Bonding on Route 66: Lessons Learned from 'The Mother Road'

When I graduated from film school in California, I thought I knew it all. But as every 20-something soon learns, school was just one lesson in life. There would be plenty more to come.

This was never more evident to me than when I took a little journey down Route 66 with my mother, and shot what would eventually be an Emmy Award-winning documentary about it called, fittingly, The Mother Road. Filmmaking 101 can never prepare you for directing your own mother along the Main Street of America: 2,400 miles of pavement and hairpin turns, through eight US states from Chicago to Los Angeles.

Along the way I learned some pretty amusing lessons about trying to film a road picture with your mom on board. Perhaps watching Thelma and Louise, or a classic journey with Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, might have helped. Then again, they didn't cast Irene Cardillo. What was I thinking?

The best part was, I was actually in control, which was a flip on the typical family vacation scenario and the customary parent/child relationship, and caused plenty of friction. Friends and family were betting that one of us would not return alive. Perhaps I saw it as payback for any past travel sins my parents had committed when I was young. (There was that Seine River ride I never got to take because my sister wanted to visit yet another ancient stained-glass church.) My mom? She wasn't nearly as charitable.

When I first asked my mother to join me on our little road trip down America's Main Street, her main question was, Why? I wanted to explore this living icon, and meet the inspiring characters that fast-food-and-franchise America often forget. Route 66 is a piece of American history that is far different from life in big cities. But how would my documentary be unique? While doing a little research, I discovered that my mom and the road were the same age-born the same year. (I can't mention the year here.) That fact provided me with a structure, as well as plenty of laughs and grief.

Irene ignored the aging theme, and finally agreed to hitch a ride. She recalled our first cross-country journey on the way to graduate school. We had a great time back then, although I do remember being threatened with disinheritance somewhere in Nevada when I refused to stop at another slot machine.

This time would be different, though. I don't think my mother realized it until that morning in Chicago when we started shooting. Suddenly there was a six-person crew; three vehicles, including a hot canary yellow Mustang convertible; several cameras, microphones and walkie talkies; and cases of heavily caffeinated drinks. Any idea she had nurtured about being in control disappeared quickly. What would follow would be a learning experience for both of us.

Lesson One. Your mother can be an awfully quick study. The first night we stopped for dinner, Irene walked into the now defunct Dixie Truckers Home in McLean, Illinois, and hit the mark exactly the same way for several takes. My crew and I may have had first-shoot-day jitters, but she was a pro.

She also could even cow our 6-foot-3-inch cameraman, Mark Eveslage. While shooting a cooking segment in Oklahoma with famed Route 66 historian Marian Clark, Irene grew tired of Mark's and my direction. She refused to whip cream any further until he "explained her motivation." I'm sure the look she gave us while uttering those words was copied from Gloria Swanson, or Sigourney Weaver. No matter, we got the point and stopped asking for emotions that resulted from culinary activities.

One later stop at a museum in Texas required Irene to interview an expert on barbed wire. She handled it like a pro, with the right amount of interest and awe. Just try talking about devil's rope for a good two hours, and you'll understand how special that was.

Lesson Two: Directing your mother is a military campaign. You're trying to get emotion and adventure on camera. Your mother will do everything she can to avoid this. My mother and I enjoy a warm, funny and close, yet feisty relationship. I guess we truly are sarcastic, bitchy New Yorkers. Still, the idea of telling your mother exactly what to do, and how, was something I really hadn't processed completely until somewhere in Kansas.
If I was a demanding director, would she leave all the good china to my sister? If she struck an unglamorous pose, would I use it, or leave it on the editing room floor? And how much would I provoke her for the sake of story? It was no more difficult than directing some very high-powered diva, except this one had actually changed plenty of my dirty diapers.

Lesson Three: Moms don't do the natural look. Forget about trying to talk to her without her hair or makeup done, or the proper outfit on. There would be no access to her hotel room. This is Mom. Reality TV had not reached Route 66 yet.

Lesson Four: You may have to be the bad guy. I had some basic ideas about how the film would unfold and places we would visit as we traveled. The theme of aging would be hit upon often, much to my mother's chagrin. Now that I'm a bit older, I understand how she felt when I pointed out pieces of pavement younger in age than her. Growing older is tough, especially on women.

I played the part of the obnoxious interviewer to a T, constantly pushing her buttons. It made for great television. She was a great sport about the constant harping, only hitting me a few times. But if a newcomer should ask her about the trip to this day, she'll talk about what a brat I was.

Neither my mom nor I are morning people. I don't know how she dragged me out of bed one Lent season for daily 8:00 a.m. Mass. Yet, she was game when I said we wanted to capture sunrise over the Painted Desert. Alarms went off at 5:00 a.m. Oops, make that 4:00 a.m.; Arizona doesn't do daylight-saving time. I was definitely in the dog house.

To make it worse, I proposed going into the Painted Desert anyway. Somehow the idea of breaking into a National Park did not sit well with my mother. No matter that there was only one gate surrounded by acres of open terrain. Imagine the toll booth scene in Blazing Saddles. Over the years I have worked with some prominently flinty performers. Michael Jackson, The Beastie Boys, Frank Zappa and Shirley MacLaine come to mind. Many awards and a weighty résumé made no matter, though; Irene completely convinced all of us in very motherly tones that we were not going a step further. I may have been the bad guy, but she was the big dog that day.

Lesson Five: Never let your mother drive. If you let her drive, she'll drive the speed limit. Enough said.

Lesson Six: To paraphrase John Steinbeck, it's the journey that is important, not the destination. I recall the first time I heard of Route 66 was in the Henry Fonda movie, The Grapes of Wrath. The road seemed almost mythical in that film. As a born-and-raised New Yorker, I couldn't imagine that this place truly existed. And we experienced it for more than 2,000 miles. This was the soul of America, and of towns with enduring identities.

So reaching the end at the Santa Monica Pier in California was anti-climactic, and somewhat disappointing. People are less rushed along Route 66, and friendlier. My mother was particularly good at connecting with characters along the road-folks like Stanley Marsh at the Cadillac Ranch outside of Amarillo, Texas; Ginger Gallagher's restaurant family in Pacific, Missouri; Angel Delgadillo in Seligman, Arizona; and even the donkeys in Oatman, Nevada.

Your adventure is over once you hit the Pacific. And that's a pity. My mother proved to be a total trooper as we drove the pavement. Her age did not show as I prodded her to spray-paint an old Cadillac, jump on a motorcycle for the first time or climb aboard a giant jackrabbit. I gained a new appreciation for that fun part of her personality. We don't often get to see such playfulness as we all creep through our adult years.

The history of our country became more vibrant, too. The towns along the road had survived the Dust Bowl, and the flight to the urban centers. And the people along Route 66 are the heart of America that we who live in big cities often forget. My mom still recalls today that our three-week journey was surrounded by friends, new and old. (OK, we'll forget the rude French woman at the Grand Canyon.) Replicating that sense of warmth and belonging is hard to do. No wonder so many international visitors drive Route 66 in search of that mythic America.

Lesson Seven: You like me, you really like me. The ultimate irony is that my mother finally understands what I do to pay the bills. Maybe that's the one lesson I gave her this trip. Try to explain to anyone outside the TV business what a documentary producer or filmmaker does, and you get a blank stare. No longer true in our family. Irene begrudgingly appreciates the logistics, organization and creativity that go into my work. And she's still an expert on barbed wire. To be honest, she would probably be great at the job.

Since our return, The Mother Road has won Emmy, Gracie and CINE awards. It's also been featured on an episode of the radio series, "Oprah and Friends." www.themotherroad.tv.

Lauren Cardillo is currently developing more documentary and feature projects for her company, Fusilli Films, LLC. None involve other family members. She can be reached at learlc@aol.com.