January 2008 Archives

It’s hard to describe the perfect film festival.

A blend of celluloid, celebrity and crystal keggers certainly produce the bulk of any cinematic sandwich. But what is it that makes one great? Location? Perhaps. Certainly frames the experience. Weather? Helps, but it dumped rain here for the first four days.

It’s the people. Always has been, always will be. Doesn’t matter where you are or how many shrimp you can stuff down your gullet. If the people tearing the tickets at the door aren’t welcoming, then you’re not welcome.

This is perhaps the greatest film festival in the world. It’s no surprise to me at all that they have attracted some of the biggest names in Hollywood and beyond. Kate Blanchett, Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, Angelina Jolie. And that’s just the tip of one incredibly impressive list.

We all know of Sundance and Cannes. But those are not so much festivals anymore as they are spectacles. It’s almost like being raised in a small town and then walking into a Home Depot for the first time. Sure, it’s impressive, but it has no soul. This festival has so much soul. It’s the Barry White of film festivals. Incredible staff. Volunteers so professional and friendly, you actually want to help them. Great people. They really are the glue to this event.

That said, for the record.

Roger Durling, you have created something exceptional. Candace Schermerhorn, thank you for the privilege.

SBIFF? Recommended.

The guy in front of me won’t shut up.

I’m sitting on an airplane, on my way to Santa Barbara and the guy just won’t shut up. Thank God he’s not sitting next to me. Swear to God, I’d pretend to fall asleep then throw a nervous elbow into his face. Whoops. Sorry about that.

I’m a pretty non-violent guy, but I believe a well earned wallop to the jaw isn’t all that bad a thing. If a guy’s out of line, then one may be morally obligated to give them a good pop on the nose. You know, as a gift. POP. Don’t mention it.

Hell, in days of old all you’d have to do was cuss in front of a lady and you’d earn a busted lip. (Granted, those were the days when you could find a lady, but I digress.)

Heath Ledger died about four hours ago. I didn’t know it until sitting on the airplane. But there was a stop over in Phoenix, I had my laptop open and I guess I picked up the terminal’s signal. A quick click to the BBC and there it was.

And I’m shocked. Stunned. So, I turned to the guy sitting up ahead of me, breaking the ‘perfect stranger’ protocol and I tell him. “Heath Ledger is dead.” Laughing, the man says, “Ya, I’m all broken up.”

That’s what the man said. And I’ve been sitting here on the plane staring blankly into the seat in front of me trying to get it out of my head. Last time I’d heard anything like it was 9/11 and (as people leaped to their deaths) some liberal wack job at Fitness World said the same thing. (I pushed him into a wall, cracked the mirror and lost my membership.)

And so, I’m at a loss. Do I smack him from behind the seat? I don’t know. That would somehow break the rules, you know? Never kick a man when he’s down. Never smack a guy in a airplane. I have my honor after all.

Perhaps I’ll just let him sit, mouth ajar, cackling into the recycled wind and take comfort that the man is 35,000 feet in the air. For the moment, the world below is a more pleasant place to be.

I was never a big fan of Heath Ledger, but I knew a damn good actor when I saw one. But one doesn’t need to be a fan to feel saddened by his passing. But since Hollywood doesn’t celebrate anything but death, I know by the time I get home, the tributes and musical montages will be choking the airwaves. We’ll have everyone from Danny Bonaducci to Donald Trump commenting on it. Every loser, acquaintance and ex-drug addicted actor coming out of the closet to grant an opinion. Every burp and fart wanna-be rising from the mire to suck on a microphone for their proverbial fifteen. It going to make me sick.

It would make Heath sick.

And that’s about as close as I’ll ever know you brother. You’ve become in death, everything you despised in life. I can only pray for your family and wish you a safe crossing.

As for me? I suppose I’ll just wait for the book deal. Your masseuse will soon have an agent.

Ironically, it’ll probably be yours.

*In other news. A publisher in the Netherlands has been given 3 years hard labour in prison for publishing a cartoon. Arnold Shwarzennegger has banned the terms “Mom and Dad’ from the Los Angeles Unified School District, and the children’s book ‘The Three Little Pigs’ has been deemed “too offensive” to Muslims by England’s Educational Agency and therefore banned.

Worthless bits of news you won’t see on CNN.

Ever been to a ‘GALA’?

Niiiiiice.

You approach the venue with attitude. Your baggage waiting at the door. Cool. That invitation in your hand, instant credibility. Still, no matter how indifferent, hip, nor jaded you think you are, your heart still jumps… just a touch. People converge, oblivious to the work done by others to the enhance the thresh hold and you show your ticket to the man who lets his friends in for free.

The door opens and you step into another world. Ice carved herons. Something in lobster sauce. Pedestrians swimming in Donna Karan and Kenneth Cole. Not a tator, nor tot to be found and it’s a trip. A visceral metaphor of everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve ever despised and you’re scrambling to find your own worth in it all.

Take a breath. Take it all in. It’s your night.

You walk through a sea of PIB’s (People In Black). Celebs. Photographers. The chick with the massive boobs that nobody knows. The knuckle head with the ball cap. The ‘artist’ in sandals. The loud guy.

It’s quite the salad. And I love it.

Only the strange thing is, few are really celebrating.

Now, I don’t personally believe that it should be that way. I know many of these people and they have a reason to celebrate. And yet, they just can’t seem to let go. Instead, they’re rubbernecking to see who else is around. Their self esteem rising or falling depending upon who comes into their field of view.

Never understood that. (Well, sure. When I was fifteen I could.) But then you grow up, bury a few friends, take a few hits. You earn your shoes. And at the end of the day, if not hardened, harder to fool. Right?

But like I said, film festivals are strange things. Intoxicating. Exaggerated. Like an albino at a duck fight, a tad surreal. And it’s easy to get caught up in the complement. People are honored. People are quietly slandered. But both praise and scorn come in paper boxes. The confetti in your hair is not a crown. You know that. But, instead of holding that little gem close, something is forgotten and wammo… you become one of them.

It’s then, one of two things happen. You either get a little too caught up in the glitz. Or, miss the point entirely. And that I hate. Next thing you know you’re seeking validation from those who know little more than their prescription for Percocet and Lamictal.

But people are strange things. See a car smashed at the side of the road, and it’s a tragedy. Put the driver in a car you can’t afford, and they deserved it.

Ah, people.

But ‘I’ couldn’t be happier. Santa Barbara has not only invited CENTIGRADE to screen at their festival, but have also honored us by pairing the film with a feature. Serbia’s Academy submission, THE TRAP.

It’s not only a great thriller but an incredible opportunity for us. 99% of the time, ‘shorts’ go into a shorts program and it’s a roll of the dice. And not to knock such programs, but we are truly overjoyed to have been honored with such a pairing.

That said, thank you Candace Schermerhorn and everyone over at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival. We truly appreciate it.

As for the Gala?

I can’t wait.

I have more reasons to celebrate than Santa Barbara has films to show. Therefore, I will be showing up tall. Grateful. Honored to be a part of it all, but also to represent those back home who couldn’t make it. My crew, my cast, my producers. My friends. There are no better people in the world and I’m privileged to be a part of their company and this celebration of film.

So bring on the Glitz! Bring on the Glamour! Bring on the GALA!

I for one ‘will’ be celebrating.

And if you’re lucky enough to be there, please say hello. I’ll be easy to spot. Just to the right of the heron. Somewhere between super boobs and the ball cap.

There. With the grin.

The one in pink.