Written by Jenny Lumet
(Web Extra From the Feb/March 2009 issue of "Written By")

Editor’s note: Writers have asked about a dishwashing scene in Rachel Getting Married, written by Jenny Lumet and directed by Jonathan Demme. Questions, such as, “Why a dishwasher scene?” and “Who would duel by stacking dirty dishes?” and “Why not clean dishes?” have been piling up at Written By. Writers want to know the backstory. So we appealed to Ms. Lumet to elucidate the scene. Her gracious reply follows:

Okay, this is the back story of the dishwasher scene in Rachel Getting Married. In that scene the character of Paul Buchman, father of the bride and played by the miraculous Bill Irwin, is issued a challenge by his imminent son-in-law, Sidney, played by Tunde Adebimpe. Sidney chastises Paul for his poor dish-stacking abilities, mocks him in front of his family (“Buchman, your women will weep”), and reveals his own prowess by loading as many dishes as possible in a two-minute period. At the end of that time, Paul surveys the machine and commands Sidney to unload the dishwasher so he can, “Break out the whup ass.” Carnage ensues.

This was our big action sequence.

But first, a quick note: the character of Sidney was originally named “Mick”; however, Tunde felt strongly the character should be named after Sidney Poitier.

Right on, Tunde.

Here’s what actually happened…

The Pre-Wash

My father is the esteemed movie director Sidney Lumet. He is a person who either is doing a thousand things at once or nothing at all. If he’s not making a movie he’s sitting in a chair until it’s time for a nap. He doesn’t have hobbies. He doesn’t have pastimes. He directs movies or he sleeps. He loves his family, dinner, naps, and Uneeda Biscuits.

However, the celebrity influx, one might assume, was low key and even more irritating, of a fancy pants quality. There might have been the occasional Pacino sighting on East 91st, and a trickle of high-brow artsy folk, but as an 11-year-old it didn’t mean poo. Itzhak shmitzak! Why wasn’t the guy who hosted That’s Incredible! hanging upside down from the ceiling like a bat?

For whatever reason, my dad is obsessed with loading the dishwasher. (And refilling the ice trays, but that’s another movie; it’s in development.) He tried to teach my sister and me The Sidney Lumet Method of Jewish Alchemy and Kitchenology, wherein two things happen: 1) Everything gets put in a plastic container from Zabar’s or wrapped in aluminum foil and goes into the freezer (the Alchemic part is that no matter what it was when it goes in, when it comes out, it’s spaghetti sauce); 2) Cup handles on the diagonal, exterior top rack.

It’s not about the dishwasher itself. A fancy-shmancy machine reflects a lack of confidence (or as my dad would say: “Feh. You still have to load the damn thing”)… and a disrespect for the manly art.

Real men load.

Sidney Lumet whistles when he stacks his little universe, and he’s an excellent whistler, he could do it professionally. Perhaps it’s a director thing (Mr. Jonathan Demme has admitted a fixation), but an improperly loaded dishwasher is apparently the twisting knife in the heart of American Cinema.

All That Jazz Rinse Aid Action

Back to the famous people. One summer evening the director, choreographer, and deep, deep genius Bob Fosse was our dinner guest. He wore a snug, black knit polo shirt, black pants, and a black cashmere sweater over his shoulders. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and his entire languid self seemed to end in the cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the smoke curling exactly as you’d imagine Bob Fosse’s smoke would. This was a gorgeous man.

Do you guys know my dad?

My dad looks like a cantaloupe.

My dad was wearing what he wears when he’s not wearing his night shirt. He was wearing a sweat suit. Not a track suit, as that implies a track, which implies movement. One of several sweat suits that he refers to as his “Fuzzies.” This one was mint green and said Clinique on the front because he got it in a promotional gift bag. It had vinaigrette all over the front because his stomach sticks out and he always drops his salad. As you may have guessed, there is very little sweating in the sweat suit unless there was a particularly strenuous moment of reaching for the butter.

So I’m in the kitchen looking for a Tab, rubbing the dog with my foot, and my dad is loading the dishwasher, because it has to be done before dessert. Apparently dessert plates are notoriously devious and foment rebellion in the machine, so you have to put them in dead last and slam the door on those fuckers.

Enter Bob Fosse through the swinging door, a nice gunslinger/saloon image, perhaps drawn by Sid’s whistling but more likely his own directorial antennae. He leans one hand against the cabinet, looking like some extraordinary jungle cat wrapped in black cashmere, surveys, inhales, and says, “You know Sidney, if you put your containers from Zabar’s in the upper tier and stack the lids, you get at least twenty percent more space in the dishwasher.”

Exhale Fosse.

Beat.

Cue Lumet: “Go fuck yourself, Bob.”

At the time I didn’t think Mr. Fosse was aware of the waters into which he was treading, but looking back, he knew exactly what he was doing. He was playing a game.

A dangerous game.

Okay, so now these two guys, who you might think would have something better to talk about, are loading and unloading the Kenmore in the kitchen , not saying much, not needing to. Letting the techniques speak for themselves.

According to Mr. Bob Fosse, my dad‘s methods are stale, ungraceful, and overly Semitic.

Plus, he puts the forks tines up.

“Only a barbarian, Sidney,” says Mr. Fosse, sighing, heartbroken that his friend and colleague has revealed his true self. “It’s too bad because you have nice kids.”

Deftly bending and stretching with an unimaginable finesse, Bob Fosse fully reloads the machine, with extra points awarded for keeping the lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip and rinsing and stacking the champagne glasses (!) in the upper tier.

Cue Lumet: “You’re paying for every fucking one of those that breaks, you know that.”

From my perch on the stool, Fosse has the edge in sheer athleticism, but never underestimate the tenacity of a Jew who wants to get back to dessert.

“Would you like me to start the machine?” asks Fosse.

“Balls.” says my dad, the poet.

Sidney proceeds to unload the choreographed racks, tut-tutting at the tomato particles left on the salad plates via a substandard rinsing. “It’s a pity, Bob. You’re out of your element. Maybe if the soup spoons were in leotards. Have a seat.”

Commence loading, tines up.

I can’t remember who actually won, meaning who actually got the machine to its greatest capacity. I probably skipped out to watch Charlie’s Angels. The only witness was Penny, my beagle, who has taken the secret to the grave. I didn’t remember all this because I was a prescient 11-year-old thinking, How fabulous, what a wonderful scene this would make. I remembered it because it was psychotic and disturbing behavior. Who does this stuff?

Directors, that’s who. As I said before, Mr. Demme spoke briefly of his fixation, then changed the subject. I have also met a camera operator with the same affliction who said, “I dunno. My wife, she doesn’t get it.”

So far everyone has been male.

I would actually be quite interested, perhaps via Written By magazine, to find out if this issue runs along gender or occupational lines.

Happy racks to all,

Jenny Lumet

Rachel Getting Married has been nominated for a Spirit Award etc. blah blah blah…

(end)