The only person who can save a small Connecticut family from falling apart is the one who's pretending nothing is wrong. In one of the most honest films of this generation, an ordinary day is transformed into a luminous testimonial of courage, sacrifice, and love.

  • Erik Champney
  • Erik Champney
  • Jackson Eagan
  • Randy Borruso
    Executive Producer
  • Dylan Goodwin
  • Marrick Smith
    Music "I Forgot To Remember You"
  • Daniel V. Masciari
  • Randy Borruso
    Key Cast
  • Danielle Alonzo
    Key Cast
  • Dana O'Neal
    Key Cast
  • Dylan Goodwin
    Key Cast
  • Matt Cianfrani
    First Assistant Camera
  • Daria Huxley
    Second Assistant Camera
  • Ryan McCluney
  • Nick Pietroniro
    Key Grip
  • David Thompson
    Sound Mixer
  • Marcus Blair
    Grip and Electric Swing
  • Samantha Molée
    Hair and Makeup
  • Samson Herbert
    Art Department
  • Jonny Islieb
    Associate Producers
  • Adam Boura
    Associate Producers
  • Dana O'Neal
    Associate Producers
  • Harvey Lipman
    Production Assistants
  • Jonny Islieb
    Production Assistants
  • Adam Boura
    Production Assistants
  • Samson Herbert
    Production Assistants
  • Tony Laureano
    Production Assistants
  • Alex Knight
    Production Assistants
  • Stephen Edwards
    Production Assistants
  • Project Type:
  • Runtime:
    16 minutes 4 seconds
  • Completion Date:
    September 4, 2021
  • Production Budget:
    35,000 USD
  • Country of Origin:
    United States
  • Country of Filming:
    United States
  • Language:
  • Shooting Format:
  • Aspect Ratio:
  • Film Color:
  • First-time Filmmaker:
  • Student Project:
Director Biography - Erik Champney

Erik Champney is a disabled queer artist who grew up disabled, grew up queer, and grew up an artist. He does all three exceptionally well and, often, simultaneously. Due to a muscle deficiency in his legs, he spent most of his childhood undergoing extensive surgeries that made it possible for him to walk. In response to his frequent isolation from other children, a robust imagination was ignited and Erik has been creating since he was four years old. At the age of fifteen, he was first commissioned to write a play by renowned children’s theatre Peter Pan Players.

Erik’s work has been produced, developed, and celebrated across the United States and beyond through such organizations as Kierstead Productions, Broadway Factor, the Bay Area Playwrights Festival, Potomac Theatre Project, Dartmouth College, La MaMa, Seattle Fringe Festival, Abingdon Theatre Company, Above the Stag Theatre in London, and Home Club in Singapore. He has enjoyed collaborations with remarkable people, including Alan Cumming, Christy Altomare, Garrett Clayton, Misha Osherovich, Susannah Perkins, Erich Bergen, Leigh Silverman, Sheryl Kaller, and Jim Kierstead.

In his formative years, Erik was a member of Young Playwrights Inc., where he studied under Stephen Sondheim, John Weidman, and Wendy Wasserstein. Other notable influences have been B. Mark Seabrooks, Leigh Silverman, and Craig Lucas. He received a B.A. in both Theatre and English from Centenary College of Louisiana followed by a M.F.A. in Dramatic Writing from NYU Tisch School of the Arts.

Tuesday is Erik's debut film as screenwriter and director, in collaboration with rising cinematographer, Jackson Eagan.

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Director Statement

Of course, there would be no music. This wasn’t an artistic choice. Artistic choices are emotionally driven and, sometimes, innovative commitments to nuance, flamboyance, flaunting, and attention-seeking, decided upon by leaders who wish to thrill themselves. All the better if audiences find similar fulfillment from them, but, frankly, the basic respect for the audience has diminished them to be seen as unified blobs and not as individuals sitting together in a shared location. Artistic choices are necessary for art to be art, sure, but a series of practical decisions, born from logic, are how art is made palatable. A creation can certainly be powerful in its ability to perplex, requesting analysis from people who are left scratching their heads and asking, “Huh?” I enjoy a good puzzle, but the creations I find more arresting are authentically lifelike. The ones that cause people to widen their eyes in recognition and whisper, “Oh.” The absence of music was a practical choice, made without emotion, intended to evoke emotion from the viewer — raw, beautiful, embarrassing, real.

“Tuesday” began with a conversation, as do all projects, but this was different. Randy Borruso wanted to make a film that contained three non-negotiable elements: 1) the deteriorating mental faculties of an elderly parental figure; 2) a song that, upon hearing it, would snap this person into total cognizance; 3) emotionally paralyzed adult children who are lousy caretakers. Many ideas came to mind that addressed each aspiration, but it was the concept of the song that hooked me. Of all the songs I’ve ever known, what one would have power enough to pluck me from the ether and put me back into my body? If a song in a movie is to have such meaning rooted into the depth of a character’s soul, that song must be the only music ever heard. To wrap it up inside a score, even if that score expressed variations of the song’s melody, would be to flush out the significance of its existence.

The fantasy of achieving overall significance and the pressure upon a work to be marked “significant” will be the ruin of film and theatre. Audiences, again, are not blobs capable only of a unified perspective. Yet one detail, here being the song, may have a universal reach while achieving a million impacts. It is a piece called “I Forgot to Remember You,” written especially for “Tuesday” by Marrick Smith. It makes a diegetic entrance in this world, ultimately transitioning into a lively soundtrack over a fun, lighthearted montage of interactions between two characters. The presentation suggests nothing serious or worrisome is in play. It’s all quite delightful until the soundtrack is abruptly severed, along with the montage, and the audience collides into a moment of unbearable, private vulnerability that makes clear the previous sequence was the social media version of the experience these two characters are sharing. Anything suggesting less than an enviable good time has been omitted. Plummeting from that illusion into the truth, a truth with no music to tell audiences what to do about their feelings, was a practical decision that allows this film a truly significant moment — the moment when the audience realizes “Tuesday” is, most unexpectedly, calling on them to be brave and participate.

“Tuesday” is about so much and so little, as is every day of every week in our lives. The message, should there be one, comes from you and is yours to understand. What I am offering is a family and a home that welcomes you, cares about you, and knows you are more than capable of emotion that is yours alone and not borrowed from subliminal suggestions made by my cinematographer, my script, my actors, my composer. “Tuesday” isn’t radical nor is it a razzle-dazzle spectacle. It isn’t interested in politics or checking boxes. “Tuesday” never tries to be anything but what it is: pure and unusual in its effortless honesty.

And it’s kind. Sincerely, irrevocably kind. That, more than anything, is its edge.