How I Got into the Movies

How I Got into the Movies
By Gunter David

When I was eighteen years old, I came to America from Tel Aviv to break into the movies. It was a secret I kept from my parents, whom I had sold on the idea that I was leaving home to study journalism.
Forty-five years later, I finally lived my fantasy – a gift from my eldest son.
He is Peter David, bestselling author of science-fiction novels, (Star Trek: The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, The Hulk comic books, television scripts and movies.
His script, , was being filmed in Romania. Peter wrote a cameo for me. I would have words to speak and even a close-up.
I gave up my dreams of Hollywood while in my early twenties, for a career in journalism on major city newspapers and radio. As a youngster, Peter was my faithful companion in the newsroom, pounding away on the typewriter with his little fingers, just like Dad. “Are you cloning this kid?” an editor asked one day. I thought I was.
Yet the invitation to join Peter in Romania was totally unexpected. My son and I had grown apart emotionally by geographic distance and the demands of his busy career and family life. He was a husband and father of three. My wife Dalia and I saw Peter perhaps three times a year, since we live in different states. We briefly talked on the phone now and then. I knew little about his life, nor did he know much about mine. I had feelings of loss, an awareness of my own mortality, and the sense that time was running out for my firstborn and me. But I could never express any of it to Peter. He is not one for sentimentality.
Our trip to Romania began on a clear, crisp fall day at Kennedy Airport in New York. “We’re going to spend so much time together, you’ll be sick of me,” Peter said. I assured him this would never happen. Of course, I didn’t know how he would come to feel about me.
But then, above the clouds, a few hours into the trip, Peter began to open up to me. My son, outwardly so self-confident, said he felt that nothing he was writing was ever good enough. He always thought he could have done better. He also said that he had a great need for the approval of others. And sometimes he feared that his flow of ideas would suddenly dry up.
I felt badly for him, and yet I was joyous. My son was sharing himself with me as he used to when he was at home, growing up. I never shared myself with my own father. As my son and I became distant, I knew how shut out my father must have felt. Now I was exhilarated; my son was coming back to me.
The morning after arriving in Bucharest we drove to the set. In the heart of plowed Romanian fields and small farm houses, there emerged a town from another time and place – the old American West: The General Store, Miss Kitty’s saloon, the town bank, horses at the post.
Since Peter’s films were a blend of westerns and science fiction, a space ship was parked at the train station. The Wild West bank was equipped with an automated teller machine.
“Incredible,” I exclaimed. “This is wonderful, Peter. You have such great imagination.”
He smiled. “You know how when children play, they want their parents to see them?” he said. “They want to say to their parents, ‘Look at me, Mom, look at me, Dad.'”
I put my hands on his shoulders. “And you brought me here, all the way to Romania, to say, ‘Look at me Dad, look at what I’ve accomplished’?”
Peter nodded.
At that moment, layer upon layer of emotional distance, of defenses built against disappointment and hurt, began to peel off. I felt a wonderful sense of relief, as if a physical burden had been lifted off my chest. I realized how much he loved me, as I loved him, and how he needed my acknowledgment and approval. I told him then how impressed I was with all he had accomplished, and how proud I was of him.
In the days that followed, Peter and I talked a great deal, about his life, his hopes and dreams. And I told him about mine. There, in Romania, it was as if we were back home again and he was my kid once more.
My big day came about halfway through our eleven-day stay. Peter gave me tips on how to act in front of the camera. Clad in western garb, complete with a cowboy hat, leather gloves and boots, I was installed in the General Store to do some shopping.
“Action!” yelled the director. It was a magic word.
A seven-foot actor dressed in black, wearing a tall black hat, entered. He played a funeral director with psychic powers, and his appearance often meant death would soon follow.
Upon seeing him, I stammered to the shopkeeper, “I . . . I think I’ll come back later.” With a great deal of noise, I dropped the canned goods I had selected on the wooden floor as I dashed out, slamming the door shut behind me.
Next came the close-up. “That’s a take,” the director shouted. Then he, cast and crew applauded. Leading the applause was my son.
Peter thoughtfully obtained the Western hat and gloves of my costume as mementos for me. On our last evening, as cast members were writing kind words on the title page of my script, I asked Peter to do the same.
“I can’t put my feelings into just a few words,” he said.
But he would put some of them into the diary he kept during the trip. He was making his final entry on his laptop computer an hour before we were to land at Kennedy.
“When I started the diary, I referred to you as my father,” Peter turned to me and said. “As time went on, I began referring to you as Dad. Why do you think that is?”
Tears filled my eyes. I wanted to reach over and hug him, right there, on t he plane. But I was afraid to embarrass him, and perhaps myself. So instead, I took his hand in mine and squeezed it. Tight. Real tight.
My son squeezed my hand in return.

Reprinted by permission of Gunter David (c) 200o from Chicken Soup for the Father’s Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jeff Aubery, Mark Donnelly and Chrissy Donnelly. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.