I am so thrilled to announce that Julietta Boscolo, writer and director of the Australian short film adaption of Let’s See How Fast This Baby Will Go, won the Emerging Australian Filmmaker Award at the Melbourne International Film Festival this weekend.
And the incredible Liv Hewson, who plays me in the movie, was praised for her mesmerizing performance – which, in my opinion, should win every reward ever.
Liv is a force. Watch her, she’s going up, up, up. You can catch her currently as Abby Hammond on the Netflix original series Santa Clarita Diet.
And, of course, I must extend a word of appreciation to producer Eva Di Blasio and the rest of the brilliant cast and crew of this gorgeous film. Thank you all so goddammed much. You have no idea what a powerful experience this has been for me. And there isn’t enough gratitude in the world for how respectfully you handled this very personal story.
To my friends and family: I know you’ve been asking how you can see this film, and the answer is: I don’t know. It is licensed only for film festivals and I’m unclear whether there will be a wide release after it’s made its rounds. I promise to keep you up to date.
It’s late June 2017 and I’m standing at a kitchen sink in Antioch, California cutting mangoes. It’s dark and cool in our rented Airbnb, but outside it’s dry and bright and pushing 100 degrees. Much hotter and drier than our hometown of Portland, Oregon nearly ever gets. Our curtains are drawn, the AC is on, and my twin teenage sons are sweaty puddles on the floor, vegging out after 3 days and 900 miles on the road. Our family road trip – easily the best, happiest time we’ve ever spent together.
We’ve just settled into our new digs, having first checked in, unloaded, then run to the nearby grocery store for supplies. Fruit was on sale, so I bought as much as was reasonable, plus a little. An entire array of delicious, fresh fruits: mangoes, bananas, grapes, and oranges. A welcomed change from the heavy, nutrient-poor road food we’ve been eating. We got the groceries inside, then my sons tapped out, stripped down to their skivvies, and positioned themselves over AC vents on the floor. They’re not used to this heat. But I am.
I’m running a sharp knife over the soft green and yellow skin of the mango in my hand, gently peeling it away to reveal the bright orange meat underneath. The sticky juice runs slightly between my fingers as I peel. Suddenly, I’m hungry for this mango in a way that surprises me. Then, I remember. I remember the hunger for mangoes.