Still no Quest update. I've been writing a lot lately. It's mostly not stuff I'm going to be posting on Blogspot anytime soon. But I'm still writing, and I want you to know, I'm NOT letting my creative dreams die. No matter what. Times are tough, but they'll get better and until they do, I can't be just giving up on everything in the mean-time.
Well, okay I'll post something. Just to prove I can. Dig it! (
***
"block party"
There once was a man whose name was Stan.
Stan lived in a little brown townhouse in Kalamazoo.
Every morning Stan's garage door would open and a little green sedan would roll out -- but nobody was inside. The car would drive away down the street, and then the garage door would shut.
Hours later, like clockwork, the little sedan would reappear on the street, drive back up into the garage, and the door would shut again -- all without a single soul in sight.
Eventually the people of the neighborhood decided to confront Stan about this. They waited until the next morning, when the garage door opened once more and the ghostly car rolled out -- and after it had gone, they stormed the place. Some came through the front. Others went around the back. Doors were kicked in. People were climbing through windows, trampling flowerbeds, breaking glass. Somebody even stepped on Stan's cat.
They ransacked the entire house, but Stan was nowhere to be found.
Instead of leaving, the mob decided to wait for the car to come back. They raided the kitchen for snacks and beer. Someone turned on dance music. Before long a fairly large-sized party had broken out. Folks were showing up at Stan's house from all around the neighborhood, greeting friends, bringing more booze. The downstairs quickly became overrun with revelers. The upstairs bedrooms were occupied almost as fast.
At one point somebody in Stan's living room thought he heard a garage door open. Everyone around him was busy browsing through Stan's personal DVD collection, weighing and debating Stan's taste in quality movies. Nobody else had heard anything. The matter was dropped.
Weeks later the little green sedan was found gutted and hollowed out at the bottom of the Michigan River. There was no body inside.
The police went to Stan's little brown townhouse in Kalamazoo to inform him that his vehicle had been destroyed. They knocked on the door. A topless woman opened the door. She said she didn't know who Stan was, or anything about him. She ran out into the street and disappeared.
The police came into the house, only to discover a massive four-alarm block party raging at full force. They unplugged the music, flushed all the illicit substances, and cleared everybody out -- then searched the house top-to-bottom for Stan. But he wasn't there.
Meanwhile, the mad party continued out on the street.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
speaking of slow summers
Maybe it's time for Iggy to take a little break.
Once the Quest starts rolling again, I'll be back here with something to say, but for now the blog is on hiatus until further notice. I'm going to work hard on a few different little projects, keep incubating some other ideas. If anything develops you'll be the first to hear about it. Otherwise, there's not much to talk about here.
Until next time...
Once the Quest starts rolling again, I'll be back here with something to say, but for now the blog is on hiatus until further notice. I'm going to work hard on a few different little projects, keep incubating some other ideas. If anything develops you'll be the first to hear about it. Otherwise, there's not much to talk about here.
Until next time...
Sunday, August 23, 2009
big pink fleshy things
This is an honest question I've been asking myself. What kind of person actually succeeds in a career of directing movies?
I used to think it didn't matter what kind of person you are -- as long as you're able to consistently make creative and interesting choices. If you make enough good choices, people will enjoy your movies, and zip, bang, pow, you've got a career.
But there's another side to Hollywood, particularly for a director. The people side. No kidding -- a great director is the type of person who can unify hundreds of people on a crew under his-or-her "vision", and then, further, can actually sell his-or-her "vision" to the suits. That's really the first step, because no matter how creative or interesting your choices, you've gotta get shit done, and to do that, you've gotta get ears. Lots and lots of ears, all tuned and in agreement with every word that drops out your mouth. Without ears, you don't make a movie.
And remember, always remember, there are thousands of other kids waiting in line right behind you, waiting for you to fail so they can whip out the big grin and lay on the charisma and get all the ears YOU wanted to get, and then they're getting shit done and making movies and you're laid out in your apartment stoned watching Whose Line reruns at two in the afternoon on a motherfuckin' Wednesday.
So maybe it doesn't matter how talented or smart or creative you are, if you can't get ears. People have gotta listen to you. Respect you. Take you seriously. And you gotta win those ears and win them over fast, or you're Farrah Fawcett.
But hey, at least I can write. Right?
In other news I just won "most morbid blog post reference" for the second month in a row! Score.
I used to think it didn't matter what kind of person you are -- as long as you're able to consistently make creative and interesting choices. If you make enough good choices, people will enjoy your movies, and zip, bang, pow, you've got a career.
But there's another side to Hollywood, particularly for a director. The people side. No kidding -- a great director is the type of person who can unify hundreds of people on a crew under his-or-her "vision", and then, further, can actually sell his-or-her "vision" to the suits. That's really the first step, because no matter how creative or interesting your choices, you've gotta get shit done, and to do that, you've gotta get ears. Lots and lots of ears, all tuned and in agreement with every word that drops out your mouth. Without ears, you don't make a movie.
And remember, always remember, there are thousands of other kids waiting in line right behind you, waiting for you to fail so they can whip out the big grin and lay on the charisma and get all the ears YOU wanted to get, and then they're getting shit done and making movies and you're laid out in your apartment stoned watching Whose Line reruns at two in the afternoon on a motherfuckin' Wednesday.
So maybe it doesn't matter how talented or smart or creative you are, if you can't get ears. People have gotta listen to you. Respect you. Take you seriously. And you gotta win those ears and win them over fast, or you're Farrah Fawcett.
But hey, at least I can write. Right?
In other news I just won "most morbid blog post reference" for the second month in a row! Score.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
don't live here
Another night in Orange County, land of the rich and the bored, where the climate never changes and all the bars close at 11PM sharp.
This place is a prison, and these people aren't your friends.
We've built a pretty damned comfortable existence for ourselves in this little enclave of the world. Consider the length of life's evolution, from boiling sludge in a primordial ooze, through all manners of beasts and filthy creatures, ranged across a brutal world trapped in the terrible grip of entropy, time, death and decay. Now here we are, little pink fleshy creatures with baseball caps and pay phones and space programs. Humans. The pinnacle of all Creation. And we're so terrified of the rest of the world that we build places like Orange County, where people can go to pretend they're dead and in Heaven, to hide far, far away from all the nastier aspects of existence on Earth.
If you've ever been here, it's quite amazing. They might as well play theme music from hidden speakers in the rocks. It's Disneyland for grownups -- except nobody who lives here realizes it's not real, it's a sham, it's just a shiny happy bubble filled with shiny happy people. No one here could tell you that. They show you the theme parks and the beaches and the strip malls, they show you the million-dollar houses, the bright white sidewalks and rolling green grass. It's all really very impressive, actually. I should know -- I lived here for eighteen years.
Then you leave here and the bubble pops. And you realize, now you're in the Real World, you're fucked.
But that's okay too, because in the long run, everybody's fucked! We're all just fleshy organisms -- we eat, we sleep, we die.
All the nifty little plastic things you bought for yourself are going to be melted down for fuel someday. All the complexities of your social hierarchies and the rules you've invented are houses of cards, and a simple breath of wind will blow it all away. None of it matters. You just didn't know it before you left Orange County.
The illusion of permanence. Perhaps that's the greatest sin of this place.
This place is a prison, and these people aren't your friends.
We've built a pretty damned comfortable existence for ourselves in this little enclave of the world. Consider the length of life's evolution, from boiling sludge in a primordial ooze, through all manners of beasts and filthy creatures, ranged across a brutal world trapped in the terrible grip of entropy, time, death and decay. Now here we are, little pink fleshy creatures with baseball caps and pay phones and space programs. Humans. The pinnacle of all Creation. And we're so terrified of the rest of the world that we build places like Orange County, where people can go to pretend they're dead and in Heaven, to hide far, far away from all the nastier aspects of existence on Earth.
If you've ever been here, it's quite amazing. They might as well play theme music from hidden speakers in the rocks. It's Disneyland for grownups -- except nobody who lives here realizes it's not real, it's a sham, it's just a shiny happy bubble filled with shiny happy people. No one here could tell you that. They show you the theme parks and the beaches and the strip malls, they show you the million-dollar houses, the bright white sidewalks and rolling green grass. It's all really very impressive, actually. I should know -- I lived here for eighteen years.
Then you leave here and the bubble pops. And you realize, now you're in the Real World, you're fucked.
But that's okay too, because in the long run, everybody's fucked! We're all just fleshy organisms -- we eat, we sleep, we die.
All the nifty little plastic things you bought for yourself are going to be melted down for fuel someday. All the complexities of your social hierarchies and the rules you've invented are houses of cards, and a simple breath of wind will blow it all away. None of it matters. You just didn't know it before you left Orange County.
The illusion of permanence. Perhaps that's the greatest sin of this place.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
what a weird pic
Ahhh... Nice, slow summer!
It's a slow summer nationwide, actually. We're all a bit stuck in the mud these days. The economy is a goddamned mess, and all the smartest people know it's going to get worse before it gets better. Personally... I blame Enron.
So, is it just me -- or are a lot of the movies this summer pretty much awful?
I mean last year we had Dark Knight, Iron Man, Wall-E, Tropic Thunder... hell, even Kung Fu Panda and Get Smart (which was CRIMINALLY underrated!!)
This year we've got The Ugly Truth... Ice Age 3... Bruno... I Love You Beth Cooper... Year One... and of course "Julie & Julia". Not to mention the three movies linked above.
Pretty dire.
To be fair here -- 2008 had its share of crap -- and 2009 has produced a few solid flicks.
But my point stands, I think. I'm just not extremely impressed with the current state of affairs in Hollywoodland. It's all a little too brain-dead for my taste, and I think America would agree with me.
But then again, box office business is booming.
It's a slow summer nationwide, actually. We're all a bit stuck in the mud these days. The economy is a goddamned mess, and all the smartest people know it's going to get worse before it gets better. Personally... I blame Enron.
So, is it just me -- or are a lot of the movies this summer pretty much awful?
I mean last year we had Dark Knight, Iron Man, Wall-E, Tropic Thunder... hell, even Kung Fu Panda and Get Smart (which was CRIMINALLY underrated!!)
This year we've got The Ugly Truth... Ice Age 3... Bruno... I Love You Beth Cooper... Year One... and of course "Julie & Julia". Not to mention the three movies linked above.
Pretty dire.
To be fair here -- 2008 had its share of crap -- and 2009 has produced a few solid flicks.
But my point stands, I think. I'm just not extremely impressed with the current state of affairs in Hollywoodland. It's all a little too brain-dead for my taste, and I think America would agree with me.
But then again, box office business is booming.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
fair and unbiased journalism
Alright, alright, fine, fine... so here's the straight dope on 500 Days of Summer.
Now keep in mind, I've been cursed by the screenwriter gods to look at every film as basically a moving script. Every line that rolls off a character's tongue, I see it written down in 12 point Courier. I don't know why, but I do. It's an extremely useful way to learn how to write movies... and I can't possibly understate that fact. Especially not when I use words like "extremely".
From that perspective, you can see why I was a little nervous at first when I sat down to watch 500 Days of Summer -- as it was written by Scott Neustadter and Michael Weber, the "ingenues" behind only one other movie in their careers -- Pink Panther 2. I never saw it, but admit it, neither did you. It flopped harder than New Coke.
We start off 500 Days with a fairly bitter written disclaimer. Already I can sense where this thing is headed: it's a pure revenge piece. Some girl broke poor Scott Neustadter's heart, and in retaliation, he and his wingman Michael Weber decided to turn her into cinema. Luckily this isn't an alien concept to most of us -- heartbreak -- we've all been there, so it's refreshing to see some honesty up on the screen right off the bat.
We meet Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), a 25-something college dropout working at a greeting card company, the type of guy who doesn't lack for brains or ability, but simple motivation. He dreams of being an architect, but never took any classes. We're also introduced to several characters who have no bearing on the plot whatsoever -- two generic friends, a wise little sister, and Tom's boss -- four people without any kind of dramatic arc or anything of substance to say. It's a shame, really, because a sharp re-write could have excised a lot of the dead air from the movie.
But guess what: most of the bad parts of my review are already out of the way. Because once we're introduced to Tom's new co-worker Summer (Zooey Deschanel) the frequently uninspired dialogue takes a back seat, and the love story that "isn't a love story" is quickly set free, bursting with whimsy and sincerity. That's an odd combination, but oddly enough, it works.
Much of the success of 500 Days of Summer has to be credited to the director, Marc Webb. His keen eye for detail is very effective in painting a portrait of a Mysterious Beauty, through snapshots, moments, bits and pieces of reality. This style of filmmaking evokes an overall "sense" of a relationship as well as some of the very best romantic comedies (Annie Hall, Eternal Sunshine, Say Anything).
And it's the sequences without dialogue in this film that truly shine -- such as a split-screen of expectations vs. reality, a wordless scene referencing The Graduate, an intimate train ride at sunset, and yes, a showstopping infectious dance number set to Hall & Oates. We feel these moments just as the writers probably once did, at times commiserating with Tom, at others, high-fiving him.
Now I'm not a professional actor by any means (and if you saw the movie, you can attest to that as well), so I always feel awkward critiquing an actor's performance. That being said -- both leads impressed me. Joseph Gordon-Levitt has come a long way from seeing invisible Christopher Lloyds behind every dugout. His character was shockingly understated, considering he was the Male Lead in a Romantic Comedy. You just don't see that these days. Refreshing. Yet there was a deceptive amount of craft in his mannerisms. Much props to him, for sure. Much props.
Meanwhile, Zooey was Zooey -- the same "spaced-out-pin-up girl" thing she always does. Her role may have been a little underwritten by the Pink Panther duo. But she definitely brought a certain kind of honesty to the part, an honesty that made Summer seem almost (but not quite) sympathetic. Trust me: you're rooting for Tom the whole way. But that's not necessarily a bad thing.
(And from my point of view, her and Tom could have been the only two people in the entire film. It's their story. The TV-sitcom sidekick characters didn't bother me too much, and they were well enough acted, but they just never had much of a reason to exist.)
Maybe I've been too harsh on the screenwriters. The script had several terrific ideas that were clearly on the page from Day One. The dialogue wasn't bad at all for a modern indie, all things considered. And hey -- they make a hell of a lot more money than I do... that's for sure! I only think with a little more polish, 500 Days could've been a new genre-defining movie for not only a new generation, but for all generations. The music, cinematography, acting, and direction were all great -- and the writing was simply "good".
But in the final analysis, what's remarkable about this movie -- and why you should support it, and spend money to see it in theaters -- is its bleeding, beating heart. 500 Days of Summer is a film about love that actually aspires to Greatness. It's earnest and hopeful, as well as entertaining and easily relatable. While the movie doesn't quite get where it wants to go, it contains many moments of sneaky brilliance.
In a way, it's like Annie Hall's much younger, ADD-fueled little brother. If that doesn't get your butt in a seat, I don't know what else to tell you. Oh, and I'm in it.
8.5/10
Now keep in mind, I've been cursed by the screenwriter gods to look at every film as basically a moving script. Every line that rolls off a character's tongue, I see it written down in 12 point Courier. I don't know why, but I do. It's an extremely useful way to learn how to write movies... and I can't possibly understate that fact. Especially not when I use words like "extremely".
From that perspective, you can see why I was a little nervous at first when I sat down to watch 500 Days of Summer -- as it was written by Scott Neustadter and Michael Weber, the "ingenues" behind only one other movie in their careers -- Pink Panther 2. I never saw it, but admit it, neither did you. It flopped harder than New Coke.
We start off 500 Days with a fairly bitter written disclaimer. Already I can sense where this thing is headed: it's a pure revenge piece. Some girl broke poor Scott Neustadter's heart, and in retaliation, he and his wingman Michael Weber decided to turn her into cinema. Luckily this isn't an alien concept to most of us -- heartbreak -- we've all been there, so it's refreshing to see some honesty up on the screen right off the bat.
We meet Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), a 25-something college dropout working at a greeting card company, the type of guy who doesn't lack for brains or ability, but simple motivation. He dreams of being an architect, but never took any classes. We're also introduced to several characters who have no bearing on the plot whatsoever -- two generic friends, a wise little sister, and Tom's boss -- four people without any kind of dramatic arc or anything of substance to say. It's a shame, really, because a sharp re-write could have excised a lot of the dead air from the movie.
But guess what: most of the bad parts of my review are already out of the way. Because once we're introduced to Tom's new co-worker Summer (Zooey Deschanel) the frequently uninspired dialogue takes a back seat, and the love story that "isn't a love story" is quickly set free, bursting with whimsy and sincerity. That's an odd combination, but oddly enough, it works.
Much of the success of 500 Days of Summer has to be credited to the director, Marc Webb. His keen eye for detail is very effective in painting a portrait of a Mysterious Beauty, through snapshots, moments, bits and pieces of reality. This style of filmmaking evokes an overall "sense" of a relationship as well as some of the very best romantic comedies (Annie Hall, Eternal Sunshine, Say Anything).
And it's the sequences without dialogue in this film that truly shine -- such as a split-screen of expectations vs. reality, a wordless scene referencing The Graduate, an intimate train ride at sunset, and yes, a showstopping infectious dance number set to Hall & Oates. We feel these moments just as the writers probably once did, at times commiserating with Tom, at others, high-fiving him.
Now I'm not a professional actor by any means (and if you saw the movie, you can attest to that as well), so I always feel awkward critiquing an actor's performance. That being said -- both leads impressed me. Joseph Gordon-Levitt has come a long way from seeing invisible Christopher Lloyds behind every dugout. His character was shockingly understated, considering he was the Male Lead in a Romantic Comedy. You just don't see that these days. Refreshing. Yet there was a deceptive amount of craft in his mannerisms. Much props to him, for sure. Much props.
Meanwhile, Zooey was Zooey -- the same "spaced-out-pin-up girl" thing she always does. Her role may have been a little underwritten by the Pink Panther duo. But she definitely brought a certain kind of honesty to the part, an honesty that made Summer seem almost (but not quite) sympathetic. Trust me: you're rooting for Tom the whole way. But that's not necessarily a bad thing.
(And from my point of view, her and Tom could have been the only two people in the entire film. It's their story. The TV-sitcom sidekick characters didn't bother me too much, and they were well enough acted, but they just never had much of a reason to exist.)
Maybe I've been too harsh on the screenwriters. The script had several terrific ideas that were clearly on the page from Day One. The dialogue wasn't bad at all for a modern indie, all things considered. And hey -- they make a hell of a lot more money than I do... that's for sure! I only think with a little more polish, 500 Days could've been a new genre-defining movie for not only a new generation, but for all generations. The music, cinematography, acting, and direction were all great -- and the writing was simply "good".
But in the final analysis, what's remarkable about this movie -- and why you should support it, and spend money to see it in theaters -- is its bleeding, beating heart. 500 Days of Summer is a film about love that actually aspires to Greatness. It's earnest and hopeful, as well as entertaining and easily relatable. While the movie doesn't quite get where it wants to go, it contains many moments of sneaky brilliance.
In a way, it's like Annie Hall's much younger, ADD-fueled little brother. If that doesn't get your butt in a seat, I don't know what else to tell you. Oh, and I'm in it.
8.5/10
Saturday, July 11, 2009
july 17th... why, that's next weekend!!
Okay, so remember my post about being an extra on 500 Days of Summer?
I mentioned that the director did a shot where the camera seemed to be pointed right at me.
Well, yesterday I managed to get a sneak peek at The Scene that I was in. I'm not linking it because I'd rather not spoil anything, but there IS a link out there, if you really look hard enough.
And yup -- I'm in it. For two stray seconds, I'm in the movie, in my band uniform, with my saxophone, getting my dance on. Marc Webb and company basically used two quick shots of the band, and I was in one of them: the close-up shot.
Hell to the yes!!!
----
I had a couple very quick reactions when I first saw the clip. First came the inevitable "I'M IN A MOVIE, OMFG". Then it quickly switched over to "I'M IN A MOVIE IN MY BAND UNIFORM... OMFG?"
But then I realized without that uniform, I'd never have been in this movie. So you can't throw the baby out with the bathwater, as they say. Unless you're Andrea Yates. I'm not even going to link that one either, you'll have to look it up.
----
All of this to say... go see My New Movie on July 17th when it hits theaters in limited release!
Also, if you would, make sure to call Fox Searchlight and let them know how much you enjoyed the performance of the alto guy in the marching band. If they're interested, you can refer them to my blossoming IMDb page. I also have a resume available.
Anyone? No?
(Tangentially -- wouldn't it be awesome to get a credit for 500 Days of Summer on my IMDb as "Alto Guy #1"? I should look into this.)
I mentioned that the director did a shot where the camera seemed to be pointed right at me.
Well, yesterday I managed to get a sneak peek at The Scene that I was in. I'm not linking it because I'd rather not spoil anything, but there IS a link out there, if you really look hard enough.
And yup -- I'm in it. For two stray seconds, I'm in the movie, in my band uniform, with my saxophone, getting my dance on. Marc Webb and company basically used two quick shots of the band, and I was in one of them: the close-up shot.
Hell to the yes!!!
----
I had a couple very quick reactions when I first saw the clip. First came the inevitable "I'M IN A MOVIE, OMFG". Then it quickly switched over to "I'M IN A MOVIE IN MY BAND UNIFORM... OMFG?"
But then I realized without that uniform, I'd never have been in this movie. So you can't throw the baby out with the bathwater, as they say. Unless you're Andrea Yates. I'm not even going to link that one either, you'll have to look it up.
----
All of this to say... go see My New Movie on July 17th when it hits theaters in limited release!
Also, if you would, make sure to call Fox Searchlight and let them know how much you enjoyed the performance of the alto guy in the marching band. If they're interested, you can refer them to my blossoming IMDb page. I also have a resume available.
Anyone? No?
(Tangentially -- wouldn't it be awesome to get a credit for 500 Days of Summer on my IMDb as "Alto Guy #1"? I should look into this.)
Sunday, July 5, 2009
doubt II: electric boogaloo
"Doubt" -- revisited.
You know, I'm really not that insecure of a person. I just like writing drama -- and sometimes I use insecurity as a dramatic tool. It's a color in the paint box that most writers are afraid to use. In this day and age, confidence is currency. But then again, perhaps it's a mark of real confidence, to be honest and open in those moments when you're lacking confidence?
In reality I'm just working on my craft. That's all this blog is, that's all it ever will be.
Whatever dark crevices I can pull inspiration out of -- I'll pull.
The truth is, doubt is something that all of us deal with on a daily basis. Doubt is with us when we wake up, it sits next to us in the car on the way to work, it pops up on billboards and TV screens and advertisements, and in our daily interactions with friends and coworkers alike. It lives in our house, sleeps in our bed, steals food from our kitchen, pisses in our sink, and shits in our shoes. It looms around every corner -- behind every reflection -- under every shiny facade.
Don't try to tell me you don't know it's there. You feel it, too. You see it everywhere you look.
And guess what... It's OKAY to acknowledge that doubt is there!!
Yeesh. When did it become socially unacceptable to express any sort of psychological weakness? When was it that everybody suddenly got "better"? Are there no damaged people left anymore? Did they all die out, or go into hiding -- or are they just "faking it" like everyone else? Why do we feel this crazy need to "fake it", as though we want other folks to believe our lives are perfect? Isn't that the definition of insecurity??
Think about this. The next time you ask someone "how are you?" -- see if they answer you honestly.
Here's a hint: they won't.
Because in real life, nobody answers that question truthfully. When you ask how they are, the "proper response" is something like "Good" or "Great" or even "F-in' Fantastic, thanks for asking". Nobody wants to tell you how they're really doing. They know you just want to hear a positive response! So they give you what you really want. That's a socially accepted rule.
So we hide our flaws. We value perfection -- but not only that -- we value the ability to project perfection.
Here's a weird, radical idea: That is bullshit.
No way should that be one of our social values. We aren't perfect, none of us. Let's stop pretending we are. Let's celebrate our flaws -- because they make us human.
[/soap box]
You know, I'm really not that insecure of a person. I just like writing drama -- and sometimes I use insecurity as a dramatic tool. It's a color in the paint box that most writers are afraid to use. In this day and age, confidence is currency. But then again, perhaps it's a mark of real confidence, to be honest and open in those moments when you're lacking confidence?
In reality I'm just working on my craft. That's all this blog is, that's all it ever will be.
Whatever dark crevices I can pull inspiration out of -- I'll pull.
The truth is, doubt is something that all of us deal with on a daily basis. Doubt is with us when we wake up, it sits next to us in the car on the way to work, it pops up on billboards and TV screens and advertisements, and in our daily interactions with friends and coworkers alike. It lives in our house, sleeps in our bed, steals food from our kitchen, pisses in our sink, and shits in our shoes. It looms around every corner -- behind every reflection -- under every shiny facade.
Don't try to tell me you don't know it's there. You feel it, too. You see it everywhere you look.
And guess what... It's OKAY to acknowledge that doubt is there!!
Yeesh. When did it become socially unacceptable to express any sort of psychological weakness? When was it that everybody suddenly got "better"? Are there no damaged people left anymore? Did they all die out, or go into hiding -- or are they just "faking it" like everyone else? Why do we feel this crazy need to "fake it", as though we want other folks to believe our lives are perfect? Isn't that the definition of insecurity??
Think about this. The next time you ask someone "how are you?" -- see if they answer you honestly.
Here's a hint: they won't.
Because in real life, nobody answers that question truthfully. When you ask how they are, the "proper response" is something like "Good" or "Great" or even "F-in' Fantastic, thanks for asking". Nobody wants to tell you how they're really doing. They know you just want to hear a positive response! So they give you what you really want. That's a socially accepted rule.
So we hide our flaws. We value perfection -- but not only that -- we value the ability to project perfection.
Here's a weird, radical idea: That is bullshit.
No way should that be one of our social values. We aren't perfect, none of us. Let's stop pretending we are. Let's celebrate our flaws -- because they make us human.
[/soap box]
Friday, July 3, 2009
adam west > al pacino
Holy hell, Batman!!
Things are getting pretty bleak around here!
It's an affront to the very spirit of the American Dream! That dream for which we all fight day after day!
Don't you think you're sending the wrong message here with that threatening stance?
"You're right, Robin. I'll put down this Bat-amarang and we'll discuss it. By the way, is that a new cape?"
...Yeah.
"Cute."
All right. Let's hit the brakes on this little Batman intro.
.....
When I become the greatest writer-director in the world I'm going to give Adam West more work. Look at the expression on his face! Pure concentration. With every bone in his body, he commits.
I don't have much else to say. Fireworks are going off everywhere right now. I guess Independence Day Eve is good enough for some people. I'm out
Things are getting pretty bleak around here!
It's an affront to the very spirit of the American Dream! That dream for which we all fight day after day!
Don't you think you're sending the wrong message here with that threatening stance?
"You're right, Robin. I'll put down this Bat-amarang and we'll discuss it. By the way, is that a new cape?"
...Yeah.
"Cute."
All right. Let's hit the brakes on this little Batman intro.
.....
When I become the greatest writer-director in the world I'm going to give Adam West more work. Look at the expression on his face! Pure concentration. With every bone in his body, he commits.
I don't have much else to say. Fireworks are going off everywhere right now. I guess Independence Day Eve is good enough for some people. I'm out
sean's story
I was fifteen years old when I first met Sean. He was a year older than me, a sophomore (I was a freshman), and he played the trumpet. We were bandmates -- we went to the WBA state championships in San Diego that year. We had several mutual friends. We even dated the same girl (though not at the same time). Yet neither of us said a single word to each other the entire school year.
It wasn't my fault, and it wasn't his. Some people just never find a reason to talk to each other.
Sean was an only child, and a military child. His father was a high-ranking leader in the United States Army. The job implied a singularly strange definition for the word "home". He'd lived in about twelve different cities, in five different countries. Now Sean was in Orange County, California, and for the time being, California was "home". His father spent most of that first year commuting to Camp Pendleton, meeting with other commandants day and night, organizing tactical battle plans for American military action.
It was 2003, and the country was at war with a feeling: terror. U.S. troops were mobilizing in the ruins of Afghanistan. The corrupt Taliban had been crushed two years prior, but insurgents were slowly gathering, pooling their resources, reorganizing the remnants of its army. Now a true test of the U.S. military presence in Afghanistan would begin -- and to withstand it, they'd need a good senior operations officer.
As the quiet summer drew to an end and my sophomore year began, Sean's father approached my mother with an unusual request.
The two had met the previous year in band parent meetings, and they'd developed a fairly close friendship. So the news must have been a bit shocking -- but not altogether unexpected: Sean's father was being called into active duty in the war in Afghanistan. Sean was to be left in California, alone and unsupervised at their small apartment, with no relatives who possessed the means to care for him.
Somewhere along the line, an idea was hatched: "Wait wait. Hold on a sec. Doesn't Iggy have a bunk bed in his room? Isn't one of his beds usually empty? After all, he's only one person, and one person doesn't sleep in two beds! Who needs two beds, anyway? So there's one empty bed in Iggy's room, right? One empty bed."
And so it was that Sean and I became roommates for the next nine months.
We developed a tenuous friendship, out of sheer necessity. I learned a lot about Sean within a matter of days. He was quiet, geeky, with a wicked dry, pitch-black sense of humor. He had a tight group of friends and didn't push far beyond it. He was extremely proud of his trumpet ability and intellect, which was enormous, but in school he refused to apply himself. He was clinically depressed, and he also suffered from mild ADD. He spent the majority of his waking hours playing Everquest on an old Pentium III we set up for him on the dining room table.
I genuinely liked the guy. I did. Because I knew his problems weren't any fault of his own. He'd had a right shitty childhood. Moving constantly, never having time to make friends or create a healthy social life. Divorce, alcoholism, drug abuse ran through his family like bloodlines. For all the hell life had put him through, he'd come out the other side as well-adjusted as I could possibly imagine. We had a lot of good times together.
Sean eventually took medication for his depression, but not at first. The diagnosis was finally confirmed about a month after he moved in. My mother told me confidentially, and also mentioned she would be paying for his treatment. I wasn't wild about the idea -- I'd never been wild about any of this -- but I let her run the show. Plus, it was about time. His attitude had become a problem, around the dinner table and throughout the house. He was consistently negative and often insulting toward every member of the family. He didn't respect my mother's authority, and he had only contempt for our new puppy, a shot-in-the-arm black ball of life named Rory.
So we started him on pills. And for a time, it was good.
But after a couple months, the pills weren't working anymore. He was back to his old ways. I didn't really mind, as I've always been somewhat of a cynic myself. I think it was hardest on my mom. She desperately wanted to help him, to heal his wounds somehow. Wounds that had been gashed years ago, wounds that had transformed and scabbed over and gnarled into ugly scars. It couldn't be done. She'd tried church -- our youth group. It didn't take. She'd tried the pills. She'd tried counseling. Nothing was working.
It was April 2004 when my mother finally gave in. We were driving somewhere, just the two of us. It didn't matter where we were going. This was an emergency meeting, a summit for a mother and her firstborn son.
She was nearly in tears. She told me what Sean had become to our family: a vortex of negative energy, a black hole of sarcasm and depression. She feared that we as a clan had been clouded with his bad juju. In a way, she was right. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so little interest in things that used to bring me joy. We were having more arguments per week than ever before. Everyone was a little brusque, a little disgruntled, a little snappish. And she was convinced it was Sean's depression that had done this to us. She wanted him out.
I told her it would only be a couple of months until his dad returned from Afghanistan. We shouldn't be so hard on him. He was a good kid at heart, under all the layers of defense. In fact, I told her, he and I were making progress. We were becoming real friends. I told her to reschedule a doctor's appointment, find a different medication, give him another chance.
So we did.
At this point I think we could all see the finish line -- me, my mom, my sister and even Sean. His dad was coming back in a matter of weeks. The overall mood lifted as we charged ahead, through testing season and up to the end of the school year. Things were changing. He'd found a regimen of medication that was working for him, I'd fallen in love with a girl, and my sister was graduating from middle school.
It almost snuck up on us when it happened. Sean's dad arrived in California two weeks ahead of schedule -- and just like that, Sean was out. I had my own room again.
Just like that.
The dining room table almost seemed empty without him there, sitting at his old computer, leveling up his warlocks.
In the years that have passed since then, I've seldom thought about what happened during those nine strange months. But I think Sean's legacy stayed with us in some ways, and though I can't speak for my family, I know he's stayed with me.
Sometimes I catch myself in a particularly bad place, or a particularly foul mood, and I wonder how Sean must have felt, dealing with what he had to deal with on a daily basis. Occasionally I've entertained the notion that I might be mildly depressed myself. I've seen it firsthand. Insomnia. Loss of interest in daily activities and social life. Loss of appetite. Loss of weight. Loss of wonder. Loss of joy. It's like a quiet buzzing some days, white noise in my head. Other days I can barely get out of bed. I've even wondered, in the back of my mind, what pills my mom eventually found for him -- and whether I could find a solution in the same vein. Of course I don't entertain these thoughts out loud. Even speaking them here is giving me goosebumps, and not the good kind either.
If you were hoping for a conclusion to this story, there isn't one. Sean and I parted ways after that year; he went back to his friends, and I went back to mine. We saw each other around school the next year, and apart from a certain familiar understanding between us, we hardly ever spoke. He left for community college in 2005. I haven't seen him since. Our families no longer keep in touch.
If he ever reads this, and I highly doubt he will... I'd like to catch up. Maybe hang out, play some Burger Time or NES Ninja Turtles, for old time's sake. I'd like to sit down somewhere and talk about things. Maybe even get some advice. I don't really understand what's happening to me, and I think you'd understand it better than I could. And one more thing -- I'd like to know if life got better when you went to college -- or if it got worse.
I sincerely hope it got better.
It wasn't my fault, and it wasn't his. Some people just never find a reason to talk to each other.
Sean was an only child, and a military child. His father was a high-ranking leader in the United States Army. The job implied a singularly strange definition for the word "home". He'd lived in about twelve different cities, in five different countries. Now Sean was in Orange County, California, and for the time being, California was "home". His father spent most of that first year commuting to Camp Pendleton, meeting with other commandants day and night, organizing tactical battle plans for American military action.
It was 2003, and the country was at war with a feeling: terror. U.S. troops were mobilizing in the ruins of Afghanistan. The corrupt Taliban had been crushed two years prior, but insurgents were slowly gathering, pooling their resources, reorganizing the remnants of its army. Now a true test of the U.S. military presence in Afghanistan would begin -- and to withstand it, they'd need a good senior operations officer.
As the quiet summer drew to an end and my sophomore year began, Sean's father approached my mother with an unusual request.
The two had met the previous year in band parent meetings, and they'd developed a fairly close friendship. So the news must have been a bit shocking -- but not altogether unexpected: Sean's father was being called into active duty in the war in Afghanistan. Sean was to be left in California, alone and unsupervised at their small apartment, with no relatives who possessed the means to care for him.
Somewhere along the line, an idea was hatched: "Wait wait. Hold on a sec. Doesn't Iggy have a bunk bed in his room? Isn't one of his beds usually empty? After all, he's only one person, and one person doesn't sleep in two beds! Who needs two beds, anyway? So there's one empty bed in Iggy's room, right? One empty bed."
And so it was that Sean and I became roommates for the next nine months.
We developed a tenuous friendship, out of sheer necessity. I learned a lot about Sean within a matter of days. He was quiet, geeky, with a wicked dry, pitch-black sense of humor. He had a tight group of friends and didn't push far beyond it. He was extremely proud of his trumpet ability and intellect, which was enormous, but in school he refused to apply himself. He was clinically depressed, and he also suffered from mild ADD. He spent the majority of his waking hours playing Everquest on an old Pentium III we set up for him on the dining room table.
I genuinely liked the guy. I did. Because I knew his problems weren't any fault of his own. He'd had a right shitty childhood. Moving constantly, never having time to make friends or create a healthy social life. Divorce, alcoholism, drug abuse ran through his family like bloodlines. For all the hell life had put him through, he'd come out the other side as well-adjusted as I could possibly imagine. We had a lot of good times together.
Sean eventually took medication for his depression, but not at first. The diagnosis was finally confirmed about a month after he moved in. My mother told me confidentially, and also mentioned she would be paying for his treatment. I wasn't wild about the idea -- I'd never been wild about any of this -- but I let her run the show. Plus, it was about time. His attitude had become a problem, around the dinner table and throughout the house. He was consistently negative and often insulting toward every member of the family. He didn't respect my mother's authority, and he had only contempt for our new puppy, a shot-in-the-arm black ball of life named Rory.
So we started him on pills. And for a time, it was good.
But after a couple months, the pills weren't working anymore. He was back to his old ways. I didn't really mind, as I've always been somewhat of a cynic myself. I think it was hardest on my mom. She desperately wanted to help him, to heal his wounds somehow. Wounds that had been gashed years ago, wounds that had transformed and scabbed over and gnarled into ugly scars. It couldn't be done. She'd tried church -- our youth group. It didn't take. She'd tried the pills. She'd tried counseling. Nothing was working.
It was April 2004 when my mother finally gave in. We were driving somewhere, just the two of us. It didn't matter where we were going. This was an emergency meeting, a summit for a mother and her firstborn son.
She was nearly in tears. She told me what Sean had become to our family: a vortex of negative energy, a black hole of sarcasm and depression. She feared that we as a clan had been clouded with his bad juju. In a way, she was right. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so little interest in things that used to bring me joy. We were having more arguments per week than ever before. Everyone was a little brusque, a little disgruntled, a little snappish. And she was convinced it was Sean's depression that had done this to us. She wanted him out.
I told her it would only be a couple of months until his dad returned from Afghanistan. We shouldn't be so hard on him. He was a good kid at heart, under all the layers of defense. In fact, I told her, he and I were making progress. We were becoming real friends. I told her to reschedule a doctor's appointment, find a different medication, give him another chance.
So we did.
At this point I think we could all see the finish line -- me, my mom, my sister and even Sean. His dad was coming back in a matter of weeks. The overall mood lifted as we charged ahead, through testing season and up to the end of the school year. Things were changing. He'd found a regimen of medication that was working for him, I'd fallen in love with a girl, and my sister was graduating from middle school.
It almost snuck up on us when it happened. Sean's dad arrived in California two weeks ahead of schedule -- and just like that, Sean was out. I had my own room again.
Just like that.
The dining room table almost seemed empty without him there, sitting at his old computer, leveling up his warlocks.
In the years that have passed since then, I've seldom thought about what happened during those nine strange months. But I think Sean's legacy stayed with us in some ways, and though I can't speak for my family, I know he's stayed with me.
Sometimes I catch myself in a particularly bad place, or a particularly foul mood, and I wonder how Sean must have felt, dealing with what he had to deal with on a daily basis. Occasionally I've entertained the notion that I might be mildly depressed myself. I've seen it firsthand. Insomnia. Loss of interest in daily activities and social life. Loss of appetite. Loss of weight. Loss of wonder. Loss of joy. It's like a quiet buzzing some days, white noise in my head. Other days I can barely get out of bed. I've even wondered, in the back of my mind, what pills my mom eventually found for him -- and whether I could find a solution in the same vein. Of course I don't entertain these thoughts out loud. Even speaking them here is giving me goosebumps, and not the good kind either.
If you were hoping for a conclusion to this story, there isn't one. Sean and I parted ways after that year; he went back to his friends, and I went back to mine. We saw each other around school the next year, and apart from a certain familiar understanding between us, we hardly ever spoke. He left for community college in 2005. I haven't seen him since. Our families no longer keep in touch.
If he ever reads this, and I highly doubt he will... I'd like to catch up. Maybe hang out, play some Burger Time or NES Ninja Turtles, for old time's sake. I'd like to sit down somewhere and talk about things. Maybe even get some advice. I don't really understand what's happening to me, and I think you'd understand it better than I could. And one more thing -- I'd like to know if life got better when you went to college -- or if it got worse.
I sincerely hope it got better.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
8-sploitation
Remember a couple weeks ago when I wrote about the sick circus sideshow that is "Jon and Kate Plus Eight"? Well, it's only getting sicker.
According to breaking news on yesterday's IMDb front page... the dream, officially, is dead. Jon and Kate Gosselin are filing for divorce.
The tragic news was announced on a very special hourlong episode Monday night, on TLC. I didn't see the episode, because I believe in democratic television, and I think a dark TV set is about as good as a vote for change. If the former Mr. and Mrs. Gosselin wanted to further exploit their eight underaged children for the benefit of fame, talk shows and headlines, and a hefty cut of advertising profit -- they could do it without me.
10.6 million Americans watched the episode. It was the largest audience in TLC's history, and the highest cable TV number of 2009.
Sick.
Jon and Kate are now topping headlines across the country, as the drama of their infidelities and emotional abuse unfolds in front of a hungry, frothing multitude. Lost in the hurricane, once again, are their children. They've known fame since the day of their birth. Now because of their parents' self-seeking actions, the magnifying glass over their family has fallen even closer. The psychological trauma of growing up with a camera man sitting in your crib pales in comparison to the Greek tragedy of your family's seismic breakup playing out right in front of the wide-eyed American mass media.
I ask again, what will become of these kids -- Cara, Madelyn, Alexis, Hannah, Leah, Joel, Aaden and Collin -- when they're old enough to make decisions on their own? Where will they go for help? What will they do?
Oh no, just wait... you haven't even heard the best part!
Jon and Kate Gosselin aren't done yet. Despite the emotional trauma that their divorce has surely caused to the family -- The Show must go on. "Jon and Kate" will not die.
TLC is putting the show on a so-called "hiatus" for the next few weeks, while their producers and story editors hold frantic emergency meetings in supply closets and rear parking lots across Hollywood, scrambling to piece together a narrative to keep their highest-rated TV franchise afloat.
Ideas are being pitched left, right and center. Perhaps Kate will take the kids to South America on a bonding trip. Maybe Jon could buy a new summer home in the Hamptons with a heated swimming pool in the shape of a giant dollar sign
and all the little shits can splash around while Jon discusses alimony settlements with his lawyer on the patio, leaving the cameramen to supervise in case one of the brats goes under or loses consciousness. Maybe we could even put a faulty suction tube at the bottom of the pool to suck one of them down and trap them there for a minute, so Jon could courageously leap in and save them.
God, wouldn't that be great television?
The sickest thing of all is, it would be. And it would probably get tons of viewers, and publicity, and media coverage. Because that's how the system works.
One last thought... You think Jon and Kate Gosselin don't know how the system works? Think again. They know exactly how much publicity their antics are generating, and they're milking it for every last drop.
According to breaking news on yesterday's IMDb front page... the dream, officially, is dead. Jon and Kate Gosselin are filing for divorce.
The tragic news was announced on a very special hourlong episode Monday night, on TLC. I didn't see the episode, because I believe in democratic television, and I think a dark TV set is about as good as a vote for change. If the former Mr. and Mrs. Gosselin wanted to further exploit their eight underaged children for the benefit of fame, talk shows and headlines, and a hefty cut of advertising profit -- they could do it without me.
10.6 million Americans watched the episode. It was the largest audience in TLC's history, and the highest cable TV number of 2009.
Sick.
Jon and Kate are now topping headlines across the country, as the drama of their infidelities and emotional abuse unfolds in front of a hungry, frothing multitude. Lost in the hurricane, once again, are their children. They've known fame since the day of their birth. Now because of their parents' self-seeking actions, the magnifying glass over their family has fallen even closer. The psychological trauma of growing up with a camera man sitting in your crib pales in comparison to the Greek tragedy of your family's seismic breakup playing out right in front of the wide-eyed American mass media.
I ask again, what will become of these kids -- Cara, Madelyn, Alexis, Hannah, Leah, Joel, Aaden and Collin -- when they're old enough to make decisions on their own? Where will they go for help? What will they do?
Oh no, just wait... you haven't even heard the best part!
Jon and Kate Gosselin aren't done yet. Despite the emotional trauma that their divorce has surely caused to the family -- The Show must go on. "Jon and Kate" will not die.
TLC is putting the show on a so-called "hiatus" for the next few weeks, while their producers and story editors hold frantic emergency meetings in supply closets and rear parking lots across Hollywood, scrambling to piece together a narrative to keep their highest-rated TV franchise afloat.
Ideas are being pitched left, right and center. Perhaps Kate will take the kids to South America on a bonding trip. Maybe Jon could buy a new summer home in the Hamptons with a heated swimming pool in the shape of a giant dollar sign
and all the little shits can splash around while Jon discusses alimony settlements with his lawyer on the patio, leaving the cameramen to supervise in case one of the brats goes under or loses consciousness. Maybe we could even put a faulty suction tube at the bottom of the pool to suck one of them down and trap them there for a minute, so Jon could courageously leap in and save them.
God, wouldn't that be great television?
The sickest thing of all is, it would be. And it would probably get tons of viewers, and publicity, and media coverage. Because that's how the system works.
One last thought... You think Jon and Kate Gosselin don't know how the system works? Think again. They know exactly how much publicity their antics are generating, and they're milking it for every last drop.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
my all-star lineup...
I still have to make up for that Sanjaya abomination. So here are some nicer pictures.
my first job
Let's clear the water after that mishap, shall we?
This may not have been stated already on this blog, but it's an important bit of information you should know: I'm a member of the Marching Band at my esteemed university. And I don't know how to put this but... it's kind of a big deal.
The Band plays at all home football games (in one of the most famous college football stadiums in the world), all home basketball games and postseason games, and numerous on-campus sporting events and other gigs. We were mocked all our lives for putting on our silly caps with feathers, shiny capes, and dinkles. Now we're on TV every week in front of millions. The thing about our Band is that we happen to be a part of a major university, in the grip of the media capital of the U.S., so we're also constantly being asked to send small groups to do bigger jobs -- TV shows, commercials, movies, gigs at exclusive hotels/clubs/parties, etc.
I can only brag about this kind of thing because for the most part, I'm never chosen to do any of these gigs.
But last spring before my sophomore year ended, a job came up that I knew I had to do. If there was ever a time to call in my favors, beg and plead and whine and argue for a gig -- this was it. Fox Searchlight had asked our Band for a small group to dress in full uniform, with instruments, to be paid extras in a feature film. And given my new career path -- I wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.
I emailed my assistant director and told her I was pursuing a career in movies, and I wanted a shot at experiencing a day on-set. Two days later I got the list of people selected. Out of 250 band members, I had been chosen, along with sixteen others. I was going to get my very first taste of the Hollywood machine.
Going into the shoot, I'd only heard the title of the movie: "500 Days of Summer". Sounded like a typical indie whatever. Fox Searchlight has made a name for itself releasing films like Napoleon Dynamite, Little Miss Sunshine and Juno -- could it be possible I'd be involved with their next big independent summer hit?
It was a quiet morning in June -- still dark outside -- when I met the other saxophone player at the turnaround outside De Neve. We'd been emailed a copy of the song we were going to be faking: Hall and Oates' "You Make My Dreams Come True". I had listened to the song and honestly, my first thought was "how the hell am I going to fake this?" There's no sax part -- in fact there's nothing even close to a sax part. Luckily my saxophone friend had burned a CD for us with the song, and he played it -- on repeat -- the entire way to Downtown. I quickly realized this song would become the bane of my existence. And I kept thinking I'd have to figure out a way to fake it on camera in the next three hours, or my movie career would be kaput. This would prove to be a slight exaggeration.
We showed up at "base camp" (which is Hollywood slang for the trailers and lunch tables, where all production stuff is run) at about 6 AM. Sax guy #2 and I met with the other band members near Crafty (craft services), grabbed some delicious muffins for breakfast, and piled into a 15-passenger van to make the trip to set. I thought I recognized Zooey Deschanel coming out of a production trailer. My God, she's beautiful. Wish I had pictures.
After a few minutes we arrived at a random city park in Downtown. The van stopped at a turnaround and we all jumped out, looking around for cameras, lights, anything -- but it was just a random driveway. We milled around. Finally a production coordinator came along and hustled us up some stairs, around a corner and out into... what?
It looked like some type of construction site. Cranes and forklifts backing up, generators humming, assistants hustling around carrying waivers and coffee. I took a waiver, passed on the coffee. Signed my name, circled the time. I didn't know it at the moment, but I would end up working twelve full hours that day plus four overtime. But time is a funny thing on a movie set. Two hours had already somehow gone by, and it felt like we were just getting started.
All of us band geeks were already dressed out in uniform, and many of us broke out textbooks and homework while we waited for someone to tell us what to do. The director (Marc Webb) was busy conferring with the choreographer and lead actor, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. I was stoked on meeting this guy -- and what 90's kid wouldn't be?
That's him on the right. One of the classic movies of my childhood. If you don't know what it is, I'm leaving you out in the outfield on this one.
And I'm happy to report that he's genuinely a nice guy, and seemed very appreciative of the work we did as a Band.
We heard the choreographer working with a bunch of dancers, while Webb blasted "You Make My Dreams Come True" over gigantic speakers. I struck up a conversation with our friendly production coordinator, who I've now realized was also in charge of "wrangling extras". This is something I had to do on Wedding Palace, and given the number of extras we had that day, it is actually zero percent fun. She was real nice, though. She told me to stay in school and avoid the film industry at all costs. I didn't want to disagree, so I kept my mouth shut. But it's interesting to note that she's not the only one to tell me this, by far. Several other people I met that day told me to steer clear of the Biz. I think career production people actually hate their lives. That's why I'm sticking with writing.
Finally we were rehearsing with the choreographer. It was a huge dance sequence, and adding the Band was the icing on the cake. We crossed in front of the huge Panavision camera in formation, added in a spinny-sequence, and then truck-stepped out of there. The routine was quite fun. Having to listen to "You Make My Dreams Come True" about 117 times in a row made it all the more special.
I couldn't help but notice, as the director brought us back in for close-up shots, that I was positioned right in front for the new shot. Sure enough, we did the cross, the spinny sequence, and the truck-step, all with me centered in the frame.
I acted my heart out in those few takes. Did the spinnies with all the spinny passion I could muster. Truck-stepped with total trucking enthusiasm. I understood it was meant to be a goofy scene. I tried to fit the mood with the routine, even though it was pretty tough to maintain all of that at once. After the set-up, Mark Webb and the choreographer complimented us all on a job well done. Apparently, we nailed it.
They did a few other scenes as the daylight burned away. Joseph Gordon-Levitt was a much better dancer than I expected. Our assistant band director even jumped into a bunny-rabbit costume before they decided to cut the dancing mascots. They worked with a gigantic fountain. I consumed a bunch of crappy craft-services snacks and got some studying done. Eventually, they called the band back over for one last scene.
In stark contrast to the huge dance sequence -- this was set to be a sad day for our leading man. He walked by the steps where we sat, and all the extras rose as one and booed the shit out of him. One of our trumpet dudes even managed to get a joke in the scene that they ended up keeping. Who knows if any of that stuff made the final cut. After the scene was over, we all crowded around Webb and Gordon-Levitt as they thanked us for our hard work. Sixteen hours had finally passed -- sunlight was sinking -- and it was time to go home.
I spent so much time that morning worrying about how I was going to "act", worrying that people would notice if I wasn't actually playing. As it turned out, the scene went off beautifully and nobody even thought to question why there wasn't a full band in the soundtrack. In fact... according to early reviews, our dance sequence is one of the most memorable parts of the movie, and "500 Days of Summer" is turning a lot of heads. Sundance gave it a standing ovation. So far it's at 100% on Rotten Tomatoes. And clearly, it's all because of me.
It opens July 17. I haven't seen it yet, but you can bet your sally ass I'm getting tickets on opening night for me and whoever else wants to go. It's my big screen debut. How could I miss it?
This may not have been stated already on this blog, but it's an important bit of information you should know: I'm a member of the Marching Band at my esteemed university. And I don't know how to put this but... it's kind of a big deal.
The Band plays at all home football games (in one of the most famous college football stadiums in the world), all home basketball games and postseason games, and numerous on-campus sporting events and other gigs. We were mocked all our lives for putting on our silly caps with feathers, shiny capes, and dinkles. Now we're on TV every week in front of millions. The thing about our Band is that we happen to be a part of a major university, in the grip of the media capital of the U.S., so we're also constantly being asked to send small groups to do bigger jobs -- TV shows, commercials, movies, gigs at exclusive hotels/clubs/parties, etc.
I can only brag about this kind of thing because for the most part, I'm never chosen to do any of these gigs.
But last spring before my sophomore year ended, a job came up that I knew I had to do. If there was ever a time to call in my favors, beg and plead and whine and argue for a gig -- this was it. Fox Searchlight had asked our Band for a small group to dress in full uniform, with instruments, to be paid extras in a feature film. And given my new career path -- I wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.
I emailed my assistant director and told her I was pursuing a career in movies, and I wanted a shot at experiencing a day on-set. Two days later I got the list of people selected. Out of 250 band members, I had been chosen, along with sixteen others. I was going to get my very first taste of the Hollywood machine.
Going into the shoot, I'd only heard the title of the movie: "500 Days of Summer". Sounded like a typical indie whatever. Fox Searchlight has made a name for itself releasing films like Napoleon Dynamite, Little Miss Sunshine and Juno -- could it be possible I'd be involved with their next big independent summer hit?
It was a quiet morning in June -- still dark outside -- when I met the other saxophone player at the turnaround outside De Neve. We'd been emailed a copy of the song we were going to be faking: Hall and Oates' "You Make My Dreams Come True". I had listened to the song and honestly, my first thought was "how the hell am I going to fake this?" There's no sax part -- in fact there's nothing even close to a sax part. Luckily my saxophone friend had burned a CD for us with the song, and he played it -- on repeat -- the entire way to Downtown. I quickly realized this song would become the bane of my existence. And I kept thinking I'd have to figure out a way to fake it on camera in the next three hours, or my movie career would be kaput. This would prove to be a slight exaggeration.
We showed up at "base camp" (which is Hollywood slang for the trailers and lunch tables, where all production stuff is run) at about 6 AM. Sax guy #2 and I met with the other band members near Crafty (craft services), grabbed some delicious muffins for breakfast, and piled into a 15-passenger van to make the trip to set. I thought I recognized Zooey Deschanel coming out of a production trailer. My God, she's beautiful. Wish I had pictures.
After a few minutes we arrived at a random city park in Downtown. The van stopped at a turnaround and we all jumped out, looking around for cameras, lights, anything -- but it was just a random driveway. We milled around. Finally a production coordinator came along and hustled us up some stairs, around a corner and out into... what?
It looked like some type of construction site. Cranes and forklifts backing up, generators humming, assistants hustling around carrying waivers and coffee. I took a waiver, passed on the coffee. Signed my name, circled the time. I didn't know it at the moment, but I would end up working twelve full hours that day plus four overtime. But time is a funny thing on a movie set. Two hours had already somehow gone by, and it felt like we were just getting started.
All of us band geeks were already dressed out in uniform, and many of us broke out textbooks and homework while we waited for someone to tell us what to do. The director (Marc Webb) was busy conferring with the choreographer and lead actor, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. I was stoked on meeting this guy -- and what 90's kid wouldn't be?
That's him on the right. One of the classic movies of my childhood. If you don't know what it is, I'm leaving you out in the outfield on this one.
And I'm happy to report that he's genuinely a nice guy, and seemed very appreciative of the work we did as a Band.
We heard the choreographer working with a bunch of dancers, while Webb blasted "You Make My Dreams Come True" over gigantic speakers. I struck up a conversation with our friendly production coordinator, who I've now realized was also in charge of "wrangling extras". This is something I had to do on Wedding Palace, and given the number of extras we had that day, it is actually zero percent fun. She was real nice, though. She told me to stay in school and avoid the film industry at all costs. I didn't want to disagree, so I kept my mouth shut. But it's interesting to note that she's not the only one to tell me this, by far. Several other people I met that day told me to steer clear of the Biz. I think career production people actually hate their lives. That's why I'm sticking with writing.
Finally we were rehearsing with the choreographer. It was a huge dance sequence, and adding the Band was the icing on the cake. We crossed in front of the huge Panavision camera in formation, added in a spinny-sequence, and then truck-stepped out of there. The routine was quite fun. Having to listen to "You Make My Dreams Come True" about 117 times in a row made it all the more special.
I couldn't help but notice, as the director brought us back in for close-up shots, that I was positioned right in front for the new shot. Sure enough, we did the cross, the spinny sequence, and the truck-step, all with me centered in the frame.
I acted my heart out in those few takes. Did the spinnies with all the spinny passion I could muster. Truck-stepped with total trucking enthusiasm. I understood it was meant to be a goofy scene. I tried to fit the mood with the routine, even though it was pretty tough to maintain all of that at once. After the set-up, Mark Webb and the choreographer complimented us all on a job well done. Apparently, we nailed it.
They did a few other scenes as the daylight burned away. Joseph Gordon-Levitt was a much better dancer than I expected. Our assistant band director even jumped into a bunny-rabbit costume before they decided to cut the dancing mascots. They worked with a gigantic fountain. I consumed a bunch of crappy craft-services snacks and got some studying done. Eventually, they called the band back over for one last scene.
In stark contrast to the huge dance sequence -- this was set to be a sad day for our leading man. He walked by the steps where we sat, and all the extras rose as one and booed the shit out of him. One of our trumpet dudes even managed to get a joke in the scene that they ended up keeping. Who knows if any of that stuff made the final cut. After the scene was over, we all crowded around Webb and Gordon-Levitt as they thanked us for our hard work. Sixteen hours had finally passed -- sunlight was sinking -- and it was time to go home.
I spent so much time that morning worrying about how I was going to "act", worrying that people would notice if I wasn't actually playing. As it turned out, the scene went off beautifully and nobody even thought to question why there wasn't a full band in the soundtrack. In fact... according to early reviews, our dance sequence is one of the most memorable parts of the movie, and "500 Days of Summer" is turning a lot of heads. Sundance gave it a standing ovation. So far it's at 100% on Rotten Tomatoes. And clearly, it's all because of me.
It opens July 17. I haven't seen it yet, but you can bet your sally ass I'm getting tickets on opening night for me and whoever else wants to go. It's my big screen debut. How could I miss it?
summer vacation
Summer vacation. The perfect time to be tall, buff and shirtless. Or if your name is Sanjaya... just shirtless.
Oh God! I can't believe I just did that. I was all set to write up a nice post about summertime and how great it is. Now I have to go pour rubbing alcohol in my eyes and spend three weeks in the shower.
Don't worry readers. I know I made a big deal about my (body) size. But at least I'm better looking than this dude.
Oh GOD. There's really no way to recover this post now-- I'll try again later.
Oh God! I can't believe I just did that. I was all set to write up a nice post about summertime and how great it is. Now I have to go pour rubbing alcohol in my eyes and spend three weeks in the shower.
Don't worry readers. I know I made a big deal about my (body) size. But at least I'm better looking than this dude.
Oh GOD. There's really no way to recover this post now-- I'll try again later.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
it's good karma...
game 3 of denver series -- big win on the road for LA.
It's probably greedy to predict a win tonight, but I think this team has it in them. I'm not going to predict it. Instead I'm just gonna watch.
two more games and it's in the history books.
It's probably greedy to predict a win tonight, but I think this team has it in them. I'm not going to predict it. Instead I'm just gonna watch.
two more games and it's in the history books.
by the way
For those of you who are still here after that crazy rant the other day...
That's right -- a small kitten, bent in half and stuffed into a tiny heart-shaped box -- just for you.
That's right -- a small kitten, bent in half and stuffed into a tiny heart-shaped box -- just for you.
beam me UP scotty
I saw Up and Star Trek last weekend... Yes, my taste in movies is exactly what advertisers tell me it should be. And yes, both movies are super-candidates for bona fide BSB status. But remember what I said (roughly): "When a buckblastin-blockbuster works, IT WORKS." And both movies were fantastic.
I give Up ups for its sheer audacious originality, and Star Trek deserves kudos for its talented cast of actors. Both movies had insane visuals and CGI. Both were well-directed (Pete Docter for Pixar, J.J. Abrams for Paramount) and well-written enough to make HUNDREDS of millions worldwide... and these are not easy things to accomplish by any means. If you don't think so, ask yourself how many other people are putting out $100M+ films.
Now granted, both Up and Star Trek were put out by major major major corporations. It does kinda seem like that's the game you're forced to play when you want to make a BSB... sell it to a Big 6 studio. Paramount, Disney, WB, Universal. (Two others.) Now that's really goddamn hard to do -- unless you've got a pedigree like Pixar, or you're writing for a major franchise of movies like Trek. Or you're willing to sell your soul to the corporate overlords.
As far as me personally, as a writer (potential director or whatever)? Because I know you're wondering how I fit in to all this discussion of blockbusters and buckblasters and Big 6 studios.
Getting to a level of success where I could potentially make BSBs would be an amazing opportunity. On a very basic level, I'm strongly motivated to be the best, to excel, in everything I do. The one thing I fear the most is mediocrity. So part of me badly wants to achieve that level of success in my career -- but another part thinks that I might have to sell my soul to get there.
Well, I could get a job with Pixar.
Anyway -- This is all just a daydream for now. Bottom line, if you haven't caught Up or Star Trek already, try to see either one on the big screen. Or you could check out The Hangover. That one's making an F-ton of money as well.
Now give me a snappy line to go out on.
I give Up ups for its sheer audacious originality, and Star Trek deserves kudos for its talented cast of actors. Both movies had insane visuals and CGI. Both were well-directed (Pete Docter for Pixar, J.J. Abrams for Paramount) and well-written enough to make HUNDREDS of millions worldwide... and these are not easy things to accomplish by any means. If you don't think so, ask yourself how many other people are putting out $100M+ films.
Now granted, both Up and Star Trek were put out by major major major corporations. It does kinda seem like that's the game you're forced to play when you want to make a BSB... sell it to a Big 6 studio. Paramount, Disney, WB, Universal. (Two others.) Now that's really goddamn hard to do -- unless you've got a pedigree like Pixar, or you're writing for a major franchise of movies like Trek. Or you're willing to sell your soul to the corporate overlords.
As far as me personally, as a writer (potential director or whatever)? Because I know you're wondering how I fit in to all this discussion of blockbusters and buckblasters and Big 6 studios.
Getting to a level of success where I could potentially make BSBs would be an amazing opportunity. On a very basic level, I'm strongly motivated to be the best, to excel, in everything I do. The one thing I fear the most is mediocrity. So part of me badly wants to achieve that level of success in my career -- but another part thinks that I might have to sell my soul to get there.
Well, I could get a job with Pixar.
Anyway -- This is all just a daydream for now. Bottom line, if you haven't caught Up or Star Trek already, try to see either one on the big screen. Or you could check out The Hangover. That one's making an F-ton of money as well.
Now give me a snappy line to go out on.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
no, but seriously, the big one IS coming
A huge part of my writing philosophy is "write what you know".
I think a lot of people could be great writers if they understood this concept. Every single one of us has a story, unique, and fascinating. It's these unique parts about us that make us who we are -- and if we can tap into this when we write, our writing becomes that much better. Other people will recognize it as human. And every great story has a beating heart.
Now keep in mind -- I didn't say "write ABOUT what you know". Because you can't keep sitting around writing about yourself. Unless you're writing an autobiography, or your own Wikipedia page.
What you have to do is take what you're writing about and make it your own.
By the way... Did you know that Youtube has a Twitter?
I'm starting to get scared. I think I read about this kind of thing in Revelation. Next comes the huge cloud of locusts. (or a firmament-rending earthquake)
I think a lot of people could be great writers if they understood this concept. Every single one of us has a story, unique, and fascinating. It's these unique parts about us that make us who we are -- and if we can tap into this when we write, our writing becomes that much better. Other people will recognize it as human. And every great story has a beating heart.
Now keep in mind -- I didn't say "write ABOUT what you know". Because you can't keep sitting around writing about yourself. Unless you're writing an autobiography, or your own Wikipedia page.
What you have to do is take what you're writing about and make it your own.
By the way... Did you know that Youtube has a Twitter?
I'm starting to get scared. I think I read about this kind of thing in Revelation. Next comes the huge cloud of locusts. (or a firmament-rending earthquake)
Sunday, May 31, 2009
doubt
Everything you're about to read is true.
Y'all doubt me. I know it... I feel it, in the way you keep ignoring me and acting like I ain't shit. Well the truth is, you right, for now. At this moment I ain't shit, I'm just a little guy with a little blog who never writes and when he does, it's all bullshit.
"Iggy's Quest"? What a fuckin' weird concept, dude. What are you, like, a pasty RPG-playing, Hot-Pocket-chomping nerd with no friends? Oh and that whole "BSB" thing last week? I could barely stomach the first fuckin' paragraph!! Condescending, know-it-all, impossible to read bullshit. And how about a review I can read that doesn't spoil the whole goddamn plot!!
(For the record, I have friends.)
That's all okay if you don't know me though. A lot of people who meet me think I ain't shit either. I have a medical condition, the result of a hyperactive gag reflex of some kind -- it's something that no doctor has fully understood or been able to diagnose. It happens every time: I eat too much, too fast, or too much sugar/fat -- I go to meet my boy Ralph. He don't talk much, but he real colorful. As a result I have the body of a little boy -- have since I WAS a little boy.
Now I know this: IT'S NOT MY FAULT.
But I walk into any room and all the other boys know I'm second-class, cuz I'm short and I'm skinny. And you know all the girls go wet for fuckin' Mini Me.
I ain't looking for sympathy, I'm way the fuck past that. I know you probably pity me when you see me. I KNOW YOU DO. But it's not something I can control. People tell me "you need to eat a sandwich, dude!!" and then laugh. Yeah. Awesome.
I go to the beach, I take off my shirt, I hear giggles. No joke, this happened last weekend. It sometimes takes me a few weeks/months to get in good with new folks -- they call me weird at first, and I guarantee you, it ain't my personality because I'm pretty fuckin' normal. I walk out of rooms and conversations start. I walk INTO rooms and conversations stop.
As you might be able to guess, growing up with this shit in my head every day, it's given me some... confidence issues.
To be honest, the greatest thing I want to accomplish in my life... is to prove all the pricks wrong. Prove that I'm an important Iggy, that I can do something of value. Prove that I DESERVE RESPECT like anyone else. That I'm not a little boy. I'm a writer.
This ain't my best work either. I know that. My best is years and years away.
Now... I tell you all this because I know you doubt me too. You, my tiny, tiny readership. You've read "667" and it isn't that great. You like the blog, but you know how impossible it is to break into Hollywood, and usually it's the strongest personalities that rise to the top, the most forceful. You've met me in real life, and you know I don't got what it takes. People don't listen to me, they don't buy what I have to sell, because no one takes me serious. Sorry kid, but in Hollywood, you HAVE to get people to take you serious. If you can't even do that -- hop on the 405 South, hop a train, hop a plane, and get the FUCK out of this town. No sympathy, just honesty.
Well, I have a message for you. I know you doubt. I do too.
But you ain't seen nothin' yet.
Someday I'm gonna make it. Someday, people are gonna listen to me... someday, it's all gonna happen for me. People are going to know my name.
That's why I don't care how much people crap on me now, boys and girls alike. One day I'll rise above it all. The heavens will part and angelic choruses will sing, and I'll ascend further and further into the sky, through clouds and ozone and space and stars and galaxies, and as I rise my earthly body will grow and swell, until I'm bigger than the world, and then I'll turn around and pick it up and eat it in one gigantic bite, and all the billions of people in my belly will cry out to me and beg me not to digest them, and as I finally drift beyond the Universe I'll open my mouth and expel this whole place out my throat and back into space, and then I'll be gone, and my name will be on the lips of every man, woman and child who still lives, and they'll sing of my strength and my power and my glory until the end of time.
Or something to that effect.
Y'all doubt me. I know it... I feel it, in the way you keep ignoring me and acting like I ain't shit. Well the truth is, you right, for now. At this moment I ain't shit, I'm just a little guy with a little blog who never writes and when he does, it's all bullshit.
"Iggy's Quest"? What a fuckin' weird concept, dude. What are you, like, a pasty RPG-playing, Hot-Pocket-chomping nerd with no friends? Oh and that whole "BSB" thing last week? I could barely stomach the first fuckin' paragraph!! Condescending, know-it-all, impossible to read bullshit. And how about a review I can read that doesn't spoil the whole goddamn plot!!
(For the record, I have friends.)
That's all okay if you don't know me though. A lot of people who meet me think I ain't shit either. I have a medical condition, the result of a hyperactive gag reflex of some kind -- it's something that no doctor has fully understood or been able to diagnose. It happens every time: I eat too much, too fast, or too much sugar/fat -- I go to meet my boy Ralph. He don't talk much, but he real colorful. As a result I have the body of a little boy -- have since I WAS a little boy.
Now I know this: IT'S NOT MY FAULT.
But I walk into any room and all the other boys know I'm second-class, cuz I'm short and I'm skinny. And you know all the girls go wet for fuckin' Mini Me.
I ain't looking for sympathy, I'm way the fuck past that. I know you probably pity me when you see me. I KNOW YOU DO. But it's not something I can control. People tell me "you need to eat a sandwich, dude!!" and then laugh. Yeah. Awesome.
I go to the beach, I take off my shirt, I hear giggles. No joke, this happened last weekend. It sometimes takes me a few weeks/months to get in good with new folks -- they call me weird at first, and I guarantee you, it ain't my personality because I'm pretty fuckin' normal. I walk out of rooms and conversations start. I walk INTO rooms and conversations stop.
As you might be able to guess, growing up with this shit in my head every day, it's given me some... confidence issues.
To be honest, the greatest thing I want to accomplish in my life... is to prove all the pricks wrong. Prove that I'm an important Iggy, that I can do something of value. Prove that I DESERVE RESPECT like anyone else. That I'm not a little boy. I'm a writer.
This ain't my best work either. I know that. My best is years and years away.
Now... I tell you all this because I know you doubt me too. You, my tiny, tiny readership. You've read "667" and it isn't that great. You like the blog, but you know how impossible it is to break into Hollywood, and usually it's the strongest personalities that rise to the top, the most forceful. You've met me in real life, and you know I don't got what it takes. People don't listen to me, they don't buy what I have to sell, because no one takes me serious. Sorry kid, but in Hollywood, you HAVE to get people to take you serious. If you can't even do that -- hop on the 405 South, hop a train, hop a plane, and get the FUCK out of this town. No sympathy, just honesty.
Well, I have a message for you. I know you doubt. I do too.
But you ain't seen nothin' yet.
Someday I'm gonna make it. Someday, people are gonna listen to me... someday, it's all gonna happen for me. People are going to know my name.
That's why I don't care how much people crap on me now, boys and girls alike. One day I'll rise above it all. The heavens will part and angelic choruses will sing, and I'll ascend further and further into the sky, through clouds and ozone and space and stars and galaxies, and as I rise my earthly body will grow and swell, until I'm bigger than the world, and then I'll turn around and pick it up and eat it in one gigantic bite, and all the billions of people in my belly will cry out to me and beg me not to digest them, and as I finally drift beyond the Universe I'll open my mouth and expel this whole place out my throat and back into space, and then I'll be gone, and my name will be on the lips of every man, woman and child who still lives, and they'll sing of my strength and my power and my glory until the end of time.
Or something to that effect.
Friday, May 29, 2009
the most important thing you'll read today
A lot of people -- in fact, I would say the vast majority of people -- don't really understand how reality TV works. There's no shame in that. TV networks, and the news outlets who own them, would prefer that you didn't understand. They like to divide their programming into two different categories: scripted vs. reality. A scripted show would be something like House, 24, Desperate Housewives... where a "reality" show would be something like Survivor. Fear Factor. America's Next Top Model. The Biggest Loser.
In truth, most of these are just highly evolved game shows. You have contestants, you have a prize, you have timed tasks to complete and predetermined competitions to win. If you call Wheel of Fortune reality TV, maybe you have the right idea after all.
But there's another category of reality TV, in which there isn't a competition, and there are no winners. Shows like Extreme Makeover, MythBusters, or my personal favorite... Tough Love. (Yep, we got a Wikipedia article.)
Since these shows don't depend on finding a winner, the producers actually have far more creative control over what happens... or at least, what they show on TV. Game shows like Survivor must justify to their audience HOW the winner succeeded. Unless they hire actors to compete (which many shows resort to doing), they must depict the real story, as it happened. But in the second kind of reality TV, basically, producers can show whatever the hell they want to show, because there's no predetermined result. The line between "scripted vs. reality" is even further blurred.
This latter category is where I would put Jon and Kate Plus Eight.
Now I'm sure you've seen the news stories. Affairs, lies, marital problems galore. I've actually watched the show, and I know a thing or two about relationship problems, so I know there's definitely truth to these stories. Jon and Kate are in some serious shit. You can see it in all their interviews. But somehow, some way, they've managed to turn this public relations nightmare into a nice, fatty cash cow. TLC just doubled the number of Jon & Kate episodes this season to 40. Ratings are soaring. They're going to walk out of this hell as ice cold millionaires.
But that's not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about the other eight employees of the show... the ones who don't have creative control. The ones whose lives are actually being lived out on national television, whose life experiences are carefully being written and plotted out by producers in a control room above their garage.
According to a story published today by the Associated Press, Jon and Kate Plus Eight has come under investigation by the Pennsylvania Labor Department for possible violation of child labor laws.
Having experience in this business (and this genre), I can tell you that unless most reality TV is done completely differently than what I saw on the set of Tough Love, this investigation has a lot of merit and should be taken quite seriously.
The experiences you see on a non-competitive reality TV series like Jon and Kate Plus Eight -- birthday parties, family outings, even simple day-to-day "storylines" -- are about 85% scripted. That's not to say the dialogue is written... it almost certainly isn't. But just about everything else (that isn't spoken) is mapped out in advance. Most of the events that happen are specifically calculated to provoke reactions from the stars of the show (called the "talent"): joy, disgust, anger, goofiness, etc.
In this case, the "talent" happens to be the eight Gosselin children -- none of whom are over the age of 10.
These children have been surrounded by TV production crew and cameramen, on a near-constant basis, throughout most of their lives. Where you and I have home movies from our childhood, that few have ever seen, their "home movies" are beamed by satellite to millions of homes across the country, and worldwide. And my guess is they don't sign a waiver for every episode.
But all violations aside, they will be paid quite well for all of this, don't worry. Their trust funds are surely through the roof.
If I'm disillusioning you about the "reality" of reality TV... I apologize. But the truth of it is, the Gosselin children should be treated like professional actors, because that's basically what they are. And honestly, there's no telling what kind of damage is being done to them psychologically by this whole goddamn sick affair. There might be lawsuits down the road. There WILL be therapy.
In fact, this whole situation reminds me of a fantastic movie I saw several years ago. At the time, it looked like science fiction...
In truth, most of these are just highly evolved game shows. You have contestants, you have a prize, you have timed tasks to complete and predetermined competitions to win. If you call Wheel of Fortune reality TV, maybe you have the right idea after all.
But there's another category of reality TV, in which there isn't a competition, and there are no winners. Shows like Extreme Makeover, MythBusters, or my personal favorite... Tough Love. (Yep, we got a Wikipedia article.)
Since these shows don't depend on finding a winner, the producers actually have far more creative control over what happens... or at least, what they show on TV. Game shows like Survivor must justify to their audience HOW the winner succeeded. Unless they hire actors to compete (which many shows resort to doing), they must depict the real story, as it happened. But in the second kind of reality TV, basically, producers can show whatever the hell they want to show, because there's no predetermined result. The line between "scripted vs. reality" is even further blurred.
This latter category is where I would put Jon and Kate Plus Eight.
Now I'm sure you've seen the news stories. Affairs, lies, marital problems galore. I've actually watched the show, and I know a thing or two about relationship problems, so I know there's definitely truth to these stories. Jon and Kate are in some serious shit. You can see it in all their interviews. But somehow, some way, they've managed to turn this public relations nightmare into a nice, fatty cash cow. TLC just doubled the number of Jon & Kate episodes this season to 40. Ratings are soaring. They're going to walk out of this hell as ice cold millionaires.
But that's not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about the other eight employees of the show... the ones who don't have creative control. The ones whose lives are actually being lived out on national television, whose life experiences are carefully being written and plotted out by producers in a control room above their garage.
According to a story published today by the Associated Press, Jon and Kate Plus Eight has come under investigation by the Pennsylvania Labor Department for possible violation of child labor laws.
Having experience in this business (and this genre), I can tell you that unless most reality TV is done completely differently than what I saw on the set of Tough Love, this investigation has a lot of merit and should be taken quite seriously.
The experiences you see on a non-competitive reality TV series like Jon and Kate Plus Eight -- birthday parties, family outings, even simple day-to-day "storylines" -- are about 85% scripted. That's not to say the dialogue is written... it almost certainly isn't. But just about everything else (that isn't spoken) is mapped out in advance. Most of the events that happen are specifically calculated to provoke reactions from the stars of the show (called the "talent"): joy, disgust, anger, goofiness, etc.
In this case, the "talent" happens to be the eight Gosselin children -- none of whom are over the age of 10.
These children have been surrounded by TV production crew and cameramen, on a near-constant basis, throughout most of their lives. Where you and I have home movies from our childhood, that few have ever seen, their "home movies" are beamed by satellite to millions of homes across the country, and worldwide. And my guess is they don't sign a waiver for every episode.
But all violations aside, they will be paid quite well for all of this, don't worry. Their trust funds are surely through the roof.
If I'm disillusioning you about the "reality" of reality TV... I apologize. But the truth of it is, the Gosselin children should be treated like professional actors, because that's basically what they are. And honestly, there's no telling what kind of damage is being done to them psychologically by this whole goddamn sick affair. There might be lawsuits down the road. There WILL be therapy.
In fact, this whole situation reminds me of a fantastic movie I saw several years ago. At the time, it looked like science fiction...
Sunday, May 24, 2009
BSBs
I went to another double feature last night. I've become convinced that this is the only way to go to the movies in Orange County. If it's a less-popular movie, I always pay full price for a ticket (it's the right thing to do) but as for the big summer blockbusters... they don't need my twelve-fifty, so I'll just keep it in my back pocket, thanks. I saw two such films last night -- with two completely different groups of people -- Angels and Demons and Terminator: Salvation.
The thing about "Big Summer Blockbusters" (or BSBs as I sometimes like to call them) is that they're designed fully and completely, from the ground up, for total mass consumption. AKA the "least common denominator". You take a bunch of elements that have worked before in thousands and thousands of movies... the "hero's journey" works extremely well for this purpose. Take your (generally badass) protagonist and dump him in shitsville. Then watch him climb to greatness, while overcoming his Main Character Flaw, and falling in love with a beautiful Love Interest along the way. If it's a "good" BSB, you should also have some pop psychology discussions and some witty one-liners. There should be a Low Point around the end of act II, where all seems to be lost for our hero, until a Mysterious Helper visits and pulls him out of the depths, so that the big Act III (complete with all the biggest explosions, car chases, and climactic battles) can build to the HUGE-GIGANTIC-FUCK finish, usually with a Last-Minute Twist you NEVER see coming (except for when you see it coming). If it's a "good" BSB, the hero might die as a sacrifice -- or it might be an "ambiguous" or unhappy ending -- as long as it's consistent with the tone of the whole movie.
Now take this formula, repackage it to your own little "concept", spare no expense for cast or special effects, and there you have a bona-fide Big Summer Blockbuster. It's not cliche, because everyone's doing it. That's what all the Hollywood execs say, when they aren't busy swimming in a vault full of their own money like Scrooge McDuck.
The truth is, I don't really have a problem with the form. When a BSB is done right -- IT WORKS. When it isn't done right -- God help your greedy little souls.
Angels and Demons (the book) was written by Dan "I Secretly Love Jesus" Brown in 2000, three years before the worldwide phenomenon Da Vinci Code. In the novel, Robert Langdon is still a young Harvard symbologist, having never met Sophie or Teabing or Sophie's grandpa or the albino guy or Jean Reno, or any of the other unforgettable cast of characters from Mr. Brown's 2003 magnum opus. In this movie, Angels and Demons has been retconned to occur AFTER the events of the Da Vinci Code.
What this means is: just after Robert Langdon puts forth to the world the idea (Da Vinci Code spoilers) that Jesus Christ had a torrid affair with Mary Magdalene, and actually fathered a child... and that Jesus's bloodline still exists in the world today... Yep, that sounds like a perfect time for the Vatican to come ask him for help in investigating a murder at CERN in Switzerland!
Wait. What?
Unfortunately, this movie doesn't start out making a whole lot of sense. Which is a shame, because the book (Angels and Demons) is probably the best thing Brown has written to date, and it seemed to make sense when I read it. They took out a couple of key scenes -- but kept all the exposition, meaning about ten minutes into the thing you get hit with a solid wall of Plot. I will say this about Tom Hanks: he can deliver exposition like few actors can. The Swiss police captain, the Vatican chief of police, and Langdon's lady-friend Vittoria Vetra, on the other hand, sound like they're reading out of a Chinese textbook. But all of this doesn't matter anyway, because this is a BSB and we haven't even STARTED the real shit yet.
Luckily, things get going pretty quickly after that. Tom Hanks runs around the city of Rome looking concerned, as every hour, another cardinal of the Catholic Church is executed and branded with a symbol of the "Illuminati". Now having seen the movie, I don't want to spoil anything (as the basic story is actually not bad) but can I just say, the instant Ewan McGregor walked on screen as a "camerlengo" (or pope's assistant), I thought, how the hell can he NOT be vitally important to the story? It's Obi-Wan Kenobi for God's sake! They wouldn't cast George Clooney as "Reporter #2". It seems like a huge giveaway to an audience that has never read the book, something they could have easily avoided by casting an actor without Name Recognition.
Okay, I'll probably need a !!!SPOILER ALERT!!! for this next part.
Finally Langdon reaches the end of the Path of Illumination, or whatever the big scavenger hunt was called. This is where things took a turn for the absolute ridiculous. Highlights include a massive explosion of "antimatter" that behaves NOWHERE NEAR how actual antimatter would behave (I know it's nit-picky, but I mean, don't make it your major plot point if you don't understand how it works)... the major villian simply running away, leaving Tom Hanks alone, completely alive, and never appearing on-screen again... Ewan McGregor driving a red-hot iron brand into his own chest... Ewan McGregor parachuting into St. Peter's Square... and of course the religious intrigue of "who's the next Pope??" Wait, was that the whole point of the movie? Finding a pope?
Nahhh, I kid -- honestly, it wasn't that bad. Lots of action, lots of energy, and plus, who needs brain candy every time you see a movie? It could have been worse. Could have been Terminator: Salvation.
I'll try to keep this one brief. If your idea of a perfect movie = popular video game Gears of War, minus what little plot the Gears of War programmers could hack up... well my li'l friend, look no further! Visually it's awesome, and I can't deny that. The desaturated colors really give atmosphere to the post-apocalyptic setting. Or in English: nothing looks bright and happy since the world blew up. The action's good too, if you like a shit-ton of explosions and flying robots with grabby little arms, who pop into scenes with almost no warning. I have to admit, a lot of Terminator: Salvation made me laugh out loud, but I'm not sure I was meant to.
Again, the ending is completely out of control and ridiculous. Spoilers ahead.
Okay, first of all -- A heart transplant?? With what equipment and tools? Who's the surgeon? Do blood types matter in the future? Or can you just rip out a robot's convenient human heart and plug it straight into your bleeding chest cavity? And how was John Connor still alive?! He was impaled by a metal bar THROUGH THE CHEST, and Marcus just picks him up and says "Let's get you out of here"?? Why didn't the robots kill him (or Kyle Reese for that matter) when they had the chance? They had hours and hours to kill Reese!! Why didn't John Connor kill Marcus when HE had the chance? Why was Marcus's story more interesting than any of the major characters, and why was Christian Bale shouting so much?? What kind of parent would name their child "Moon Bloodgood"? Where was Bryce Dallas Howard?? She's the cutest girl in the whole franchise! Oh yeah and the whole "I'll be back" thing? Lame right? Why does everyone think Christian Bale is a great actor when he's only decent? Why didn't that little girl say a single word the whole movie, was she a Terminator too? AND HOW DID JOHN CONNOR SURVIVE A METAL BAR THROUGH THE HEART?!
Hmm. These are all good questions.
And of course the plot followed the basic BSB formula. Hero's journey, single character flaw, love interest, build-up to huge explosive climax, personal sacrifice and a "bittersweet" ending. The only problem was, the new guy Marcus was given this arc... NOT John Connor. Now Sam Worthington did a great job with this character. But why not make the movie about John Connor? That's the Terminator sequel I want to see. Maybe someday they'll get around to making it.
The thing about "Big Summer Blockbusters" (or BSBs as I sometimes like to call them) is that they're designed fully and completely, from the ground up, for total mass consumption. AKA the "least common denominator". You take a bunch of elements that have worked before in thousands and thousands of movies... the "hero's journey" works extremely well for this purpose. Take your (generally badass) protagonist and dump him in shitsville. Then watch him climb to greatness, while overcoming his Main Character Flaw, and falling in love with a beautiful Love Interest along the way. If it's a "good" BSB, you should also have some pop psychology discussions and some witty one-liners. There should be a Low Point around the end of act II, where all seems to be lost for our hero, until a Mysterious Helper visits and pulls him out of the depths, so that the big Act III (complete with all the biggest explosions, car chases, and climactic battles) can build to the HUGE-GIGANTIC-FUCK finish, usually with a Last-Minute Twist you NEVER see coming (except for when you see it coming). If it's a "good" BSB, the hero might die as a sacrifice -- or it might be an "ambiguous" or unhappy ending -- as long as it's consistent with the tone of the whole movie.
Now take this formula, repackage it to your own little "concept", spare no expense for cast or special effects, and there you have a bona-fide Big Summer Blockbuster. It's not cliche, because everyone's doing it. That's what all the Hollywood execs say, when they aren't busy swimming in a vault full of their own money like Scrooge McDuck.
The truth is, I don't really have a problem with the form. When a BSB is done right -- IT WORKS. When it isn't done right -- God help your greedy little souls.
Angels and Demons (the book) was written by Dan "I Secretly Love Jesus" Brown in 2000, three years before the worldwide phenomenon Da Vinci Code. In the novel, Robert Langdon is still a young Harvard symbologist, having never met Sophie or Teabing or Sophie's grandpa or the albino guy or Jean Reno, or any of the other unforgettable cast of characters from Mr. Brown's 2003 magnum opus. In this movie, Angels and Demons has been retconned to occur AFTER the events of the Da Vinci Code.
What this means is: just after Robert Langdon puts forth to the world the idea (Da Vinci Code spoilers) that Jesus Christ had a torrid affair with Mary Magdalene, and actually fathered a child... and that Jesus's bloodline still exists in the world today... Yep, that sounds like a perfect time for the Vatican to come ask him for help in investigating a murder at CERN in Switzerland!
Wait. What?
Unfortunately, this movie doesn't start out making a whole lot of sense. Which is a shame, because the book (Angels and Demons) is probably the best thing Brown has written to date, and it seemed to make sense when I read it. They took out a couple of key scenes -- but kept all the exposition, meaning about ten minutes into the thing you get hit with a solid wall of Plot. I will say this about Tom Hanks: he can deliver exposition like few actors can. The Swiss police captain, the Vatican chief of police, and Langdon's lady-friend Vittoria Vetra, on the other hand, sound like they're reading out of a Chinese textbook. But all of this doesn't matter anyway, because this is a BSB and we haven't even STARTED the real shit yet.
Luckily, things get going pretty quickly after that. Tom Hanks runs around the city of Rome looking concerned, as every hour, another cardinal of the Catholic Church is executed and branded with a symbol of the "Illuminati". Now having seen the movie, I don't want to spoil anything (as the basic story is actually not bad) but can I just say, the instant Ewan McGregor walked on screen as a "camerlengo" (or pope's assistant), I thought, how the hell can he NOT be vitally important to the story? It's Obi-Wan Kenobi for God's sake! They wouldn't cast George Clooney as "Reporter #2". It seems like a huge giveaway to an audience that has never read the book, something they could have easily avoided by casting an actor without Name Recognition.
Okay, I'll probably need a !!!SPOILER ALERT!!! for this next part.
Finally Langdon reaches the end of the Path of Illumination, or whatever the big scavenger hunt was called. This is where things took a turn for the absolute ridiculous. Highlights include a massive explosion of "antimatter" that behaves NOWHERE NEAR how actual antimatter would behave (I know it's nit-picky, but I mean, don't make it your major plot point if you don't understand how it works)... the major villian simply running away, leaving Tom Hanks alone, completely alive, and never appearing on-screen again... Ewan McGregor driving a red-hot iron brand into his own chest... Ewan McGregor parachuting into St. Peter's Square... and of course the religious intrigue of "who's the next Pope??" Wait, was that the whole point of the movie? Finding a pope?
Nahhh, I kid -- honestly, it wasn't that bad. Lots of action, lots of energy, and plus, who needs brain candy every time you see a movie? It could have been worse. Could have been Terminator: Salvation.
I'll try to keep this one brief. If your idea of a perfect movie = popular video game Gears of War, minus what little plot the Gears of War programmers could hack up... well my li'l friend, look no further! Visually it's awesome, and I can't deny that. The desaturated colors really give atmosphere to the post-apocalyptic setting. Or in English: nothing looks bright and happy since the world blew up. The action's good too, if you like a shit-ton of explosions and flying robots with grabby little arms, who pop into scenes with almost no warning. I have to admit, a lot of Terminator: Salvation made me laugh out loud, but I'm not sure I was meant to.
Again, the ending is completely out of control and ridiculous. Spoilers ahead.
Okay, first of all -- A heart transplant?? With what equipment and tools? Who's the surgeon? Do blood types matter in the future? Or can you just rip out a robot's convenient human heart and plug it straight into your bleeding chest cavity? And how was John Connor still alive?! He was impaled by a metal bar THROUGH THE CHEST, and Marcus just picks him up and says "Let's get you out of here"?? Why didn't the robots kill him (or Kyle Reese for that matter) when they had the chance? They had hours and hours to kill Reese!! Why didn't John Connor kill Marcus when HE had the chance? Why was Marcus's story more interesting than any of the major characters, and why was Christian Bale shouting so much?? What kind of parent would name their child "Moon Bloodgood"? Where was Bryce Dallas Howard?? She's the cutest girl in the whole franchise! Oh yeah and the whole "I'll be back" thing? Lame right? Why does everyone think Christian Bale is a great actor when he's only decent? Why didn't that little girl say a single word the whole movie, was she a Terminator too? AND HOW DID JOHN CONNOR SURVIVE A METAL BAR THROUGH THE HEART?!
Hmm. These are all good questions.
And of course the plot followed the basic BSB formula. Hero's journey, single character flaw, love interest, build-up to huge explosive climax, personal sacrifice and a "bittersweet" ending. The only problem was, the new guy Marcus was given this arc... NOT John Connor. Now Sam Worthington did a great job with this character. But why not make the movie about John Connor? That's the Terminator sequel I want to see. Maybe someday they'll get around to making it.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
watermelon cubes
Wow. Have I really not written an update here since that stupid Playoff predictions list?
Sometimes the fact that I get any readers whatsoever is enough to make me thank the Lord God of Google, for indexing my pictures of the business chimp and Veiny Rambo. I still get hits on that baby.
Well, I wasn't too far off with most of my picks. The Spurs completely fell apart without Ginobili, losing to DALLAS in 5 games. That's a pretty sad way to go out, for a team who won a championship two (apparently long) years ago. I didn't give Houston the credit I should have. They looked strong, dismantled the Blazers' unbalanced attack, and they're poised to give my Lakers some more problems in the second round. I stand by my Eastern Conference picks... I think Miami had a real shot to win their series in 7, but D-Wade couldn't do EVERYTHING after all.
As far as my Quest -- I'm still stuck in limbo. I sent "667" off to a management agency who guarantees free script coverage, even if they don't pick you up as a client. I wrote another project that I'm really excited about, but I can't talk much about it yet. It involves the resurrection of a certain podcast I used to do with a friend of mine, but not in a way we've ever done before. Other than that, I'm just looking for odds-and-ends jobs to make money and kill time.
School has become a real interesting thing with me lately. Mainly in that I haven't been going. It's certainly not because I don't like the people I go to school with. I have several good friends there, who I've missed. It's a simple matter of burnout. I'm tired of the grind. Classes, homework, textbooks, midterms. I've been doing this stuff since I was three years old. (yes... preschool midterms were surprisingly brutal, where I went to school anyway.) And all my life I've been doing it for someone else's sake (aka Ma Iggy). Around a few months ago, I finally realized the truth: I don't have to go if I don't want to. No one is keeping score. It seems like an obvious thing, but if you've been raised all your life to believe otherwise, there's a hidden guilt factor you have to overcome before you can really take advantage. And it's not like a degree in sociology is particularly going to help me succeed as a writer, anyway.
Don't worry, I'm still doing my homework (mostly) and I'm still taking my midterms. Basically I'm doing the bare minimum I need to do in order to pass my classes. No apologies here. That's the way it is. And I love it.
So what have I been up to? I've been watching a lot of playoff basketball, for one thing. I've also been enjoying a brand-spanking-used MacBook Pro laptop that I got from my friend Diego. He really hooked me up with a great price -- and I seriously can't express how much I love this goddamn computer. It's just the thing I needed to really feel like a Legitimate Writer and Artist.
I've really tried to curb my Internet time though, despite the new 'top. I can't even remember the last time I was on Facebook. It's a nice thing, being disconnected from the Matrix a little bit. I'll probably be doing more of the same this summer.
Maybe I should put a picture here, so I can get more Google Image Search hits on search terms like "crunchy wet hair" and "Lindsay Lohan doing coke backstage with a Mexican mariachi band".
Woah woah woah woah woah. Okay, hold on a second. Are those supposed to be watermelon cubes? Apparently? Wow, that's weird. Are they even real watermelons? And as a follow-up: why would anyone ever do this to their watermelons?
Although I guess it does make them easier to store in Go Yaffa containers.
Sometimes the fact that I get any readers whatsoever is enough to make me thank the Lord God of Google, for indexing my pictures of the business chimp and Veiny Rambo. I still get hits on that baby.
Well, I wasn't too far off with most of my picks. The Spurs completely fell apart without Ginobili, losing to DALLAS in 5 games. That's a pretty sad way to go out, for a team who won a championship two (apparently long) years ago. I didn't give Houston the credit I should have. They looked strong, dismantled the Blazers' unbalanced attack, and they're poised to give my Lakers some more problems in the second round. I stand by my Eastern Conference picks... I think Miami had a real shot to win their series in 7, but D-Wade couldn't do EVERYTHING after all.
As far as my Quest -- I'm still stuck in limbo. I sent "667" off to a management agency who guarantees free script coverage, even if they don't pick you up as a client. I wrote another project that I'm really excited about, but I can't talk much about it yet. It involves the resurrection of a certain podcast I used to do with a friend of mine, but not in a way we've ever done before. Other than that, I'm just looking for odds-and-ends jobs to make money and kill time.
School has become a real interesting thing with me lately. Mainly in that I haven't been going. It's certainly not because I don't like the people I go to school with. I have several good friends there, who I've missed. It's a simple matter of burnout. I'm tired of the grind. Classes, homework, textbooks, midterms. I've been doing this stuff since I was three years old. (yes... preschool midterms were surprisingly brutal, where I went to school anyway.) And all my life I've been doing it for someone else's sake (aka Ma Iggy). Around a few months ago, I finally realized the truth: I don't have to go if I don't want to. No one is keeping score. It seems like an obvious thing, but if you've been raised all your life to believe otherwise, there's a hidden guilt factor you have to overcome before you can really take advantage. And it's not like a degree in sociology is particularly going to help me succeed as a writer, anyway.
Don't worry, I'm still doing my homework (mostly) and I'm still taking my midterms. Basically I'm doing the bare minimum I need to do in order to pass my classes. No apologies here. That's the way it is. And I love it.
So what have I been up to? I've been watching a lot of playoff basketball, for one thing. I've also been enjoying a brand-spanking-used MacBook Pro laptop that I got from my friend Diego. He really hooked me up with a great price -- and I seriously can't express how much I love this goddamn computer. It's just the thing I needed to really feel like a Legitimate Writer and Artist.
I've really tried to curb my Internet time though, despite the new 'top. I can't even remember the last time I was on Facebook. It's a nice thing, being disconnected from the Matrix a little bit. I'll probably be doing more of the same this summer.
Maybe I should put a picture here, so I can get more Google Image Search hits on search terms like "crunchy wet hair" and "Lindsay Lohan doing coke backstage with a Mexican mariachi band".
Woah woah woah woah woah. Okay, hold on a second. Are those supposed to be watermelon cubes? Apparently? Wow, that's weird. Are they even real watermelons? And as a follow-up: why would anyone ever do this to their watermelons?
Although I guess it does make them easier to store in Go Yaffa containers.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
just for posterity
Western Conference:
Lakers in 5Nuggets in 6
Spurs in 6
Trail Blazers in 7
Eastern Conference:
Cavaliers in 5Celtics in 6
Magic in 5
Heat in 7
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
consider, with revisions
I want to set one thing straight in my very first paragraph here. When I said I've got something pretty good -- I didn't really mean it. What I meant was, it has potential. Real potential. But potential and two Benjamins will buy you a gram of China white on the corner of Sunset and Hollywood.
What I mean to say is, it's not there yet. I know exactly what it is, in fact. It's a "consider, with revisions".
Last week I sent "667" the Screenplay to a professional script coverage service. What they basically do is, they read your entire script, then provide you with a logline (a short, one-sentence plot summary), a 2-page synopsis of your script's story, and then the main attraction: 2-3 pages of commentary and critiquery on your work and suggestions on how they think you can improve things. Finally, they condense all the jibber-jabber and gibble-gobble into a simple rating system: RECOMMEND, CONSIDER or PASS.
RECOMMEND basically means that your script is Adaptation or Pulp Fiction. If you get a CONSIDER, you're the typical struggling Hollywood writer's pet project -- just on the cusp of a workable product, but not quite there. A PASS is given to the majority of submitted scripts. Readers for production companies are the curs responsible for foisting these labels on screenplays -- because these labels allow lazy (sorry... busy) executives to skip past the guff, and go straight to the good stuff. Logically, these execs only consider those scripts which have been deemed at least "CONSIDER"-worthy by their underlings.
Long story short... I got a "CONSIDER, WITH REVISIONS". The reader who did the coverage was fairly professional, but not very insightful -- most of his comments were superficial, about things like typos and minor plot holes. I got what I paid for, though. (I used the cheapest Internet service by far.) Long story shorter -- I quickly went back and made the revisions.
So allegedly, this means I'm now at "Consider" level. Which is really all that any sane screenwriter can hope to achieve... particularly a random-ass Iggy out of shitsville nowhere. And by the way -- yes, I know "critiquery" isn't a word. I made it up. Nice try vocab nazis.
Incidentally, the website I went to promised a 24-72 hour turnaround time. I submitted it Sunday morning -- got it back Friday afternoon. I won't do the math, but that ain't 24-72 hours, gentle readers. The whole goddam week I felt like Calvin waiting for his propeller beanie from the Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs cereal company. Checking my Gmail inbox became a terrible addiction. I was hanging out of a jet plane suspended by a rope tied around one ankle. I was chasing the dragon -- or maybe the dragon was chasing me. I couldn't escape it. It hung over my head all week like a terrible scythe of judgment and I really, really just wanted it to fall.
But fall it eventually did, and now I can legitimately say that my script is $59 better than it used to be.
Don't get me wrong, the verdict wasn't all bad. The writer actually seemed to enjoy most of the story -- he (she) was just confused on a few plot points that I've done my best to clear up. Plus, getting a Consider (with revisions) is a damn sight better than getting a Pass. This from a professional script reader who doesn't even know how cute I am in person, or the million reasons why I obviously deserve success more than the other poor starving artists that litter the burned-out landscape of this town, who park Audis in underground garages and pocket five-dollar tips to support their Vicodin habits, who stay up late in their tiny studio apartments and feverishly bang out heartfelt, free-spirited masterpieces on their coffee-stained MacBooks, wondering where the next eighth is going to come from, wondering why that agent's assistant hasn't called back in three weeks, wondering why they still keep doubling down on eleven if life won't ever deal them one single paint card.
Sometimes I wonder if I've suffered enough to really be an artist. Then I realize I've got my whole life ahead of me to suffer. That's when I feel better about things.
What I mean to say is, it's not there yet. I know exactly what it is, in fact. It's a "consider, with revisions".
Last week I sent "667" the Screenplay to a professional script coverage service. What they basically do is, they read your entire script, then provide you with a logline (a short, one-sentence plot summary), a 2-page synopsis of your script's story, and then the main attraction: 2-3 pages of commentary and critiquery on your work and suggestions on how they think you can improve things. Finally, they condense all the jibber-jabber and gibble-gobble into a simple rating system: RECOMMEND, CONSIDER or PASS.
RECOMMEND basically means that your script is Adaptation or Pulp Fiction. If you get a CONSIDER, you're the typical struggling Hollywood writer's pet project -- just on the cusp of a workable product, but not quite there. A PASS is given to the majority of submitted scripts. Readers for production companies are the curs responsible for foisting these labels on screenplays -- because these labels allow lazy (sorry... busy) executives to skip past the guff, and go straight to the good stuff. Logically, these execs only consider those scripts which have been deemed at least "CONSIDER"-worthy by their underlings.
Long story short... I got a "CONSIDER, WITH REVISIONS". The reader who did the coverage was fairly professional, but not very insightful -- most of his comments were superficial, about things like typos and minor plot holes. I got what I paid for, though. (I used the cheapest Internet service by far.) Long story shorter -- I quickly went back and made the revisions.
So allegedly, this means I'm now at "Consider" level. Which is really all that any sane screenwriter can hope to achieve... particularly a random-ass Iggy out of shitsville nowhere. And by the way -- yes, I know "critiquery" isn't a word. I made it up. Nice try vocab nazis.
Incidentally, the website I went to promised a 24-72 hour turnaround time. I submitted it Sunday morning -- got it back Friday afternoon. I won't do the math, but that ain't 24-72 hours, gentle readers. The whole goddam week I felt like Calvin waiting for his propeller beanie from the Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs cereal company. Checking my Gmail inbox became a terrible addiction. I was hanging out of a jet plane suspended by a rope tied around one ankle. I was chasing the dragon -- or maybe the dragon was chasing me. I couldn't escape it. It hung over my head all week like a terrible scythe of judgment and I really, really just wanted it to fall.
But fall it eventually did, and now I can legitimately say that my script is $59 better than it used to be.
Don't get me wrong, the verdict wasn't all bad. The writer actually seemed to enjoy most of the story -- he (she) was just confused on a few plot points that I've done my best to clear up. Plus, getting a Consider (with revisions) is a damn sight better than getting a Pass. This from a professional script reader who doesn't even know how cute I am in person, or the million reasons why I obviously deserve success more than the other poor starving artists that litter the burned-out landscape of this town, who park Audis in underground garages and pocket five-dollar tips to support their Vicodin habits, who stay up late in their tiny studio apartments and feverishly bang out heartfelt, free-spirited masterpieces on their coffee-stained MacBooks, wondering where the next eighth is going to come from, wondering why that agent's assistant hasn't called back in three weeks, wondering why they still keep doubling down on eleven if life won't ever deal them one single paint card.
Sometimes I wonder if I've suffered enough to really be an artist. Then I realize I've got my whole life ahead of me to suffer. That's when I feel better about things.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
look who's talking
Okay, you guys wanna know something scary?
I think I've actually got a pretty good movie on my hands.
Now the next step (once I tighten up a few loose ends) -- is to find an agent? Isn't that what people do? Writers, I mean.
Sorry, I know this blog post isn't that monumental. But I thought I'd mention that I'm really excited about the way the script has turned out. And I was kind of wondering if anyone knows of anyone I can send this mother trucker off to.
By the way, as I've thought about it more and more... I think Oldboy should be required viewing for anyone who reads my blog. That's right. I just gave you a homework assignment.
I think I've actually got a pretty good movie on my hands.
Now the next step (once I tighten up a few loose ends) -- is to find an agent? Isn't that what people do? Writers, I mean.
Sorry, I know this blog post isn't that monumental. But I thought I'd mention that I'm really excited about the way the script has turned out. And I was kind of wondering if anyone knows of anyone I can send this mother trucker off to.
By the way, as I've thought about it more and more... I think Oldboy should be required viewing for anyone who reads my blog. That's right. I just gave you a homework assignment.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
the thoroughbred of sin
For those of you who've asked to see the script...
There's still a lot of work I want to do on it, before I send any more copies out. I had a bunch of brain storms that (I think) add a lot to the story... but I'll need to add those in first.
Here's my plan. I'm going to open a new Final Draft document next to the old script, and entirely rewrite it. I'll turn the new file into my official Second Draft. Some things I'll be able to just copy and paste, from the old to the new. Many other things will probably be changed slightly. Overall, it should result in a nice all-around improvement. If I do it right.
If I don't -- it'll result in a massive downgrade... so that's why I'm keeping the two files separate. Capisce? :)
Once the second draft is done, I'll send it out to whoever wants it. I'm saddled up, there's no recourse. It's Hi-Ho Silver! signed: Bad Horse.
HOLD THE PHONE.
There's still a lot of work I want to do on it, before I send any more copies out. I had a bunch of brain storms that (I think) add a lot to the story... but I'll need to add those in first.
Here's my plan. I'm going to open a new Final Draft document next to the old script, and entirely rewrite it. I'll turn the new file into my official Second Draft. Some things I'll be able to just copy and paste, from the old to the new. Many other things will probably be changed slightly. Overall, it should result in a nice all-around improvement. If I do it right.
If I don't -- it'll result in a massive downgrade... so that's why I'm keeping the two files separate. Capisce? :)
Once the second draft is done, I'll send it out to whoever wants it. I'm saddled up, there's no recourse. It's Hi-Ho Silver! signed: Bad Horse.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
[rant]
I sat in on a church women's book club tonight. It gets weirder.
My mother was actually the one who invited me, because I suggested the book that she picked for them to read this month: Watchmen. That's right, I told a bunch of church ladies to read Watchmen and then discuss it over tea and crumpets. I was invited, along with a couple of my close friends, to serve as kind of a "panel of experts" about the book.
I think Ma Iggy was just worried that all the women would HATE the book, and she wanted me around so I could defend it.
The violence seemed to be a concern. The sexual content was absolutely no problem. Many women reported being "disturbed" by various plotlines -- particularly the Black Freighter side plot. Not surprising. I'm a jaded '90s kid, and even I was disturbed by that story.
One woman (who I've always respected as an elder) absolutely refused to read the book. She simply could not bring herself to take a "comic book" seriously. That pisses me off so much, and I'll tell you why.
When film was first invented, people went to see movies about such wild and fascinating topics as: riding a train, workers leaving a factory, watching a soccer game, or looking into a telescope. These movies were showed in dinky little theaters called "nickelodeons". Film was about as un-artistic during these times as you could imagine, and they appealed to the lowest common denominator.
Then narrative films came along. Birth of a Nation signaled the birth of a potential new art form... and the greatest of these early films came from slapstick comedians like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Finally, the advent of sound -- followed quickly by the advent of color -- and suddenly movies like The Wizard of Oz and Gone With the Wind were hitting theaters.
But if Mrs. Ho-hum had been around back then, she would have REFUSED to see any of these great movies -- because her mind would have been stuck in the "nickelodeon" era, and she'd still believe the stereotypes -- that films were only made for kids and poor people to watch.
It's people like her, who don't take chances and stay safely in their comfort zone, that have stifled creativity and invention ever since people began to create and invent in the first place. It's people like her who starve artists and hold back the evolution of art itself. It's people like her who make it profitable for Hollywood to continue putting out remakes and sequels. Why do you think the same ten plug-and-play screenplays are rereleased every year, and they ALWAYS make a profit? It's people like her who buy the ticket every single time, because they're too afraid to broaden their horizons, too afraid to step outside that bubble of comfort.
Why take a comic book seriously? Well, maybe because it's one of the best books of the 20th century -- full of political allegories, religious debate, philosophical angst and meticulously crafted melodrama -- and it's so dense that you could read it thirty times straight, and still discover something new every time. Maybe because it's the most well-structured graphic novel in human history. Maybe because it could only be effective in comic-book form: in fact, it's the rare kind of work that embodies and defines its own medium.
Maybe because it elevates its medium to the level of true art.
Or maybe I'm just a fan boy. But maybe there's something to it, after all.
I'll tell you right now: I don't want those kind of people watching my movies. I want to stretch the limits of "what's been done". I'm strapping myself into a starship and heading for outer space, and I certainly don't need the extra drag on the wings. Keep an open mind, or keep away.
But I digress.
Most of the group seemed to appreciate having read the book -- because it was so unlike what they usually read. A few of them LOVED it. We had philosophical discussions about all kinds of Watchmen-related topics until the final bell sounded.
What's the point of my story? None. I just wanted to write another update so you people would quit complaining that I never update this blog.
[/rant]
My mother was actually the one who invited me, because I suggested the book that she picked for them to read this month: Watchmen. That's right, I told a bunch of church ladies to read Watchmen and then discuss it over tea and crumpets. I was invited, along with a couple of my close friends, to serve as kind of a "panel of experts" about the book.
I think Ma Iggy was just worried that all the women would HATE the book, and she wanted me around so I could defend it.
The violence seemed to be a concern. The sexual content was absolutely no problem. Many women reported being "disturbed" by various plotlines -- particularly the Black Freighter side plot. Not surprising. I'm a jaded '90s kid, and even I was disturbed by that story.
One woman (who I've always respected as an elder) absolutely refused to read the book. She simply could not bring herself to take a "comic book" seriously. That pisses me off so much, and I'll tell you why.
When film was first invented, people went to see movies about such wild and fascinating topics as: riding a train, workers leaving a factory, watching a soccer game, or looking into a telescope. These movies were showed in dinky little theaters called "nickelodeons". Film was about as un-artistic during these times as you could imagine, and they appealed to the lowest common denominator.
Then narrative films came along. Birth of a Nation signaled the birth of a potential new art form... and the greatest of these early films came from slapstick comedians like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Finally, the advent of sound -- followed quickly by the advent of color -- and suddenly movies like The Wizard of Oz and Gone With the Wind were hitting theaters.
But if Mrs. Ho-hum had been around back then, she would have REFUSED to see any of these great movies -- because her mind would have been stuck in the "nickelodeon" era, and she'd still believe the stereotypes -- that films were only made for kids and poor people to watch.
It's people like her, who don't take chances and stay safely in their comfort zone, that have stifled creativity and invention ever since people began to create and invent in the first place. It's people like her who starve artists and hold back the evolution of art itself. It's people like her who make it profitable for Hollywood to continue putting out remakes and sequels. Why do you think the same ten plug-and-play screenplays are rereleased every year, and they ALWAYS make a profit? It's people like her who buy the ticket every single time, because they're too afraid to broaden their horizons, too afraid to step outside that bubble of comfort.
Why take a comic book seriously? Well, maybe because it's one of the best books of the 20th century -- full of political allegories, religious debate, philosophical angst and meticulously crafted melodrama -- and it's so dense that you could read it thirty times straight, and still discover something new every time. Maybe because it's the most well-structured graphic novel in human history. Maybe because it could only be effective in comic-book form: in fact, it's the rare kind of work that embodies and defines its own medium.
Maybe because it elevates its medium to the level of true art.
Or maybe I'm just a fan boy. But maybe there's something to it, after all.
I'll tell you right now: I don't want those kind of people watching my movies. I want to stretch the limits of "what's been done". I'm strapping myself into a starship and heading for outer space, and I certainly don't need the extra drag on the wings. Keep an open mind, or keep away.
But I digress.
Most of the group seemed to appreciate having read the book -- because it was so unlike what they usually read. A few of them LOVED it. We had philosophical discussions about all kinds of Watchmen-related topics until the final bell sounded.
What's the point of my story? None. I just wanted to write another update so you people would quit complaining that I never update this blog.
[/rant]
Monday, March 23, 2009
double feature
I treated myself to a double feature last night. Hey -- I have no friends, and I'm on spring break, so screw it.
Bought a ticket to Coraline 3D. I felt like a super cool dude, buying that particular ticket, all by myself. The gum-smacking teenager behind the counter thought so anyway. I distinctly saw a lifted eyebrow when she slid me my change. $13.50 for one fucking film. Are you joking?
I'd already decided I was going to theater-hop, but that was insane.
Walked in about five minutes after the show started. Fumbled with my itchy 3D glasses for a couple scenes. Then proceeded to be completely dazzled, and then lost, in the world of Coraline. If you haven't seen the movie... seriously... va. AHORITA.
Coraline is an endlessly inventive grab bag of whimsy and eye-popping visuals. Either that or it's a blow-by-blow recount of a particularly bad acid trip. The storyline is pretty simple: a brave, headstrong little girl moves into a new house -- she doesn't like her neglectful parents, so she's ecstatic to discover a little door behind the wall that takes her to an alternate reality, in which her Other Mother and Father live. They look exactly the same as her real parents, except they have buttons for eyes, and they give her everything she could want. It seems too good to be true -- and of course, it is.
I respect Neil Gaiman as a writer, and that's mostly the reason I paid full price. I could actually get into a long discussion about the story of Coraline, but I'll leave it that I was satisfied and totally drawn into the plot as it unfolded.
But the way it played out, I was too busy being stunned by the visual imagery to worry about much else. The director of Nightmare Before Christmas, Henry Selick, also directed this film, and the same aesthetic is applied here. (I think it was executed even better in Coraline than in Nightmare. Blasphemy?)
One more note: it felt like the film was meant to be viewed in 3D. It was very much "an experience", and I don't think it'll have the same effect on a TV screen without the funny glasses. But Coraline has real heart, as well as a certain magical quality, that mean it's probably going to stick around for years and years to come.
After the movie finished, I headed into the bathroom. Then turned around and walked straight out, into another theater.
I Love You, Man was playing at 10. It was 9:20. I had a spare fifty minutes to kill. Don't question my math. Regal always shows some bullshit previews before the real previews start. It's not worth it to show up on time to movies anymore.
I walked into a showing of Race to Witch Mountain. The alien angle caught my interest, being that my script is somewhat alien-related, and I wanted to see how another writer was handling the issue.
The long and short of it: not well. I'm lucky I changed my main character's name. He used to be named Jack, which is such a cliched "hero name" in movies -- and also happens to be the name of The Rock's character in this movie. They must have said his name fifty times in the first twenty minutes. The bad guys all called him "Jackie". I really dodged a bullet here, I think.
It opened with The Rock as a cab driver, ferrying some fares around Las Vegas -- before a mysterious pair of kids shows up in his backseat and makes him drive out to the desert -- where it's revealed they're not really kids at all, but aliens in kid form, and they're being chased by the FBI. Then one of the kids wrecks an SUV just by standing in front of it -- (why would the FBI try to run him over, if he was an alien in kid form??) -- and I'm sure you've seen that scene in the previews.
Now to be fair, I didn't see the whole thing. Hell, I only saw part of the first act. But here was my biggest problem with the movie.
The dialogue was lame and felt totally "written". I'll give you an example, if you're still reading. In one of the opening scenes, The Rock drives Carla Gugino to a random Strip hotel. They have an obvious conversation about living on other planets (foreshadowing??). And wonder of wonders, it turns out that Carla Gugino is in town to give a speech at the UFO convention. She hands him a brochure and exits the car. The brochure has a list of the speakers at the convention. Now keep in mind, SHE NEVER GAVE HER NAME. Yet The Rock reads down this list and then says out loud: "Dr. Alex Friedman." Hmm. That must be Carla Gugino's character's name. Thanks, The Rock. I don't know what I, Joe Moviegoer, would have done without you. I wonder if she's going to end up figuring into this plot somehow?
Thankfully I didn't stick around long enough to find out. Once The Rock went into the pimped-out fridge, it was time for Paul Rudd and Jason Segel, and judging from the previews, Lou Ferrigno.
I Love You, Man has a great concept. Being a straight-laced guy and finding a new "best friend" is not easy. I should know. I'm a farmer.
Rudd plays the awkward "girlfriend guy" who relates easily to women, but is incapable of "guy talk". His attempts to be one of the Dudes fall hilariously flat, until he meets Sydney Fife (Segel) -- the brutally honest, comfortable-in-his-own-skin, macho foil to Rudd's fundamentally uncertain economic girlie man.
Jason Segel = comedic gold. That pretty much sums up my review. Any time he was on screen, the movie had an anchor and stayed on sure footing. When he was off screen, the emphasis shifted to the ultra-formulaic, by-the-numbers plot, and that's when the movie faltered. With the exception of some brilliant work by bit players (Thomas Lennon and Jon Favreau nailed their bits out of the park), and some inspired pieces of improv comedy by Paul "Slap da bass" Rudd.
I wanted to love this movie like I loved Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Instead, I liked it. The script needed two or three more drafts. But overall, the actors transcended the material and made the end of my self-date pretty enjoyable and satisfying.
What do you call it when you date yourself, anyway? Masturdating? Now there's a movie.
Anyway, that was my night tonight.
Bought a ticket to Coraline 3D. I felt like a super cool dude, buying that particular ticket, all by myself. The gum-smacking teenager behind the counter thought so anyway. I distinctly saw a lifted eyebrow when she slid me my change. $13.50 for one fucking film. Are you joking?
I'd already decided I was going to theater-hop, but that was insane.
Walked in about five minutes after the show started. Fumbled with my itchy 3D glasses for a couple scenes. Then proceeded to be completely dazzled, and then lost, in the world of Coraline. If you haven't seen the movie... seriously... va. AHORITA.
Coraline is an endlessly inventive grab bag of whimsy and eye-popping visuals. Either that or it's a blow-by-blow recount of a particularly bad acid trip. The storyline is pretty simple: a brave, headstrong little girl moves into a new house -- she doesn't like her neglectful parents, so she's ecstatic to discover a little door behind the wall that takes her to an alternate reality, in which her Other Mother and Father live. They look exactly the same as her real parents, except they have buttons for eyes, and they give her everything she could want. It seems too good to be true -- and of course, it is.
I respect Neil Gaiman as a writer, and that's mostly the reason I paid full price. I could actually get into a long discussion about the story of Coraline, but I'll leave it that I was satisfied and totally drawn into the plot as it unfolded.
But the way it played out, I was too busy being stunned by the visual imagery to worry about much else. The director of Nightmare Before Christmas, Henry Selick, also directed this film, and the same aesthetic is applied here. (I think it was executed even better in Coraline than in Nightmare. Blasphemy?)
One more note: it felt like the film was meant to be viewed in 3D. It was very much "an experience", and I don't think it'll have the same effect on a TV screen without the funny glasses. But Coraline has real heart, as well as a certain magical quality, that mean it's probably going to stick around for years and years to come.
After the movie finished, I headed into the bathroom. Then turned around and walked straight out, into another theater.
I Love You, Man was playing at 10. It was 9:20. I had a spare fifty minutes to kill. Don't question my math. Regal always shows some bullshit previews before the real previews start. It's not worth it to show up on time to movies anymore.
I walked into a showing of Race to Witch Mountain. The alien angle caught my interest, being that my script is somewhat alien-related, and I wanted to see how another writer was handling the issue.
The long and short of it: not well. I'm lucky I changed my main character's name. He used to be named Jack, which is such a cliched "hero name" in movies -- and also happens to be the name of The Rock's character in this movie. They must have said his name fifty times in the first twenty minutes. The bad guys all called him "Jackie". I really dodged a bullet here, I think.
It opened with The Rock as a cab driver, ferrying some fares around Las Vegas -- before a mysterious pair of kids shows up in his backseat and makes him drive out to the desert -- where it's revealed they're not really kids at all, but aliens in kid form, and they're being chased by the FBI. Then one of the kids wrecks an SUV just by standing in front of it -- (why would the FBI try to run him over, if he was an alien in kid form??) -- and I'm sure you've seen that scene in the previews.
Now to be fair, I didn't see the whole thing. Hell, I only saw part of the first act. But here was my biggest problem with the movie.
The dialogue was lame and felt totally "written". I'll give you an example, if you're still reading. In one of the opening scenes, The Rock drives Carla Gugino to a random Strip hotel. They have an obvious conversation about living on other planets (foreshadowing??). And wonder of wonders, it turns out that Carla Gugino is in town to give a speech at the UFO convention. She hands him a brochure and exits the car. The brochure has a list of the speakers at the convention. Now keep in mind, SHE NEVER GAVE HER NAME. Yet The Rock reads down this list and then says out loud: "Dr. Alex Friedman." Hmm. That must be Carla Gugino's character's name. Thanks, The Rock. I don't know what I, Joe Moviegoer, would have done without you. I wonder if she's going to end up figuring into this plot somehow?
Thankfully I didn't stick around long enough to find out. Once The Rock went into the pimped-out fridge, it was time for Paul Rudd and Jason Segel, and judging from the previews, Lou Ferrigno.
I Love You, Man has a great concept. Being a straight-laced guy and finding a new "best friend" is not easy. I should know. I'm a farmer.
Rudd plays the awkward "girlfriend guy" who relates easily to women, but is incapable of "guy talk". His attempts to be one of the Dudes fall hilariously flat, until he meets Sydney Fife (Segel) -- the brutally honest, comfortable-in-his-own-skin, macho foil to Rudd's fundamentally uncertain economic girlie man.
Jason Segel = comedic gold. That pretty much sums up my review. Any time he was on screen, the movie had an anchor and stayed on sure footing. When he was off screen, the emphasis shifted to the ultra-formulaic, by-the-numbers plot, and that's when the movie faltered. With the exception of some brilliant work by bit players (Thomas Lennon and Jon Favreau nailed their bits out of the park), and some inspired pieces of improv comedy by Paul "Slap da bass" Rudd.
I wanted to love this movie like I loved Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Instead, I liked it. The script needed two or three more drafts. But overall, the actors transcended the material and made the end of my self-date pretty enjoyable and satisfying.
What do you call it when you date yourself, anyway? Masturdating? Now there's a movie.
Anyway, that was my night tonight.
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