There is a tall gray building, and two men--dressed all in black, wearing old-fashioned suits and brimmed hats--are conversing in front of the building. The skinny man points his finger into the stout man's face; the stout slaps the skinny. They look like Laurel and Hardy. Vladimir and Estrogon. Frick and Frack.

The two are now jumping off the face of the building, doing flips and spinning, like Mario and Luigi. Now they're dancing ON the building's facade, which has become their new ground.

The entire scene is being filmed--a large film crew forms a spacious half-circle in front of the two.

The director, a petite Asian woman, runs over and asks if I can take over for her tomorrow. I agree to do it. She flashes a sly grin.

There's a large house behind me. I walk into it and go upstairs, where it opens up and becomes a larger house with many rooms. Exploring a hallway, I hear someone muttering. Crouched on the floor is an Indian man--he's sitting under a black net. "Come here," he says hoarsely. I climb under the net. We sit there staring at each other's shadowy figures. There is no light. "I just want to say...I love you."

I'm back on set, and it's the following day. I call for a shot of the top of the gray building, with the camera tilted up all the way, so that it faces the sky. I want the actor--James Dean--to run down the face of the building, as if into the camera.

One crew member gripes that setting the camera alone will burn an hour. And the action piece is too risky, he says. I consult the DP. "We just did this camera trick last week, no problem." It should be a piece of pie.

James Dean takes his mark at the top. We can see him on the monitor. I call action, and he flies down the building, with lunatic eyes.