Barry Sonnenfeld, Call Your Mother: Memoirs of a Neurotic Filmmaker

by Barry Sonnenfeld

Any frozen food that demanded “steps” seemed like a traitor to the frozen foodness of it.

Over twenty-eight years (you can go bankrupt every seven years), Dad filed for bankruptcy four times. Several of these companies had a year or two of profit. He would take those gains and invest in Broadway musicals. Have you ever heard of the theatrical triumph Bravo Giovanni? I didn’t think so.

We had decided to give Eric the Slav the day off—he had burnt his hand holding the Mole Richardson 750 soft light the night before, yelling out in pain and dropping his other hand—the one holding the microphone—into frame at the precise moment we were shooting the cum shot. (Miking this moment made no sense, given that the sound of sperm fleeing the penis is not a dynamic one.)