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We're up here shooting a horror movie, which is the kind of scenario I dreamed about as a gore-obsessed youth. I was reared on Creepshow and Halloween, and I lived in a Freddy Krueger T-shirt that I'd artfully slashed with Dad's hedge clippers. Behind-the-scenes featurettes were scarce in the dark ages of VHS, so I often wondered how the special effects in my favorite films were executed. I had a dog-eared book called Movie Monsters with instructions on how to make realistic warts out of toilet paper, scars out of latex glue, and fake blood out of Karo syrup. (Every week I'd ask my mom to pick up some Karo syrup at the grocery store; I'm not sure if I came off as a budding sociopath or just a huge fan of corn-based sweeteners.) So for me, hanging out on the set of a slasher flick is a fantasy of CinemaScope proportions. We haven't filmed anything explicitly horrific yet, but I can't wait until the effects guys start dousing the place in Argento-red goo. That's every little girl's dream, right?
Based on what I've observed, I'm not the only one to rediscover her inner child at ''movie camp.'' People do tend to regress when they've taken a leave of absence from reality. Yeah, making a film is a stressful, harrowing, life-sucking event, but it's still weirdly liberating to shack up at a hotel for 40 days in a strange city. You leave your towels on the floor. You play Guitar Hero every night. You eat poorly. You establish mock rivalries with other productions. (Suck it, I Love You, Beth Cooper! Just kidding.)
Apparently, this feeling of displacement-induced whimsy isn't exclusive to the entertainment industry: Last month I took a trip to New Orleans and met a group of Chicago-based beer salesmen on a business trip. They were all well into their 30s, but you'd think they were Boy Scouts reppin' for Iroquois Cabin based on their joyfully rowdy behavior. ''Usually we only get to go to Buffalo Wild Wings!'' one of them shouted in my ear. ''This is the best!'' Couldn't have said it better myself.
