Grab 'em by the throat and never let 'em go.-Billy Wilder

What makes a great opening sequence is a personal thing, of course, but when a movie grabs your attention from the opening frame, knocks you out of your seat or even grinds you into it, you tend to remember it very fondly.


There are the obvious choices: 2001: A Space Odyssey, Raiders of the Lost Ark and Apocalypse Now. And the ones where the movie did not live up to the opening, like Saving Private Ryan.


And then there are those announce that the movie you're about to see is going to be something really special. 


The list below is not meant to be definitive or exhaustive, just an example of a few of my favorites. 

8 1/2



Blue Velvet

The perfect cinema metaphor, the king of allegorical opening sequences. 



Underground



The Wild Bunch






Nostalghia



Once Upon a Time in the West






The Battle of Algiers

In a scant 2:30 minutes, Pontecorvo sets up the story. Without showing any violence, we know what the prisoner has gone through.





Touch of Evil
Unquestionably one of the most marvelous, intoxicating openings in cinema history.






Goodfellas



Dr. Strangelove






Full Metal Jacket



Tokyo Drifter



Raising Arizona

Turn to the right!



Pulp Fiction






Fargo


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XI_4wvBHkrw



Memento



The Hurt Locker



Trainspotting

Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?



There Will Be Blood


PT Anderson knows how to open a film.
(no clip available)

The Man in Theatre Line a.k.a.The Insufferable Hardcore Film Buff (“IHFB”)

Remember that scene in Annie Hall?

Alvy Singer: [the man behind him in line is talking loudly] What I wouldn't give for a large sock with horse manure in it! 
Alvy Singer: [to audience] Whaddya do when you get stuck in a movie line with a guy like this behind you? 
Man in Theatre Line: Wait a minute, why can't I give my opinion? It's a free country! 
Alvy Singer: He can give it... do you have to give it so loud? I mean, aren't you ashamed to pontificate like that? And the funny part of it is, Marshall McLuhan, you don't know anything about Marshall McLuhan! 
Man in Theatre Line: Oh, really? Well, it just so happens I teach a class at Columbia called "TV, Media and Culture." So I think my insights into Mr. McLuhan, well, have a great deal of validity! 
Alvy Singer: Oh, do ya? Well, that's funny, because I happen to have Mr. McLuhan right here, so, so, yeah, just let me... 
[pulls McLuhan out from behind a nearby poster] 
Alvy Singer: come over here for a second... tell him! 
Marshall McLuhan: I heard what you were saying! You know nothing of my work! You mean my whole fallacy is wrong. How you got to teach a course in anything is totally amazing! 
Alvy Singer: Boy, if life were only like this!

Every time I encounter an IHFB I cringe and think of this scene. I’ve done my share of cinematic pontification and it wasn’t until I started to encounter several incarnations of Man in Theatre Line all over Los Angeles, that I decided to keep my brilliant analytical insights to myself for fear that I might sound like an annoying IHFB. Thinking it’d be less annoying than verbalizing my opinions, I started to write reviews for an e-zine. At first it worked. It was much easier to send a link to a review when someone asked what I thought about a movie. But then I started to annoy and bore myself with the written version of my gushing, passionate pontification and parading of my vast film knowledge. It was also truly traumatizing to have to pan some of my favorite directors (including Woody) in the name of journalistic integrity and to fend off angry and offended moviegoers because my tastes were not populist and differed from theirs. Tell someone you hated the beloved Haggis’ Crash and Slumdog Millionaire and you might find yourself the victim of mainstream ire.

Anyway, last Saturday I finally got to see Lawrence of Arabia on 70mm at the Aero with my Film Enthusiast group. Because it was one of my mom’s favorite movies, I have seen it at least a dozen times on television and video. While waiting for the film to start I told this to someone in the group, and a self-proclaimed IHFB (minus the “I” of course) said: Oh, I’ve seen it way more than that. And all on the big screen. I only see movies on the big screen. It’s the only way to see movies. On the big screen that is.”

Okey dokey. Tell him what he’s won Vanna…

A few people said they had not seen Lawrence of Arabia and I asked if they had seen The Bridge on the River Kwai. They said yes and before I could complete my thought the IHFB interrupted with “Oh no. But Lawrence of Arabia is much more factual.” I turned around and gave up on the conversation.  The IHFB continued to spill out tomes and tomes of David Lean and Lawrence of Arabia information and analysis hardly letting anyone else from the group chime in. I had to sit through 20 minutes of that before my friends, who were driving all the way from San Diego for this special screening, arrived. I decided right there and then to pretend I knew nothing about film. When asked my opinion, I'll just say I liked it, didn't like it, or it was okay. That was to be my gift to my fellow humans. And this is how one gets to learn the true meaning of empathy folks.

Ok, so this post was supposed to be about the incredible experience that is Lawrence of Arabia on the big screen. It made me sad that $500 million had to be spent to make blue lizards on 3-D to “restore the wonder” to the movie going experience, when all you have to do is spend $10 at your local revival/arthouse theater. Oh what the masses are missing!

I’m a filmmaker and therefore I have to sit through two and a half hours of blue lizards to see what’s up. I am not looking forward to it, but I will check my cynicism at the door and go in with an open mind. In the meantime, I have to ask:

Would David Lean have used CGI instead of spending two years in the desert if the technology had been available to him?

Can we ban the word “pretentious” from the dictionary?

My friend John Luke Retard e-mailed me and a mutual Critic friend the Toronto Film Festival best of the decade list. John Luke confessed he had fallen asleep during Syndromes and a Century and the Critic sent a brief reply dismissing the list as pretentious. I expect that kind of shallow reaction from an intimidated and insecure mainstream moviegoer, but coming from a critic it really bothered me. Especially after he had already said the same thing about The Hollywood Reporter’s list, pointing out that, even though he had not seen The White Ribbon, any list with that much Michael Haneke had to be pretentious. I don’t know if it was his use of one of my most hated words, his disdain for one of my favorite directors or the chile relleno I had for lunch, but my gut started to burn. I took a Zantac, meditated for a bit and proceeded to grill him on his definition of “pretentious.” He sent back this lovely definition: “long, slow films that most audiences will not care about or enjoy.” I popped a Paxil.

“Great artists are people who find the way to be themselves in their art. Any sort of pretension induces mediocrity in art and life alike.”—Margot Fonteyn

I abhor the word “pretentious” because it’s thrown around willy-nilly, as if it’s supposed to be a grandiose and meaningful statement in of itself. It’s quite the opposite. I have used the word before in a film review. But to me, pretentiousness is the antithesis of honesty; it lies within the context of the artist’s intent. The Critic was using it to judge the TIFF list-maker’s intent, as if his/her choices had no relevance because it was unlikely they would appeal to a wide audience. As a member of a smaller audience that seeks out more original and artistic films, I am offended that someone would suggest that what I want to see doesn’t matter. It was as if the Critic was saying, “your hunger for these obscure arthouse films is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. If you refuse to be part of the herd, then risk being called a pretentious twit."

I started to review movies out of a need to, not just write, but to promote worthy films outside the mainstream radar. Voltaire said that “no statue has ever been erected for a critic.” While it’s true, the profession doesn’t have to be without merit. It is certainly a noble pursuit to support and promote worthwhile efforts outside the mainstream. I wrote the Critic, that where he saw pretentiousness and the list-maker’s selfish self-aggrandizing, I perceived advocacy. As a filmmaker, I hope one day my work will be championed by a critic. Anyone, actually.

I am sure The Dark Knight and Up will be on many lists, but really, do they need it? Christopher Nolan and Pixar are doing all right. Better than all right. The same can’t be said for dozens of brilliant filmmakers that cannot get financing off the ground and distribution for their films. They’re calling it the Indie Bloodbath.

I thank and applaud those who bring attention to lesser known movies. Making discoveries would be difficult without those generous, caring souls. Someone is going to read the TIFF list and discover a filmmaker they have never heard of before and maybe love her movie. (I’ve added Distant, Platform and Colossal Youth to my bulging Netflix queue.)The hope is always that someone, somewhere, will notice your work and give it some attention so that you can find your audience.

I am working my way through the decade’s movies trying to figure out what I think are the best. I can tell you right now that ranking my picks will be downright impossible. I don’t watch that many Hollywood movies because it’s a waste of my time. However, I hope you don’t see me and/or my list as pretentious. I don’t have an agenda. I like what I like and I champion what I think should be championed. It’s as simple as that. Stay tuned.

Beyond the Shitty First Draft

There is no such thing as a first draft, or an OK first draft, or a pretty good first draft. There are only Shitty First Drafts and Super Shitty First Drafts and the only way to graduate from Super Shitty to just Shitty is to write several Super Shitty First Drafts.

Every screenwriter, at least the ones that live in the reality of this planet (believe me, there are many who don’t and most reside in Los Angeles) knows that the first draft is not even good enough to show your mother. This is particularly hard to stomach if you are a beginner screenwriter and you think everything you write is super clever and compelling. Write a few scripts, show them to some people, and watch that six figure spec deal delusion crumble.

I’ve completed many Shitty First Drafts and the road to the rewrite is always excruciatingly painful because, after all that work, the thought of taking it apart and risk making it worse, is horrific to me. Last night I attended the Notes on Craft: Rewriting session at the WGA in an effort to come to terms with that fear. The impressive panel was moderated by Daniel Petrie, Jr. and was composed of John August, Jack Epps, Jr. and Scott Frank.

I can’t begin to tell you how helpful and inspiring the experience was. It wasn’t that I heard earth-shattering information although the advice and tips from the writers were great. No, what I discovered was that even established and wildly successful screenwriters have the same fears and tackle the same problems as hopefuls.

The three writers had three different processes and approaches to writing. Epps is organized, uses note cards and has to have a clear vision and outline before he begins. August needs to know the beginning and the end and then works towards the middle. Frank just writes and writes until he discovers the story and finds its heartbeat. He confessed this was an extremely arduous, agonizing and long, long, long method.

They agreed that the greatest rewrite fear comes from having to risk everything that works to fix what doesn’t. It’s tricky to navigate around what’s working. So how do you figure out what doesn’t work? You need to trust yourself and your instinct and remember why you wanted to write this story in the first place. You should also have a few trusted friends and colleagues that will read your script and give you helpful notes. Some trusted readers should be people who’d love the kind of movie you are writing and others who wouldn’t consider it their thing.

The Shitty First Draft exists to be torn apart, and almost always, the second draft process will be more difficult. A writer must find the inspiration to tackle the second draft with fresh eyes and the courage to be brutal and savage. You should perceive the task as a challenge and not a mechanical chore and you need to continue to locate yourself in the material so that it’s a living, breathing story.

These writers were telling me exactly what I instinctively knew and they confirmed why it was so difficult to tear that first draft apart.

Interestingly, Frank commented that the reason you start a script hardly ever winds up in the final draft.

The screenwriters spoke about their rewriting assignments and they agreed that the common denominator of bad scripts is the lack of good characters. They get called in to “fix the girl, make her sound human.” Too often, writers concentrate on plot and populate the story with “attitudes.” These “people” do not act like humans, the plot and where it’s going dictates what the characters do and say. Frank said that the only way you can have an artful script is to have great characters. Story is easy, great characters are not.

Because it’s so tough to discern what works or doesn’t, Epps urged us to formulate a plan of attack and concentrate on only one thing with each pass. He added that most of his rewriting consisted of figuring out character motivation and deepening relationships and subplots. He offered Tootsie as an example. Michael Dorsey’s story and arc are pretty clear, but each of his relationships is what drives the story and makes it compelling.

The single most valuable tip involved audience consideration. The writers pointed out the importance of the audience’s point of view: what do they want to see? August mentioned the evolution of Iron Man. The filmmakers were smart enough to realize that the audience wanted to see Robert Downey, Jr. creating his inventions, so they cut a lot of the action and plot from the final film and gave them more of what they wanted to see.

Other helpful tips/exercises:

• Give yourself the freedom to write off the page and get your characters talking.

• Imagine the story from each character’s point of view, change the dynamics of the scene, i.e. which character drives it and have fun writing it.

• Pay close attention to scene transitions and focus on them to improve pace. Frequently, if scene transitions are not effective, that means one of the scenes is unnecessary.

• Change up obligatory genre scenes, i.e. the “meet cute” in a romcom. Think of ways to change the formula and write it differently.

• Ask yourself: if the inciting incident didn’t happen, would I watch these characters anyway? If the answer is no, you have to go back to characterization.

• Burn down the house. Be horrible to your main character. Things can always get worse for her.

• Always be on the lookout for lack of conflict. It doesn’t matter how small a scene is, it should always have conflict.

• When it comes to polishing, be mindful of rhythm, flow and tone. Vary sentence structure or else the read will be very boring. Say a lot with the least amount of words possible and make every word count. They recommended Dashiell Hammett’s “Red Harvest” as the quintessential example of saying a lot with little.

• If you can tell what your script is about without getting long winded or digressing, then the draft is ready for other eyes.

Finally, Frank expressed that the best reason to write was to amuse yourself. But because writing is such agony, it must be an obsession. And yes, successful writers also move commas around and mess with the settings of their screenwriting program to cheat page count and call it rewriting.

I’m still afraid, but it’s comforting to know that there are others out there who are with me in my suffering. I think I’m ready to face the imaginary paper shredder. And anyway, what choice do I have? This is an obsession.

Wilder’s Eleven Tips on Screenwriting

This year, as a screenwriter and also as a film critic,  I have learned to take the audience into consideration and even respect it. And believe me, for a born and raised film snob and idiosyncratic filmmaker, it was a long and painful process.  I think Billy Wilder expressed it best:

"An audience is never wrong. An individual member of it may be an imbecile, but a thousand imbeciles together in the dark - that is critical genius."

In the documentary Billy Wilder Speaks, Volker Schlondorff asked Wilder what should be in a screenplay. He responded: "Interior. Exterior. Day. Night. That's it."


Watch Billy Wilder speaks in Celebrity & Showbiz  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

It's advice I have taken to heart and which has enabled me to demystify the craft of screenwriting and realize the supremacy of the Story. Sitting through readings of over-written screenplays has helped a lot too. Don't do unto others...

Wilder's screenwriting advice below reflects his respect for the audience and his approach to filmmaking. It's great advice from a filmmaker that gave us one of the most articulate, enjoyable and influential body of work in the history of cinema.



1. The audience is fickle.

2. Grab 'em by the throat and never let 'em go.

3. Develop a clean line of action for your leading character.

4. Know where you're going.

5. The more subtle and elegant you are in hiding your plot points, the better you are as a writer.

6. If you have a problem with the third act, the real problem is in the first act.

7. A tip from Lubitsch: Let the audience add up two plus two. They'll love you forever.

8. In doing voice-overs, be careful not to describe what the audience already sees. Add to what they are seeing.

9. The event that occurs at the end of the second act curtain triggers the end of the movie.

10. The third act must build, build, build in tempo and action until the last event, and then

11. That's it. Don't hang around.

Is it true that the few remaining truths are graffiti, suicide notes, and shopping lists?

Umberto Eco recently said in an interview "I like lists for the same reason other people like football or pedophilia." Read full interview here.

I agree that lists can be anti-democratic, discriminatory, elitist, and sometimes the print is too small. Still, I make lists to try to put my life in some kind of order, but once I make them, I never look at them again. Even shopping lists. The list below is an attempt to make sense of my movie watching experience this year.

The Best:

The Headless Woman
Antichrist
Tulpan
The Hurt Locker
The Beaches of Agnes
You the Living
Up
O’Horten
Lorna’s Silence

Women Without Men
Tokyo Sonata
Liverpool
An Education
The White Ribbon
Adoration

I can’t believe I actually sat through and endured these, one of which almost turned me into a francohater:

Paris 36
Little Ashes
The Stoning of Soraya M
Blue Balls aka The Watchmen
What Goes Up
State of Play

Three of the most disappointing came from three of my favorite directors:

Broken Embraces
The Limits of Control
Whatever Works

The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus
The Road

Documentaries I enjoyed:

The Guest of Cindy Sherman
No Impact Man
Food, Inc.
Chelsea on the Rocks

The Yes Men Fix the World

Treats on the big screen:

A Foreign Affair
Rosemary’s Baby
Imitation of Life (Sirk’s)
Le Doulos
Rififi

The best movie watching experience of my life:

A restored print of The Gold Rush at Royce Hall.



It was an okay year I guess. I did not list the mediocre movies since there are too many of them and they are mostly forgettable. There’s still 6 weeks left in the year, and, since it’s Oscar Hopeful Rollout Season, I doubt this list will change much. Also, I’m sure I’m leaving out some films, but that’s another list for another day.

It's the end of the decade and you know what that means:

lists and more lists.

While there were many, many great movies this decade, I had to settle on one. My first choice would have been Hedwig and the Angry Inch, but since I'm always quoting from Ghost World (Dir: Terry Zwigoff, 2001, that was a more obvious and personal choice.



The trials and tribulations of teenagers all over the world are beautifully summarized in the old Zen saying: "Awkward in a hundred ways, clumsy in a thousand, still I go on." It fully applies to recent high school graduates Enid (Thora Birch) and Rebecca (Scarlett Johansson), best friends who can't wait to say goodbye to all the "retards"--the popular kids who buy into the consumer culture. They are searching not only for their identity, but their place in a world dominated by plastic versions of interaction and satisfaction. In Ghost World, Terry Zwigoff bridges the imaginary gap between arthouse and mainstream filmmaking with a very funny and insightful look into the psyche of modern America. Through his characters, he shows us both the ugly and beautiful, the phony and the real, while trying to connect with something authentic.



Click here to continue….

The Feel Bad Movie of the Year

After the tragic 2000 "election," I coped by joining every tree-hugging, peace-marching, polar bear-saving organization I could afford. In exchange for my 20 bucks I received bumper stickers and frightening e-newsletters, but none as disturbing as the Organic Consumers Association Organic Bytes. Here's a recent one, #176: Alert of the Week: Stop Monsanto's Genetically Engineered Wheat; Related Quote of the Week: The Hazards of Genetic Engineering, etc. I became afraid of food but I still managed to maintain my 22% body fat thanks to hunger-induced amnesia, eventually prompting me to mark the Organic Bytes harbinger of doom as spam right before heading to my favorite taco stand.

There's no way to sugar coat it. Food, Inc. is the feel-bad movie of the year; a terrifying and eerily prescient, non-fiction version of Soylent Green, the 1973 movie which depicted a dystopian future wherein overpopulation and the destruction of the environment have rendered human life cheap, but food--that is, real food--is very expensive. The government dispenses rations of synthetic food substances made by the Soylent Corporation: Soylent Yellow, Soylent Red, and the newest product, Soylent Green. It's all about the cheap food and so is Food, Inc.

Continued at...

http://spectrumculture.com/2009/06/food-inc.html

The Dog Again

I’ve been thinking a lot about Slumdog Millionaire, not really because I choose to, but because that damn song is being played over and over again everyfuckingwhere I go. (I actually got up and tried to do the Bollywood dance the other day.) Thanks to this reluctant reflection, I’ve decided I did not like the movie that much and if I continue thinking about it I may grow to hate it. Actually, I just may be one Danny Boyle or Dev Patel interview away from such contempt.

Slumdog suffers from is the same affliction that curses just about every American made movie: the closed narrative loop. What makes most Hollywood movies numbingly boring and irrelevant is the structure: premise, plot, sub-plots, a protagonist, one or more antagonists, climax, resolution, and the warm-happy sunset to ride off into. Contrivance is the necessary tool to fit reality into a neat two hour narrative package. Hollywood teaches us to deny reality and that’s why the USA is the most ignorant major industrial nation on earth.

This self-billed "feel good movie of the year" may help us "feel good" that we are among the lucky ones on earth, but it delivers a patronizing, colonial and ultimately sham statement on social justice for those who are not.

What might Slumdog look like in the hands of Satyajit Ray, Ken Loach or John Sayles?

There may be just one good thing to come out Slumdog’s popularity. I predict once it’s out on DVD it will dethrone Haggis’ Crash (the worst movie ever made) as the No. 1 rental on Netflix.

My Oscar predictions.

Mickey Rourke--actor
Heath Ledger--supporting actor
Kate Winslet--actress
Penelope Cruz--supporting actress (Viola Davis might take it)
WALL-E--animated feature, original screenplay
Benjamin Snooze Button-art direction, make-up, visual effects
Slumdog--picture, director, adapted screenplay, cinematography, score, film editing
The Duchess--costume design
Man on Wire--documentary feature
The Witness--doc short
Waltz with Bashir-foreign pic
Jai-Ho from Slumdog
The Pig--live action short
Presto--Animated short

Corndog Millionaire

I finally got around to watching Slumdog Millionaire. I thought it would be embarrassing to go to my Oscar party and not have seen at least one of the nominated movies. And I wanted to see it on a big screen since the consensus was that it was a big screen movie. I’m not going to write a full analysis/review since I’m a bit backed up in my writing, but here are some observations.

First, I have to defend myself. My friend John Luke Retard called me a Scrooge after I told him what I thought of Slumdog. Someone who chokes up during the previews is not a Scrooge (yes, it’s true, I don’t mind admitting it). She’s a film lover who hopes the movie she’s about to see is great.

From the very first sequence, Boyle tells us that “this movie is going to be INTENSE. If, at some point, you find yourself thinking ‘I need a massage after this,’ don't loathe yourself for the juxtaposition of your upper-middle class problems with the abject poverty shown in the film. This movie is heartbreaking from beginning to (almost) end, and it will take you through every emotion.” I have to admit I felt guilty for cursing the Governator on Friday and for checking the blue book to see if my car was worth more than $15,000. Anyway...

Whereas in previous Boyle efforts the music and style serve the story, here they carry the movie. I didn't mind the corniness since the movie embraces it, but the performances and the writing have to be there to support the corn. (Despite my reputation, I love corn, as long as it’s good and the manipulation is flawless.)

My guess (as a screenwriter) is that the story was originally meant to focus on the brotherly relationship which was sufficiently developed and infinitely more interesting than the love story. Jamal was probably slated to save his brother, not a chick he really didn’t have chemistry with because he hardly saw her during the entire two hours. But of course, you have to have the love story to pull in the female audience. That’s fine, but develop it man!

The last third of the movie is filled with forced, and sometimes cringe inducing dialogue that we’ve heard before. I’m baffled that Boyle couldn’t think of a more original situation for Latika. A pretty girl forced to be the mistress of a gangster? Really, Danny? For instance, why not have her buried alive in a shallow grave while ravenous zombies try to dig her out?

I’ve seen all of Boyle’s movies and, as far as I can recall, he’s never blatantly pandered to the audience. I lost all respect for him after being subjected to the end montage of scenes from the movie to remind us the hell the characters went through and to nudge that last tear. With that, everything that was right with the movie went to hell.

Note to Danny: Now that you’ve got your Oscars, success and money, please make up with John Hodge and make a good movie again. And what the hell was that business with the bathtub and the money?

Slumdog reminded me why I don't usually watch Oscar-nominated movies, but is also the type of movie that makes me wish I was a regular filmgoer so I could enjoy it just like everyone else. If you expect to taste boloney when you bite into a boloney sandwich, then you won’t feel disappointed when you don’t taste fois gras.

I found Hope.

I went to a self distribution talk tonight at Film Independent. It was an eye opener and I learned a lot. I still have a lot of research to do, but the most important thing I learned was that independent filmmakers must start marketing their films before they even shoot them. Toward that end, I will start a new blog called "LA, I Hate You," the title of my first feature. More about this later, but now, here's the link to Ted Hope's blog:

http://trulyfreefilm.blogspot.com/

Every independent filmmaker should be reading it.

Life is like a box of bad southern accents.

These are just my current observations since I’ve only seen three (In Bruges, The Dark Knight, Vicky Cristina Barcelona) of the nominees. I will see Milk and Frozen River soon. I have no intention of watching Forest Gump Reloaded. For the rest, I will wait to get my free screening invites. I know I’m not supporting the local economy, but I only pay for foreign language movies.

Best motion picture of the year

"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" As I said, Forest Gump Reloaded.

"Frost/Nixon" I think I’d rather see the actual interviews, which are out on DVD.

"Milk" Forget it. Brokeback Mountain already got it.

"The Reader" A holocaust movie would normally have a better than good chance but the top contenders are Benjamin and Slumdog. They’ll give it to Kate.

"Slumdog Millionaire" Danny Boyle has yet to make a bad movie, so, even if this one is not his best, it has the feel good factor on its side. It’d be an upset if it didn’t win. Plus, Mumbai, you know…terrorists and all. Yea, it’s gonna win.

Performance by an actor in a leading role

Richard Jenkins in “The Visitor”: Crap. I missed the free screening. I’ll push it up my Netflix queue.

Frank Langella in "Frost/Nixon"

Sean Penn in "Milk"

Brad Pitt in "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button": Only one thing comes to mind when I see or hear this name. Brad is fucking JC.

Mickey Rourke in "The Wrestler": I think this is pretty much a done deal unless Bono starts campaigning for Brad.

Performance by an actor in a supporting role

Josh Brolin in "Milk": I like Josh, but he’s a wife beater.

Robert Downey Jr. in "Tropic Thunder": This is the Academy’s idea of an African American nominee this year. They must have missed Forest Whitaker in Vantage Point. Denzel, where are you?


Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight": I suspect they gave him the Globe so they wouldn’t have to waste the Oscar on a dead dude, but there isn’t much competition in this category. Slam dunk.

Michael Shannon in "Revolutionary Road”: I don’t even know who this dude is.

Philip Seymour Hoffman in "Doubt": As if he cares.

Performance by an actress in a leading role

Anne Hathaway in "Rachel Getting Married": Cue ball eye lids has no chance against Kate.

Angelina Jolie in "Changeling": Probably not, since the consensus was that the movie was not very good. Newsflash: I like her now that I found out Brad is screwing JC. Turns out Angie has a tattoo of a crucifix on her khunt-adjacent region. Now, that’s what I call a sense of humor.

Meryl Streep in "Doubt": Hey, what happened to Mamma Mia nomination?

Kate Winslet in "The Reader": Holocaust movie and British actor. I can’t think of a more winning combination. Can you?

Melissa Leo in "Frozen River"

Performance by an actress in a supporting role

This is where the big bucks will be made. I’m waiting to see what the Vegas odds are. But since there are no other African American nominees and The Messiah is now Prez….you do the math. Viola or Taraji.

Amy Adams in "Doubt"
Penélope Cruz in "Vicky Cristina Barcelona"
Viola Davis in "Doubt"
Taraji P. Henson in "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

Marisa Tomei in "The Wrestler": You have to be kidding me. She should show up and return the Oscar she already got.

Best animated feature film of the year

"Bolt" Chris Williams and Byron Howard
"Kung Fu Panda" John Stevenson and Mark Osborne

"WALL-E" Andrew Stanton: The geniuses of Pixar will definitely get it.

Achievement in cinematography

"Changeling" Tom Stern
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Claudio Miranda
"The Dark Knight" Wally Pfister
"The Reader" Chris Menges and Roger Deakins

"Slumdog Millionaire" Anthony Dod Mantle:
Tony, I call him Tony, shot Festen (The Celebration to you philistines), one of my top twenty (I love you Ulrich!) and many cool movies. I really, really, really hope he wins.

Achievement in directing

"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" David Fincher: I have nothing against Fincher, just Brad and Forest Gump.

"Frost/Nixon" Ron Howard: I have lots against Opie. As a director, not as a person.

"Milk" Gus Van Sant: As long as his movies are financed, I don’t really care. He can direct Will Good Hunting Redux and I wouldn’t diss him

"The Reader" Stephen Daldry: Sorry. Tough competitors. There’s always next year.

"Slumdog Millionaire" Danny Boyle: Fincher is his only competition. And Boyle has directed more and better movies.

Best documentary feature

"The Betrayal (Nerakhoon)": A woman cinematographer’s first directorial debut. Love it.

"Encounters at the End of the World": I just want to see if Werner shows up to the ceremony. I have to admit I’d be very disappointed if he did.

"Man on Wire": This is the best suspense thriller of the year, bur frankly, I don’t know if I can sit through it. The subject unnerves me.

"The Garden"

"Trouble the Water"

Best foreign language film of the year

I haven’t seen them. I know I said I only pay for foreign movies, but what I meant by foreign was, French movies through the 1960s.

"The Baader Meinhof Complex" - Germany
"The Class" - France
"Departures" - Japan
"Revanche" - Austria
"Waltz with Bashir" - Israel

Adapted screenplay

"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Screenplay by Eric Roth: Eric shamelessly plagiarizes a movie he already won an Oscar for. F. Scott Fizgerald my ass. Roth is my screenwriting role model.

"Doubt" Written by John Patrick Shanley: It’s a play, not a movie. Blah, blah, blah…

"Frost/Nixon" Screenplay by Peter Morgan

"The Reader" Screenplay by David Hare

"Slumdog Millionaire" Screenplay by Simon Beaufoy: Start making room on your mantle Simon.

Original screenplay

"Frozen River" Written by Courtney Hunt

"Happy-Go-Lucky" Written by Mike Leigh: Mike deserves an Oscar for every film he has written and directed. Period.

"In Bruges" Written by Martin McDonagh: My kind of movie. Scabrously funny, gloriously irreverent and black as night. No chance in hell.

"Milk" Written by Dustin Lance Black

"WALL-E" Screenplay by Andrew Stanton, Jim Reardon

I will update as I see more movies. I have to admit I’m very disappointed in the Academy. Only three black nominees in this entire list, including Robert Downey Jr. Whatever happened to Change and Hope? Oprah is not going to be happy. No siree.

So LA! with Sister Galina

We’ve hit a minor snag in our production schedule due to our financing falling through. It seems the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles has a $660 million bill to pay and won’t be able to fund our show. Luckily for us and you, PBS has agreed to step in and save the day. We’re very happy but don’t expect to see any pinko commie programming. No siree! We will not compromise our laissez faire ideals. However, due to the significant reduction in funding, we will have to cut down on our production costs. Hopefully this won’t have any effect on the production value of the show. We are committed to bringing you quality programming.

Having said that...

Sister Galina and I spent yesterday evening taping her video introduction so that you can get to know her a little better. You can check it out at:

http://operator11.com/people/3312

All you have to do is click on one the little boxes to the right of your screen and voila! You’ll get a little tidbit about Sister Galina and what makes her tick. Watch it, rate it and comment at your heart’s content.

We’ll keep you posted on our progress.

Teri Carson
Executive Producer
So LA! with Sister Galina

P.S. You can watch the trailer at the link above or here:



P.S.S. Now you have a really good reason to contribute to PBS! But wait for the membership drives so you can get a cool gift. I swear by my Dr. Perricone kit. My skin has never looked better. Or if you ruined your credit you might consider the Suze Orman package. Just a suggestion.

So it goes.

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’ ”

Mr. Rosewater

A friend in need.

His name is Eric Volz and he's a friend of mine. He is a U.S. Citizen and has just been sentenced to 30 years in a Nicaraguan prison for crimes he did not commit.

He was working as the publisher for El Puente Magazine in Nicaragua when he was accused, convicted, and sentenced for murder.

He is suffering a slow and debilitating existence under conditions beyond your comprehension. Fighting starvation and under the constant threat of violent attacks. His life is on the line everyday!

This is not a joke, this is not a game, this is his struggle. The facts of his situation speak for themselves and can be found at the website indicated. If you think you can help him in anyway do not hesitate, we are begging you....his survival could depend on it.

WWW.FRIENDSOFERICVOLZ.COM


WWW.MYSPACE.COM/FREEERICVOLZ

Subplot: Bon Voyeurage

If I could, I would

live on Pinot Noir, bread pudding and Sour Patch Kids
be cooler than Patti Smith
make Johnny Depp realize he’s neither cool nor French
play the piano like Oscar Peterson
sing like Sarah Vaughn
bring Jeff Buckley back to life
party with Sam Peckinpah and Keith Richards
cook like Chef Pepin
marry Jon Stewart
lock Bill O’Reilly with Tarantino's gimp
make it impossible for Ann Coulter to get a vibrator
feed the vegans
liberate the Anne Geddes babies
hide Billie Joe Armstrong’s eyeliner from him
ban anything Uggs
star in a Godard film
and
never misspell another word

Therapy

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.” --Graham Greene

I put on my running shoes, wire myself to my iPod, and hit the road. During the first forty minutes I work out my problems, then I break the wall. After that, I can go on running until my legs quit on me, usually at the two hour mark. During this time, I create, find story and structural solutions to my screenplays, direct the film in my mind, storyboard, etc.

It has often been said that therapy kills creativity. Paul Schrader said it was the opposite, that it opened new doors. I don’t know. If I could afford therapy, I don’t even know if I would try it. I don’t know if I want to find out what is wrong with me. I think if I did, I’d turn into a very boring person. I like being hopelessly flawed.

Imagine you are an idiot.

A popular, somewhat charismatic, social butterfly, but an idiot nevertheless. You don’t need to think because you have surrounded yourself with a lot of smart and evil buddies who will tell you what to do and what to say. All you need to do is read out loud and smirk once in a while. They’ll take care of everything. And that, they have done. You don’t really have to know anything about nothing and nothing about anything as long as you are popular with the frat boys and sorority girls.

One crisp November day you wake up and you hear that there was a poll taken by your local newspaper. In it they say that you ain’t popular no more. That 68% of the people don’t like you no more. They think you suck and they think you ain’t kosher. Of course you might be a bit concerned. So you ask your smart evil buddies what’s up with that. They tell you not to worry because everything is taken care of. They tell you to go get ready for your trip to Argentina, that they love you there, pat you on the back, and give you a box of animal crackers to munch on.

Walking down the hall, you notice the people that hang out in your big house seem kinda’ down. You offer them some cookies, then tell them a joke, but they don’t laugh. You ask them “what’s wrong sour pusses?” They tell you your best buds are messing up everything and they are making everyone look like lying bastards. You sing “liar liar pants on fire!” but they don’t cheer up. You say “fine, be that way.” They tell you your best bud has to go or else there’s gonna be big trouble. You see a shiny object at the end of the hall and are mesmerized by it. You go towards the shiny light telling yourself “I am popular, I am popular, I don’t suck, everything is gonna be OK…”

jason rules in an echo boomer world

Once in a while, if you are lucky, you come across something that makes the trip to L.A. Fitness worthwhile. On my way to the 8:15 class, I stopped at the Magnolia and Coldwater Walgreen’s for a bottle of water. Kim Gordon in my ears, I headed for the cold beverage display. Another decision. Domestic or imported? After five minutes of pondering my options, I chose Evian, because it was cheaper than Arrowhead. “Come on down to the store you can buy some more, and more, and more, and more you can buy some more, and more, and more, and more you can buy some more, and more, and more, and more you can buy some more, and more, and more, and more…”

At the one and only open register, a couple of women were in front of me. I noticed a strange look on their faces. A cross between puzzlement and defeat. I put Kim on pause. I wanted to know. I looked over to the clerk. He was no more than 20, big blue eyes, large nose. He greeted me “hey” and took my bottle of French water. A tall Russian lady approached and asked him the location of the wrapping paper. Without looking up or pointing, he said, “over there.” The Russian lady and I looked over to the aisles then looked at each other. She asked, “where?” He answered, “Over there.” She looked at me, pleading. I looked over to the aisles. “Where?” she asked again. “Over there,” he responded, adding a quick swing of the head in the general direction of the entire store. “Aisle four,” I offered decisively, hoping it was a good enough guess. Jason looked up at me and asked, “how are you today?” The Russian lady thanked me and headed for aisle four. “Phenomenal,” I answered.

”What are you still doing standing there?” Jason asked, looking over to the entrance of the store. A young woman stood there patiently. I figured she was one of his friends paying him a visit.

“You were supposed to do a price check.”
“I was?”
“Yes, isn’t anybody looking?”
”Oh yea. We don’t have it.”

She just stood there, agape. I handed Jason my money, disappointed my own transaction went so well. The young woman let out a gasp, threw her hands up in the air, turned around and left the store. I looked at my watch hoping I had time to stay a little while to continue watching Jason in action, and perhaps, help a needy customer. Damn, my class was starting in five minutes. I took my water, pressed play, and I was on my way. “Close your eyes and make believe You can do whatever you please I wanna know I think I better go…”

Unlike in movies, in life there are no false moments. There is hope for mankind, people like Jason really exist.

Prologue

As I rolled along the freeway by the Oceanside exit, I made a pact with myself to keep the OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONEs to a minimum. The caffeine from my triple latte had not kicked in yet, so I was still in a state of depression. I looked through the rearview mirror trying to catch a glimpse of the traffic behind me through the piles of crap I had stuffed in my back seat. The car was full to the rim. I had become a cliché, a mere E! Hollywood Story reenactment. The girl with the big dreams driving to Hollywood to meet with Success. In her car, everything she owned. Well, actually, not really. Her roommate had left earlier with a Uhaul full with their precious belongings. She imagined future interviews. She would not be able to tell James Lipton or Henry Rollins she lived out of her car, since they had secured a 1200 sq. ft. apartment in NoHo. Hipster pseudonym for North Hollywood.

The landscape became uglier and hotter with every turn of the wheels. It’s not funny how dismal things look at 5 mph. My god, just a week ago I was in London, in SoHo, not NoHo! Then the caffeine kicked in. I knew with certainty I was doing the right thing. Who needs self-help and support groups when you have a pink card from Coffee Bean? Suddenly, Orange County didn’t look so bad and I was going 55 mph. Then, CA-101 and 15 mph, also known as the Via Dolorosa. An OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE crossed my mind as the blue sky became a shade of stale gray. No big deal, I thought. Blue skies and decent traffic never got me anywhere. Later, I found out that, technically, my apartment was not in NoHo, but Valley Village. “Valley!” Today, after two months of telling people I live in NoHo and Mapquest telling me I live in Valley Village, I accepted and embraced my colorful neighborhood. I am not looking back.

He Always Gets in the Way

I wish I could climb inside my head and give my brain a few slaps once in a while. It really pisses me off that, let's call it a He, He is trying to sabotage me. There is a reason why patterns of behavior repeat themselves. It is your brain trying to fuck you up and He is very successful. Don't get me wrong. I have become very attached to my brain and I really love Him a lot, but He can be a son-of-a-bitch sometimes. He is always reminding me of His superior quality and why I should always pay attention to Him and that He is always right. For some time now, I have suspected that He is not always right. I know He is trying to protect me, but does He really know what is best for me in all situations? He thinks He is, but now I think I know better. I hope one day to be stronger than He so that I can jump without thinking.

I know. This entry doesn't make sense. It is because I am not paying attention to Him.

False Innocence

"Americans" (to clarify: specifically the ones that reside in one of the 50 states currently known as the United States of America) are very naïve. They don't want to see the involvement of the United States in destruction and torture over the years. The United States likes to see itself with a halo on its head, and whenever a revelation like Abu Ghraib or My Lai and now Fallujah surfaces, U.S. citizens tend to shrug it off as an anomaly. When you look at the last fifty years of U.S. history, it is anything but. From Greece to Iran to Indonesia to Vietnam and throughout Latin America, the U.S. government has been complicit in the torture or murder of hundreds of thousands of people.

Memory is a prerequisite for morality. Americans lack memory, they are amnesiacs. The writer Ariel Dorfman calls such historical amnesia a "false innocence." It is entirely functional to the sort of empire that the United States has become. It is true that the media does not serve up enough analysis and information to allow people here to judge what is happening. But it is also true that too many people are willingly blinding themselves to truths that are looking them in the face. They are too busy watching reality television and Desperate Housewives. Violence is an integral part of being an empire. We are the beneficiaries of an empire, and the empire rests on a number of props that we don't care to look at. Torture and violence has been and will continue to be, one of the main tools.

If "Americans" (again: specifically the ones that reside in one of the 50 states currently known as the United States of America) were to truly acknowledge what is being done in their name, they would have to change the way they live and remember, work and play. Or give up seeing themselves as ethical. Do you see that happening?

The Objects of Detachment

Years ago I decided to simplify my life and get rid of all my junk. I went through my things and tossed anything I could not justify keeping. It took a while, but by the time I was finished, I had gotten rid of every single shoe box, piece of trendy clothing, magazine, greeting card, etcetera, I had kept for years. In order to avoid such a tremendous project in the future, I made it my practice to throw away things I didn't need as soon as I could. It wasn't hard getting used to detachment. This detachment of things perhaps led to detachment of people--a certain hard-earned independence and strength to endure heartache of any kind.

My grandmother used to write me short, little notes. These notes were an indirect reminder that it was about time I sent her some money, but she always threw in a wise, loving message that would make me feel things were going to be just fine. I was more than happy to pay in exchange for her comforting words. The last note she wrote to me and the only one I kept, I carry with me in my wallet. It reads (in Spanish):

"God willing, you will be content and happy and I wish you the best. I can't see very well any more, but I will see when I can see you. Your Nana"

The day after my mother passed away, I went to my sister's house. I noticed she had set up photographs of our mother and lit candles by the fireplace . There were some greeting cards, which I assumed were sympathy cards from her friends. On closer inspection, I discovered that not all the cards were sympathy cards. Some were birthday cards our mother had given to her. My mother's sweet and loving written words induced a pain of loss I had never felt before, but then, extreme envy took over. I tried to recall if I still had birthday cards from my mother. I rushed home and searched every corner of my apartment, looking for one, just one. I am still looking. There has to be one somewhere.

Favorite Five Movie Moments

1. The Madison dance sequence on Band of Outsiders

2. Opening sequence of Fellini's 8 1/2

3. Once Upon a Time in the West: Frank's gang kills the McBain family.

4. Full Metal Jacket: Joker with Rafterman frightened and puking and DOORGUNNER laughs and yells as he fires
his M-60 machine gun. "Get some ... get some ... get some ... get some ...yeah ... yeah ... get some ... get some."

5. Chungking Express: At the end, when Faye Wong comes back to Tony. Can't get more romantic than that. California dreaming...

Hemingway was right.

Everything is better when you are hungry. Starving. Art. So easy. Stroll the streets of Paris. And you are there. Just get there. Easy. Forget about the pain in your gut. The burning and the windows of Fauchon,

Characters Running Amock

Why is my screenplay getting more complex? That wasn't the plan. I was supposed to simplify it to make it easier and cheaper to shoot, but these damn characters just want to do their own thing. I don't know what they are up to, but I can't wait to find out. And it better be good.

Dress Rehearsal

I have decided to shoot a short film in April in preparation for my feature. The idea is to shoot it in the same style, with the same cameras--Panasonic DVX100A and Aaton A-Minima-- and roughly the same crew. I need to find out if I really want to shoot with the DVX100A. It will be a dress rehearsal for the big show.

Everything is Pretend

Where am I going to get the courage to get up in front of people and act? I don't know, but I have to do it and there is no getting around it.

What we want propels us into action. Action precedes all emotion. We really think we are going to get out of this alive. Of course we are not. We are all going to die. But we go around acting as if we are never going to die. We are all actors in our own reality.

Stalker of Truth

Luckily, I just stumbled upon the essay that got me into the Telluride Film Festival Student Symposium. Today has been a day full of self-doubt and my words remind me of why I love and make art.

The question was: If you could only take one film with you to the future, which one and why?

Stalker of Truth

A few of years ago, during my nihilistic-existential-Nietzsche-worshipping-black turtleneck-wearing period, I found myself lying on a couch, pondering the absurdity of existence. As I succumbed to the mind-numbing effect of channel surfing, I stumbled upon an image that would change my life forever: A small, burning candle resting on a stone wall juxtaposed with a black-and-white image of a man and a German shepherd sitting on the ground in front of a small pond.

The camera slowly dollies back to show a small Russian wooden house in the background. As this mesmerizing shot unfolds, it begins to snow. Then, the man, the dog and the house are revealed to be inside of an open, roofless Italian cathedral. The film ends and to my dismay there are no end credits! For days, I couldn’t think of anything else and my search for this film, which had provided me with a glimpse of personal truth, became an obsession. I finally found out the film's title, Nostalghia, acquired it and rushed home to watch it again. I was not prepared for the effect that this film would have on me as a human being and an artist. It helped me to realize that, unknowingly, my one-time, nihilistic perspective of religion’s promise of salvation as a dangerous illusion had buried the precious gift of longing for truth deep within me.

I needed to know that I was not alone and abandoned in an empty, absurd universe. Within the first ten seconds in Nostalghia, the late Andrei Tarkovsky shows me that I am not; and as the film unfolds, I have surrendered my attention and consciousness to the hands of a true and powerful poet of the cinema. And he, in turn, has made me a fellow stalker of truth.

The film’s conclusion—an extremely long take of a dying Gorchakov trying to cross a pool carrying a lighted candle in response to a request by Domenico—could be the most moving scene this legendary film director has ever shot. This sequence captures what no amount of searching, studying, reading and asking was able to do for me in my life up to that point. It provides the answer to my questions about personal responsibility for my own destiny and personal happiness. This answer is contained in the close up of Gorchakov's hands as he shields the candle from the wind and slowly puts it down. Unable to verbalize the beauty of this sequence, I looked to Tarkovsky’s own writing. In his book Sculpting in Time, he writes, "The way must be found from one person to another. Such is the sacred duty of humanity towards its own future, and the personal duty of each individual." Tarkovsky's films and the sage-like words of wisdom found in his book helped me to discover the meaning of true responsibility; that every human action has intrinsic meaning, and that therein lies hope. In Domenico’s own desperate words, "We must go back to the point where we took the wrong turn!"

Nostalghia tells us that we have two choices: Perish in a last, desperate cry of warning like Domenico. Or, like Gorchakov, carry the flame of the human spirit with conviction and yearning for a fulfilling existence. Tarkovsky’s films evoke a world illuminated by faith and the promise of transcendence, in which authentic spirituality can flourish. Although I still wear black turtlenecks, I no longer view Sartre and Nietzsche as my support group for dealing with mankind’s path towards more suffering and destruction. Rather, I participate in Tarkovsky's sacred dialogue with creation because he wants his audience to join in this sublime conversation. And I take part in this extended dialogue as a film lover, artist, filmmaker and kindred spirit.

Just as I cannot imagine a life without those I love, I cannot imagine a life without this film. Tarkovsky’s masterwork keeps me honest and gives me the necessary bursts of hope and strength to persevere despite the world’s human suffering and glamorized triviality. Every time I watch Nostalghia, I discover something new in the work that addresses the universal search for meaning. Some people have meditation, yoga, self-help books, Tibetan philosophy, psychiatrists, Oprah and Dr. Phil. I have Nostalghia, Andrei Tarkovsky and the drive and ambition to make my own films that will, hopefully, touch someone the way this great filmmaker's art has moved and changed me.

"Art is born and takes hold wherever there is a timeless and insatiable longing for the spiritual." -Andrei Tarkovsky

Festival of Beautiful Mold

I spent more time staring at the cheese at the window display of the fromagerie at Rue Cler than at the paintings at the Grand Gallery of the Louvre. I have never seen such a festival of mold. It was beautiful. The way the light hit the rough textures and the varying shapes of cheese reminded me of Goya’s brushstrokes, which I experienced up close and personal just two days earlier. The smell inside the cheese shop was strangely reminiscent of the odor coming from the mummy at the Egyptian exhibit at the Denon wing of the Louvre. Actually, I didn't really see much of the mummy since it was so dark, but I knew it was there because I could smell it. You need humidity and darkness to preserve relics, and you also need them to grow mold worthy of Parisian taste buds.

At Rue Cler, I did not feel insecure, self-conscious and bitter as I always do when I go to the supermarket back home. Why should I? I am in a foreign city, thousands of miles away from California, and no one knows me here. I am not looking for the latest, not-from-the-frozen-section, new pathetic food, I may be able to concoct quickly and easily given my culinary limitations and disdain for food shopping. I will be merely perceived as a tourist beholding works of art and curiously taking in the culture around her; investigating the Parisian habit of living well. At least in Paris, I am not that pathetic woman who cannot cook and buys Lean Pockets only when they are six for ten bucks. No, this was not Albertson’s two-for-five bucks-take-your-pick from cheddar, Monterey, or pepper jack cheese. (Now that I think about it, I never saw an orange piece of cheese in Paris. Blue, yes.)

I was not feeling self-conscious, as I should have been. I was surrounded by Parisians carrying chic basket weave bags, making their way from store to store buying fresh produce, fresh bread, fresh meat, fresh fromage and the perfect wine to go with it. No, I was not self-conscious because days before I had decided to embrace my status as a tourist. I got tired of trying to read my guidebooks and maps without anyone noticing: by keeping them open inside my bag while trying to figure out where I was going or by hiding behind large structures and out of the way alleys to consult them in private. Being incognito was too stressful and so what! I am a tourist and I don’t know where the hell I am going and I need maps to find Shakespeare & Co., which happened to be just under my nose. Now, where was La Maison du Jambon? I proudly took out my guide book, took a sip from my cafe crème and consulted it without shame. According to Rick Steve’s book, right across from la pharmacie, two doors down from the beautiful, smelly mold.

Reverence

I step out of my apartment in San Diego and immediately feel my ass on fire. It is mid-January, but the sun is shining brighter and hotter than in any day in August. I get a strong urge to go back inside my cold apartment and try to recall what 30 degree weather felt like. In Paris.

The minute you step into Paris, you start to have strong feelings for it, and to take it personally. The Reverence for the city and for its abstractions disappears and turns into something else as the experience becomes more and more concrete and romantic notions slowly dissipate. I was there for the daily miracle that writers and artists long for and was expecting it to be even more special than the ones at home. Where else could you live more inside yourself than in Paris? Standing by the curb side, waiting for the shuttle that would take me there, I watched my breath hit the cold air. I waited and waited and I did not mind because I was also on the look out for the daily miracle that would enable me to tell what was inside me. I had to be patient. Could it come at Charles De Gaulle airport or did I have to wait until I was finally in Paris? I took out my micro-cassette dictator and held it close to my mouth. I started to speak, but the thoughts were not worth recording. Not yet.

The shuttles came and went, picking up their respective passengers outside Exit 8 of the terminal. I had been very fortunate and did not get airsick, but now I had to endure the shuttle ride from Roissy and to fight my natural inclination for carsickness. We passed an area that closely resembled Orange County and then what I could only guess were the Projects. The Projects are the Projects wherever you go: dilapidated, dirty buildings with clothes hanging off the window sills. I was not worried. I was very aware that this area was not Paris and it had nothing to do with Paris and that I would be in Paris soon enough. However, I was not prepared for the glaring and critical eye of Paris. I knew quite well that I had set myself up.

Prima donnas at the queue.

I enter the Continental terminal at George Bush International Airport in Houston, struggling with my four pieces of luggage weighting over ninety pounds. Words cannot describe the horror. People everywhere! I cannot get past the crowds and I can hardly see the ticket counters. Where the fuck do I go? I calm myself down thinking there is no way I have to stand in line, since it is the airline's fault I missed my connection to San Diego last night. No way I am standing in line. Making my way through a crowd of Mexican travelers with boxes masquerading for luggage, I approach a ticket agent. "Where do I go and do I have to stand in line?" She points to the other side, where I came from, and nods. "Really, but let me explain--" She nods and points, interrupting me. She doesn't know shit. I am sure I don't have to stand in line. It is Continental's fault I am stuck in Dubya's Daddy's Airport of all places! I tell my story to another agent who is trying to direct human traffic and she tells me to go to the side where I came from. The International counter? I just came from Amsterdam, not going back, although I really want to. She indicates she is sure that is where I am supposed to stand in line. Stand in line?

I take my place in line wondering why I am standing in line. After twenty minutes I spot the Domestic E-ticket counter across the cluster of Texan travelers. Let's see...I am going to San Diego, which means it is a domestic flight, and I don't have a paper ticket, which means I must be an E-ticket. Feeling glad that I took a logics class in college, I rush to get out of line. I knock down the queue dividers as I trip over a Mexican lady's cardboard box makeshift luggage. I don't look back and I push my way through the crowd. This is no time for good manners. I find the end of the line at the urging of another Continental employee. I ask her if I really have to stand in line, especially since I just stood in line for twenty minutes in the wrong line because of another Continental's employee's fault and am I going to miss my flight?!!! She looks at me dismissively and I can read her mind: HONEY, JUST BE GLAD WE PUT YOU UP AT THE SHERATON AND GAVE YOU A TEN DOLLAR MEAL VOUCHER. NOW GET IN THE GODDAMN LINE. Oh, yes, thanks ma'am and the Sheraton has real hair dryers, unlike those contraptions in European hotels. Fine, I'll get in line.

The wait wasn't that bad and I get to the front within fifteen minutes. I am five minutes from a clean getaway back to Southern California, when I spot a Mexican family of four standing to my right. Great, they cut in and there is nothing I can do about it since I am not the belligerent type. Really, I am not. The ticket agent, MY ticket agent, starts to help them first. I stand there patiently, smiling, waiting my turn. I notice the father is holding a stack of papers and I sneak a peak. At the top of the front page it reads: "Make a Wish Foundation." I continue snooping and read: "Miguel's Wish Participants." I immediately search for Miguel. He is standing next to his mother, holding his little sister's hand. He is about ten, thin, big eyes, wearing glasses and a beanie. He looks at me shyly. I can tell there is no hair below the beanie. The ticket agent is having trouble finding the little girl's reservation and I translate, since the father can hardly speak English. They must have it, it is in the paperwork he handed to her, he indicates. While the ticket agent looks for the reservation, the father asks me if I am also going to Orlando. No, I'm just stuck in Houston, poor me. The ticket agent finally finds the reservation. What a relief! They misspelled Emily's name. Since this is going to take a while, another ticket agent helps me and I finally get my boarding pass. Before I leave, I wish them a fun trip. Say hi to Mickey for me!

I head for the security line. This line, I am sure I have to stand in. I am about to break down. I make every effort not to. I am ashamed of myself. Of having felt so distraught and unfortunate over nothing. Swallowing my emotion, I put all my crap on the X-ray machine. I take off my boots and watch them roll away as I walk through the metal detector. No beep and I am almost home free.

When I arrive at the gate, I am informed there are no more seats on this flight, but that they will ask for volunteers to give up their seats. Well, at least I don't have to stand in line to board the plane. I find a seat at the gate and make myself comfortable. I know I will get home. I think about the hamburger I ate last night at the hotel, compliments of Continental Airlines. And about the bed at the Sheraton, which was the most comfortable bed I slept in the whole trip. I am lucky.

The Goal

I just returned from Paris and Amsterdam full of ideas and inspiration. I will shoot my first feature this year. There is no doubt about it. It is not about how much money you have, if you even have a budget or what will happen after the film is finished. It is about the process. It is about the work. The work must be done.

"Happiness... it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. "--Vincent Van Gogh

Penguins Take Over Paris

I finally had a dream that I made it to Paris. I get to my hotel, which was actually a motel, and it was shit. There was an infestation of penguins, all sizes, all around the block and it smelled! I get to the room and it was dirty and there was pita bread all over the place. I told the cab driver not to leave me there and I kept saying to the hotel manager that I was not staying there. I also told him that I was not going to be able to sleep with all the penguin noise. He kept saying that I would get used to the penguins and that they would clean the room really fast and not to worry. So then they pull out a man on a gurney. He looked like a huge boil or creature. Apparently, he had died in the room several days ago. Then the manager comes out and feeds the penguins the pita bread. The cab driver kept on examining the dead man trying to figure out what he died from. It was disgusting. Then I woke up and boy was I happy! But, the point is, the plane didn't crash, as it had for the last twenty years in my dreams.

I looked up the meaning of the dream:

"Seeing a penguin in your dream means that your problems are not as serious as you may think. It serves as a reminder for you to keep you cool and remain level-headed. Alternatively, a penguin seen in your dream suggests that you are being weighed down by your emotions or by a negative situation. You need to find some balance and inner harmony."

I really hate these useless and boring interpretations.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

I guess some people are praying for me. Most likely praying for me to stop sending them my political opinions, take a chill pill and relax. Keep praying, because I won't stop and I can't relax. I won't stop because I cannot forget that at the end of Ionesco's "Rhinoceros" the central character, Berenger, who initially resists, eventually succumbs to the metamorphosis himself. Is it possible to resist the urge to conform? To eventually become part of Conspiracy of Complicity?

Are we living in a godless universe where human existence has no meaning or purpose so therefore all communication breaks down? The line between the absurd and reality is fading fast.

What is wrong with the United States of America? The Cult of the Quiet is too absorbed in day-to-day bullshit. It loves its cable and internet and cell phones; it may be employed and it might have a nice meal and get laid once in a while. The Cult of the Quiet doesn't care. The Cult of the Quiet has what it needs so it doesn't mind that the president is an idiot who neglects the unemployed, the troops in harm's way, the starving, the sick, the cold, the bleeding. That makes America simple-minded and selfish. That makes America amoral and retarded. Rhinoceri. Look in the mirror, very closely, and see if you have horns too.


What do we care about?
We are jaded.
Let's not waste time voting next time.
The world ridicules us.
Irresponsible.
Sinners.
Dummies.
Do rhinoceri have epitaphs?

Rhinoceri don't think about their mortality. They think about SUVs, Scott Peterson and presidential blow jobs.

In the end, will there be any human beings left to graze and breathe and crap and decompose with the rhinoceri?