ever. I said: Film Directing 401 will have normal grades. Are you happy? And they said: Yes. So here's how the grade situation is going to work in here—Kristen, close the door."
Kristen closes the door to the bathroom.
"Ok," I say. "You all have A's."
There are all kinds of confused and magical looks from around the room—my imaginary students.
"But there's a catch."