November 2007 Archives

Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Nice.

The festival is still another couple of weeks away, but I flew in early in hopes of finding a place to call home. Only going to be here for a few days, and I ‘am’ going nuts in terms of trying to find a proper hovel, but I’m reaffirmed everytime I meet a potential landlord or agent. It may sound a little nutty to anyone from Vancouver, but out of the 10 property managers I’ve met, 6 of them have met me with a hug. Perfect strangers. Perfectly normal.

I think I’m going to like it here.

Dropped into the festival box office yesterday to say hello. Cool people. Helpful. Warm. Met ‘Sarah’ the festival coodinator and she was great. ‘Carol’ selling tickets. And ‘Tom’ going crazy to get things done. I’m terrible with names, funny I remember them here.

Sun is shining. Blue skies.

Heading for LA tomorrow to spend some time with my family.

Talk soon. C.

Hello Everyone.

I know that I’ve been remiss in my duties over here. The purpose of a blog, is after all… to blog. But I have to say that I’ve been in a bit of a war with myself. I started this thing as an uncensored, day in the life of ‘one film’ kind of journal. Come what may, I would write as best I could my experience throughout the year. Well, I ran into a snag. Sometimes the truth wasn’t always prudent to print, and therefore I pulled a few entries. I did so out of fear, politics, and good business sense. But because of that decision… it’s killed any inspiration to continue writing. And as such, this site, which I once so looked forward to updating, is lying dead in a web not of the ‘world wide’ variety, but of complacency and cowardice. Christ, it’s just one mans opinion. But today, an opinion is like kryptonite. Sticks and stones might break my bones, but ‘names’ will take away your children, livelihood, get you sued and put you in jail for a hate crime.

That said, here’s the posting I pulled after the Vancouver Film Festival. I regreted having to write it, but regret all the more acting like a chicken-shit coward and not posting it.

Here it is and hopefully it will start the ball rolling again.

C.

Tuned in to Turner Classic Movies last night.

For those unfamiliar, TCM screens the old black and white classics, news reels and interviews from the day. It’s an exceptional station for those interested in the Golden Age of film (as opposed to the disposable age). Anyway. It was late, I couldn’t sleep and the program on TCM changed the way I thought of this past week, my career and perhaps the rest of my life.

It was an IN TRIBUTE. An early 1930’s epitaph of those stars of the silent era who had passed away. It was important for it’s day because almost all the stars had achieved their fame before the talkies and once the advent of sound came, they were forgotten faster than yesterdays enchilada.

And again, it wasn’t something current. This was produced back in the 30’s and today only serves as a time capsule. But boy did it get me thinking. Keep in mind how incredibly sad this must have been. It’s 1930. The medium of film as we know it is barely a few decades old. And the word ‘STAR’ had just been coined. (What a word to choose.) Could there possibly be anything brighter.

What that must have been to see two dimensional beings up there on the screen for the first time. Audiences were absolutely blown away. Point a gun at the camera, and you’ve got people crying out. Fire it, and you’ve got ambulances being called to the theater. (A common occurrence.) My God. Why do you think movie houses were eventually constructed as temples? Massive structures dwarfing any town church. Temples of illusion to rival some of the greatest cathedrals. No wonder the Catholics freaked out. It’s hard to remember such structures today. The multiplex killed them. And what few still exist, have had their insides gutted and converted to a style more akin to a 7-11.

The piece was hosted by one of the many pre cursors to Edward R. Murrow. A reporter speaking clearly, without the glitz of anything Entertainment Tonight. No silicone sister to echo the narrative. And though almost monotonic in tone and pentameter, you actually believed him. The man had credibility.

And what he hosted was a simple elegy with clips. Something very close to what you’d see at the Academy Awards when they show those who’ve passed on this year. Only it wasn’t one year, it was instead over the last ten years. The 1910’s and 20’s. The age before sound.

And what I found so profound and sad about it all was the fact that I could barely remember a single name. Face after face. Clip after clip. All forgotten. No longer household names. The shimmer of their stars snuffed out by the talkies. No longer loved. No longer remembered. Dead.

And this was in 1930. The piece was a reminder to those of the day how amazing these people were. Beverly Bayne, Mary Fuller, Mabel Normand, Robert Harron, Janet Gaynor, Doug Fairbanks. And all the while the man was saying, “And the amazing Miss Gaynor. How you will be missed. You will never be forgotten.” All, he continued in one way or another, “Would never be forgotten.”

Well, guess what…

I’ve never heard of half these people. Actors. Stars. Larger than life figures that held audiences in the palms of their hands in ways actors today could never imagine and I, could barely find a reference.

And it just got me thinking about this past festival. Vancouver, in terms of my experience, sucked.

Now look, I’m more than familiar with taking the ‘high road’ and molding my point of view to a philosophical play on words. Cup half full/empty kind of thing. But the ‘high road’ is often a bunch of horseshit. Not that there isn’t such a thing, I just think that most people use it to run away.

So, I’ll give you a small insight into my local festival. My hometown event.

First of all, let me formally announce that I’ve been nominated for the ‘Best Emerging Director Award’ at the Vancouver International Film Festival. Great news. My first ‘nomination’.

Why aren’t I celebrating…?

This is a tricky blog. And I know I’m slicing my own throat politically, but I just can’t stand around with some bullshit smile on my face and pretend. You see it’s hard to get excited about something when the experience itself is soiled by the very organization offering the tribute. And so, what should have been a joy filled announcement of hard won recognition, has instead turned itself into a parody of politics, pride swallowing and pomposity.

Now I don’t want to be misunderstood here. There has been no bigger fan of the Vancouver Film Festival than I. My first taste of the festival was 7 years ago when I wrote and produced a film called Zacharia Farted. And it was an incredible experience. The Vancouver festival was simply exceptional. The bar had been set and it was very high indeed. We spent two years on the circuit with that film and there wasn’t a single festival that even came close in terms of it’s hospitality and professionalism. Well, what a difference 7 years can make. For what has to have been our most anticipated film event of the year, has unfortunately been reduced to a bag of chips.

My first gripe?

The Vancouver International Film Festival told Madison Graie that she doesn’t get a ‘festival pass’ to this years program. Their reason? They don’t give ‘passes’ to Producers of ‘shorts’.

Huh?

Let me get this straight. The Vancouver Film Festival does not give out ‘passes’ to the makers of the short films they are charging people money to see?

Let’s go ‘back’ for a second.

For those of you new to this blog, Madison Graie is the producer of CENTIGRADE. Ie. the filmmaker. The one who ‘produced’ it. Created it from nothing. Made it’s existence a reality. Yes, I directed it, but you can’t direct ether. Someone actually needs to produce the damn movie.

So, you bust your ass to make a film, submit it to the Vancouver International Film Festival and away you go. Now, Vancouver charges you a fee to submit your film. In this case, 50 bucks. (Madison paid it.) Then, when she’s selected, instead of offering her a festival pass (like they do to all filmmakers) they offer her a ‘COMP’ (to her own screening).

A comp.

After that, the festival actually has the audacity to tell her that she needs to ‘PURCHASE A MEMBERSHIP’ in order to validate the ‘comp’ that they gave her (for her own movie.) The cost, three dollars.

Talk about classless. I mean, never mind the fact that she’s put in well over a year of her life on the film, not to mention at least 5,000 dollars of her own money to make the film. And then of course an extra 2,000 dollars that she’s out on publicity and materials for this years festival. And they won’t give her a stupid pass?

Forgive me, but has the well been poisoned or have I lost my fucking mind?

But then again, expectation is the death of everything. And that was OUR mistake. What idiots.

You see, we assumed that Vancouver would have offered us the same courtesy we’ve been granted at every other festival in the world. But, nope. This festival works a little differently.

At the American Film Institute and Saint Louis film festivals, producers of shorts have been honored along side people like John Landis and Roberto Benigni (ie. Madison Graie). At Vancouver they’re not even allowed in the hospitality room.

Naturally, such stupidity has to be a mistake. And so, I took this to a higher court. Surely, this makes the festival look embarrassingly small minded and elitist and somebody needed to know. Therefore, an e-mail was forwarded to the head of the Canadian Images section and to the head of the festival itself. Sorry to report, but neither one has made the effort to reply.

But check this out. As per Vancouver policy, I ‘do’ get a festival pass! I don’t have to be ‘comped’ into seeing Madisons film. I’m the ‘Director’ of a Short and therefore, I get a pass to see any film I want! I am allowed into the hospitality room! I can have a tea without being kicked out!!!

Oh, yes. I’m important. Lucky me.

But you see, I really am lucky. Incredibly lucky. Lucky enough to have a Producer who believed in a project so much that she devoted over a year of her life to it. You can’t ‘direct’ thin air. You need a person you who has the courage to see it through. Because when things got tough, she never quit. I know who was responsible for making this project happen. For seeing it through. Who put her own money on the line. For making Centigrade. It was the one with the guts.

Lucky? There’s no lottery for such a prize.

So, I told them that I wouldn’t be needing their pass. It will be either the both of us, or nothing. What the hell would the thing be worth anyway? If it’s not good enough to go around ‘her’ neck, I sure as hell ain’t putting it around mine.

So, we’ll just pay our own way. Always have. Always will. I’ll just have to pass on the cookie. Add to that a useless media coordinator with the fake bullshit grin pasted to her face, would not let us put up our poster in the media suite. “We do all that.” ie., we ‘control everything’. She assured us that she would put up the poster 3 days before the screening and we had no choice but to acquiesce. Naturally, we didn’t trust her for shit, but what are you going to do? 2 days before our screening, not only was the poster still ‘not’ up, they couldn’t find it.

So we finally just blew her off and stuck up another one ourselves.

PACIFIC CINEMATHEQUE

The Pacific Cinematheque has the absolutely worst reputation of any theater in Vancouver. The sound has always been notoriously bad. The projection system antiquated. They don’t change their bulbs and so films always look like shit. They either don’t change them or crank the amps down low so they don’t have to buy another one. (Bulbs cost upwards to 2,000 bucks.) Sure, you save money that way, but the movies look like shit.

Anyway. It tends to play as a ‘arts theater’ with ‘artsy’ people (which usually means stuck up, no personality) or as a place for film students to graduate. And when we were told that we’d be playing there, it did not sit well.

So, when I went to the theater to put up a poster of the film, it was no surprise that the reception I got was akin to defecating in their lobby. What a bunch of rude, arrogant snobs. My god. This one short haired, man hating militant with malice dripping from her every pore was there to greet me with the worst kind of elitism. Unearned. This was either a union job or the last stop for this one. The Grinch didn’t just steal Christmas, she got a job as manager of the Pacific Cinematheque.

Anyway. The guy there was actually kind of cool and was trying to help. He was going to try to put the poster up inside one of the poster boxes that sit out front of the theater. Well, the ice queen put an end to that. So, I put it up inside the lobby near the entrance to the theater.

On my way out she told me that I better take it down after the screening, because it’ll ‘disappear’.

And I said, “You’re going to steal my poster?”

She said, “No. But things have a way of disappearing around here.”

I said, “Really. Well, I’ll be back to pick it up on Monday.”

She said, “It’ll be gone by then.”

I said, “No, It won’t. Because I’ve also got a screening on Monday. Which means you can’t steal it until Tuesday. Right?”

Unfuckingreal.

Then there was the ‘screening’. A much hyped event (we hyped it) to which many dollars were spent. Again, the Vancouver Festival did shit to help us get the word out and actually refused us even a media list of what news press was attending the festival so we’d have names and numbers. Well, the wicked witch of the media center refused to give us one. So, we had to track them down by the yellow pages. Thanks for the support.

Anyway. So, it’s the big moment. The PREMIERE of CENTIGRADE. 100% full. 90% ours. We have our ‘comps’ so that we can get in and all looks good.

Should have stayed outside.

Centigrade was part of a compilation of shorts chosen by the powers that be to play as part of one program. The STORM SURGE program. Should have called it shit surge.

Sure their were a couple of very good films there, but most were utter garbage. Negative, bad, student, crap. Then throw in the fact that the ‘bulb’ in the projection booth was toast and had the luminosity of a radio shack flashlight. Outcome? You couldn’t see the damn movie. It’s about a guy trapped in a trailer in the middle of a desert. Looked more like midnight with a 80 percent chance of rain.

The whole program sucked. And CENTIGRADE only came off looking stupid. You could barely see it, the light in the projection booth kept coming on and off (casting a glow over the whole damn theater) and it was embarrassing.

The party we threw afterwards was good. But it followed a cinematic car accident. Who the hell was feeling festive? Tons of food and drink. Madison bought everyone a round. And I took care of the food. Madison had also made up ‘Centigrade’ Jerseys and T-shirts and raffled them off to the party goers. It was a classy night. But, it lost it’s shimmer before it even had a chance. Could have been amazing.

I went home and slept until 2:30 the next afternoon.

Then, I woke up and raced to the theatre for our Monday screening. I had to. Those posters cost 75 bucks a pop and I had to get ours pulled down before miss sticky fingers got her hands on it. But once there I had a chat with the projectionist. Well, turns out the bulb wasn’t defective, because the projectionist asked me if I’d like him to “… turn up the amps.”

Ya, turn up the amps.

Film looked better, but still. What a program. It’s almost like if you can convince the National Film Board to finance your film, that’s an instant ‘IN’ at Vancouver. Peas in a pod. When I think of the local films that have been turned down by this festival in favor of the shit I’ve seen, I want to retch.

Anyway… So. The film lets out. It’s Thanksgiving night. And we all think to ourselves, “Where should we go now?” Well, we just finished our screening, how cool would it be to go over to the HOSPITALITY SUITE? Nope. Can’t do that. We’re not allowed in. So, instead of going out to celebrate, we went home.

But hey, I’ve been nominated for Best Emerging Filmmaker.

Feel about as honored as a styrofoam cup. And considering the fact that I told them to take their festival pass and stick it, probably don’t have much of a shot. God knows once this blog is posted, I can pretty much guarantee it. The award will probably go to the short film with the waves lapping over the pebbles while we listen to a poem.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that they have such an award for short films. I really do. Then again, I just remembered that this award is a two thousand dollar award granted by an ANONYMOUS donor. Yup. The Vancouver Festival had no such award for anybody, but somebody felt that there should be. And so, they contacted the festival, put up the cash and created one. Somebody who actually values filmmakers and film. Someone with class.

Bring it on.

Now, what does any of this have to do with a show on Turner Classic Movies? Nothing really. And yet everything. In a few decades I too will become part of the forgotten. Part of the ‘Never Forget’ club. Granted (as far as this festival goes), it’s already happened. But the key difference is that today, I’m still very much alive. Forgotten, but alive.

But my days are short. And I’ve outgrown the place. Perhaps it’s the town itself that’s forgotten. This sheltered orb of complacency. Where the hoodies and other assorted pod people can keep each other in check. Where mediocrity is celebrated and something as stupid as sexual preference is elevated to holy status. Nobody dances here. Nobody truly laughs. And if you do, you’re either on anti depressants or high. Everyone else just looks at you funny. (Or, doesn’t look at you at all.)

Now I have to say that this is absolutely MY opinion. And I wish to leave Madison Graie completely out of it. She will undoubtedly go on to produce films that will probably be submitted to Vancouver. And I’d hate to think that anything I say would hinder that opportunity. Therefore, I take full responsibility. I also wanted to add that through Centigrade (and this festival), I’ve done exceptionally well. I’ve received offers to meet with producers and to broaden my horizons as a director. That’s a hell of a lot better than most.

But, I’m finished. Finished being optimistic. No longer lying to myself. The writings been on the wall for some time now. I’ve made a lot of money here. Found my dream. But, I’m free of it. Let the ghosts haunt their own houses from now on. I’m done. Sure, I’ll still work here. But, that is a world unto itself.

But right now, I’m simply tired of the same festival coordinator coming up to me and introducing herself; THREE TIMES.

And not that I mind being forgotten, it’s the way of life I suppose. I’m just going to try and surround myself with people who aren’t so goddamned afraid of it.