There is a kind of courtship that goes on between producer and director, a kind of wooing. The producer holds the means of movie making (money) and the director, if they’re any good, provides the vision. There’s a honeymoon period, and often an inevitable falling out. It was a form of sexual sublimation, but I thought it would do; sex, power, creativity, industry — yes, a muddle that would have to be sorted out in time, and it was the only muddle I had going.
While we went through the motions, sort of setting a price for film ideas, packaging, I brewed a pot of coffee and got distracted by the brand on the foil wrapped sack. Starbucks. That was a name I’d been familiar with long before the emergence of a national brand. It littered my father’s desk; Herman Melville immortalized it in Jake’s favorite book. Starbuck was the name of a Nantucket family, whalers and captains and ship owners. Dad, who still did business with the Coffins, Gardners, and Starbucks refused to drink the coffee. He scoffed at the lack of authenticity and preferred Folgers in a can.
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