[Title to come] 2

If I were directing this movie (and I am) there would be no discernible music during the opening scene, and the opening credits would start across the screen later, much later, after the stage has been set and the setting been established and the characters have introduced themselves to each other. Most of that happens visually, through movement, with a few phrases of dialog to punctuate the sounds of rustling paper and clothes, the clinking of cups and bowls, the pulling and pushing of chairs and treading on the floor.

Right about the time someone comes around corner where the kitchen meets the den, one of them asks, "You have plans today?" and the other replies "Actually I do," and there you go, 'The Exception that Proves the Rule' [working title] scrolls across the screen, followed by discreetly placed notes of who made the film, who performs in it, who did the grunt work, and called the shots. It's a story about a man and a woman who live in a house on the other side of town.

Because there is no music to speak of doesn't mean there is no soundtrack, and in the few minutes just passed - coffee, morning paper, breakfast - a barely audible hum has been slow building in volume, tones changing slightly every few seconds, and somewhere around the three-minute mark it reaches a point where this hum is recognizable as an intentional shape and color produced by instruments - let's say string bass and clarinet.

With dialog comes a plot. Her plans for the day begin with walking the dog, giving blood at the library, and a movie with her best friend Kat. If that doesn't lend itself to a subplot of two, we have business making this movie about another Saturday in Columbus. 'Ulysses' it is not. Sven and Gven Golly are not Leopold and Molly Bloom. Columbus, Ohio, is not Dublin, Ireland, but it might be possible to get to know them a little through the lens of their suburban domicile, where their private dramas unfold within these walls.

He slouches in a wicker chair, resting his aching head against the high back. Rather than disclosing his plans for the day, he announces his dilemma: whether to clean up around the edges or launch a major project, the eternal Saturday problem facing mankind in the first cup of coffee. After Gven goes out the door, the camera follows as Sven wanders from room to room, the doorway framing his movements watering plants, sweeping the floor, putting dishes in the dishwasher. The minutiae only take a minute on the screen, but you can see how this stuff could take all day.

Going outside to gauge the weather and clear the debris from his clouded brain, he sees only things to fix, dispose of, and re-arrange. Each potential task links his to-do list with an extended family issue - his brother would do this, his sister would do that, his father would have done it this way, his mother would never have let it be that way. Each parental or sibling subplot winds around the bone, nerve, and sinew of his waking-up body as he walks slowly out the sticky screen door, past the scraps of lumber to the woodshed.

It will take a while in real time, but eventually he gathers the necessary tools - hand drill, hammer, finishing nails, wood screws and screwdriver - to secure the split door frame that caused the screen door to hang askew. Sven heaves a sigh of satisfaction and takes a break to eat lunch.