previously published by me elsewhere:
I was really surprised by how different the experience of watching the performance of "Dog Sees God" behind the camera last night compared to viewing it as a mere audience member tonight. Maybe it has something to do with seeing something multiple times and therefore having another perspective on it that the virginal eyes lack.
My impression of the overall production improved, but there were some specific performance issues that became glaringly more noticeable with the second look. The turnout was far stronger tonight, and they were a much more expressive audience. Unfortunately I was sitting in front of a couple people who were more expressive than I think was warranted. Not only did they share the obligatory laughs and at least one major gasp of any attentive audience member, but with each communal moment it seemed a line of thought was spit out as well:
"Of course!"
"I saw that coming."
"Now I'm turned on!"
"You know they had to do that, right?"
"That SO reminds me of my brother."
"The blow job bit?"
"You know the story don't you?"
"Let me tell you. Okay, how 'bout later?"
There's a line between getting into the complex psychological dialogue between audience and actor, but then there's talking through the fuckin' show. It was quite clear that they wanted someone to hear their Mystery Science Theater morsels, but I was determined to tune them out as much as possible and enjoy the play.
So, I did just that, and found myself far more moved than while filming it. There's a wall that was put up between the performance and myself with the camera as my focus. I don't often get into plays like I do films. They generally lack the right kind of intimacy to really affect me, and it was really thrilling to enjoy some real connection with the piece tonight.
30 September 2006
weather report
previously published by me elsewhere:
There's a calendar on the kitchen wall, in my checkbook, within the bowels of my planner, at the bottom of the screen on several cable channels, on every major search engine page on-line, and in any number of other places, yet October still seemed to have snuck up on me.
Even though we don't get the full-on experience of the four seasons in North Florida, October has long been a favorite month for me. There's something in the air. It's called a cool breeze, but for me there's more to it. The A/C starts to get turned off, the windows and sliding glass doors begin staying open much of the time and my spirit tends to breathe with far more clarity.
I am frequently at my most productive around this part of the year with the rest of the world essentially flowing through the open windows across the entire house. I know some people look forward to their birthday, Christmas, New Year's, or something else all year long, as they drudge through everything in between. For me it's that period we're edging toward as October begins.
There's a calendar on the kitchen wall, in my checkbook, within the bowels of my planner, at the bottom of the screen on several cable channels, on every major search engine page on-line, and in any number of other places, yet October still seemed to have snuck up on me.
Even though we don't get the full-on experience of the four seasons in North Florida, October has long been a favorite month for me. There's something in the air. It's called a cool breeze, but for me there's more to it. The A/C starts to get turned off, the windows and sliding glass doors begin staying open much of the time and my spirit tends to breathe with far more clarity.
I am frequently at my most productive around this part of the year with the rest of the world essentially flowing through the open windows across the entire house. I know some people look forward to their birthday, Christmas, New Year's, or something else all year long, as they drudge through everything in between. For me it's that period we're edging toward as October begins.
29 September 2006
goddamn dog
previously published by me elsewhere:
I remember a period early on in college when I would frequently be asked if I were majoring in acting. It wasn't as if my Blanche DuBois was in good shape, nor was I particularly suicidal. Nah, I was pretty shameless when it came to saying whatever the hell was on my mind, not giving a shit about what people thought of me, and generally "acting" like myself.
Tonight I was described as stoic by an acquaintance to a few people who I'd never met. It was in reference to whether or not I'd get offended by something that was going on, which got the prompt assessment that I don't get phased by anything. Oh, and that I'm stoic. Supposedly. Perhaps I was expected to take flattery for being described at all, but it does make me wonder if life has hardened me in some disappointing fashion after all these years.
Although looking back it seems like an obvious choice to connect those awkward formative years more directly to my long-term goals, I was not involved in high school drama. Hell, I wasn't even involved in that other sort of high school drama that plagued most people and has become the main subject of any number of poorly made films and TV shows. Back then the dream of filmmaking was very much in the incubation stage.
I don't really remember knowing a whole lot I could do with the dream at the time, except by watching a bunch of movies and speaking about the future as if there wasn't all of this crazy competition. Sure, I wrote some tentative movie scripts, put together some little video shoots with friends, and bit my tongue as my parents called the whole movie thing a phase. It was life lived in a vacuum that I think the internet kids with similar dreams miss out on these days.
The whole high school theater experience always seemed to be an actors only club, therefore I never felt like there was a place for someone like me. The behind the scenes stuff that I might have been good at seemed quite downplayed, so I didn't realize the option at the time. Besides, I was busy for the first couple years of high school right down the hall from the drama folk in the band room.
I know, Band Camp. Blah, blah, blah. The actual music always seemed like the nerdy part to me, so I spent a fair amount of time just fingering. The far more social, female-centric aspect was what it became for me. I did befriend a number of the theater people, and quietly admired several others. It wasn't so much their acting talent that got me, but amazement at how much fucking they were all doing with one another. And in all sorts of interesting combinations, too!
Tonight I went out to our local independent blackbox theater for Bert V. Royal's "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead", whose director and several cast members I consider friends. I was there to film the performance, so I'm going to be going back tomorrow night to really enjoy and savor the damn thing. I feel like it'll be the first time I've seen the same theatrical production performed more than one time. Isn't that strange?
Okay, so maybe there was the time in seventh grade when I went to "Twelfth Night" at my sister's high school with her and a group of her friends. As it went, the evening's show was cancelled before the second act when one of the actors got stabbed in the eye during a sword fight. So, I guess I saw that show one and a half times. All I seem to recall about it was some strangely fitting Billy Idol and David Bowie music, as well as a couple hot young actresses. Sorry, Bill, but I don't remember your play.
I remember a period early on in college when I would frequently be asked if I were majoring in acting. It wasn't as if my Blanche DuBois was in good shape, nor was I particularly suicidal. Nah, I was pretty shameless when it came to saying whatever the hell was on my mind, not giving a shit about what people thought of me, and generally "acting" like myself.
Tonight I was described as stoic by an acquaintance to a few people who I'd never met. It was in reference to whether or not I'd get offended by something that was going on, which got the prompt assessment that I don't get phased by anything. Oh, and that I'm stoic. Supposedly. Perhaps I was expected to take flattery for being described at all, but it does make me wonder if life has hardened me in some disappointing fashion after all these years.
Although looking back it seems like an obvious choice to connect those awkward formative years more directly to my long-term goals, I was not involved in high school drama. Hell, I wasn't even involved in that other sort of high school drama that plagued most people and has become the main subject of any number of poorly made films and TV shows. Back then the dream of filmmaking was very much in the incubation stage.
I don't really remember knowing a whole lot I could do with the dream at the time, except by watching a bunch of movies and speaking about the future as if there wasn't all of this crazy competition. Sure, I wrote some tentative movie scripts, put together some little video shoots with friends, and bit my tongue as my parents called the whole movie thing a phase. It was life lived in a vacuum that I think the internet kids with similar dreams miss out on these days.
The whole high school theater experience always seemed to be an actors only club, therefore I never felt like there was a place for someone like me. The behind the scenes stuff that I might have been good at seemed quite downplayed, so I didn't realize the option at the time. Besides, I was busy for the first couple years of high school right down the hall from the drama folk in the band room.
I know, Band Camp. Blah, blah, blah. The actual music always seemed like the nerdy part to me, so I spent a fair amount of time just fingering. The far more social, female-centric aspect was what it became for me. I did befriend a number of the theater people, and quietly admired several others. It wasn't so much their acting talent that got me, but amazement at how much fucking they were all doing with one another. And in all sorts of interesting combinations, too!
Tonight I went out to our local independent blackbox theater for Bert V. Royal's "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead", whose director and several cast members I consider friends. I was there to film the performance, so I'm going to be going back tomorrow night to really enjoy and savor the damn thing. I feel like it'll be the first time I've seen the same theatrical production performed more than one time. Isn't that strange?
Okay, so maybe there was the time in seventh grade when I went to "Twelfth Night" at my sister's high school with her and a group of her friends. As it went, the evening's show was cancelled before the second act when one of the actors got stabbed in the eye during a sword fight. So, I guess I saw that show one and a half times. All I seem to recall about it was some strangely fitting Billy Idol and David Bowie music, as well as a couple hot young actresses. Sorry, Bill, but I don't remember your play.
26 September 2006
hello goodbye
previously published by me elsewhere:
I think Ferris Bueller said it well: "Life moves by pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while, you might miss it." (Thank you John Hughes!)
There was a flight today headed for paradise with a stop-over at LAX. A dear friend was on that flight, as she took an important leap in her life with the hopes she might truly find herself at the other end. Maybe a respite from the norm.
Or maybe a home. But what does that mean, really? Everyone has their own interpretations of what that entails. Some people envision Thanksgiving dinners around a big table, but other people might find it briefly on the set of a movie at 1 AM. Isn't it really just a place of comfort, and not necessarily an abode?
Throughout my life people seem to go away just when things are getting good. Many of my relationships have had to be forged across this sort of physical distance. I find it intriguing that in the same breath people can become out of sight, out of mind; and that same distance can make our hearts grow fonder.
I got a call from my brother today. He was letting me know that his mother-in-law had passed away from the debilitating condition she had been dealing with for the past year. By no means was I in the dark on what was going on in his family during this time, but the fact is I don't really know my brother, and he doesn't exactly know me. We have been light-years away from one another for so long, it's hard to know where to step when he's around.
I offered my sympathies and attempted to gauge his needs. With people I know far better, I can detect the small things, but I can't bear subtext when talking with him. I don't know whether or not he was close to his wife's mother, nor do I know if a hearty amount of animosity lurked behind every meeting. This sort of trouble with openness runs throughout my family.
There are plenty of catch phrases and movie quotes to define life's parameters, but sometimes living and watching the manner in which people enter and exit one another's life does the job just fine.
I think Ferris Bueller said it well: "Life moves by pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while, you might miss it." (Thank you John Hughes!)
There was a flight today headed for paradise with a stop-over at LAX. A dear friend was on that flight, as she took an important leap in her life with the hopes she might truly find herself at the other end. Maybe a respite from the norm.
Or maybe a home. But what does that mean, really? Everyone has their own interpretations of what that entails. Some people envision Thanksgiving dinners around a big table, but other people might find it briefly on the set of a movie at 1 AM. Isn't it really just a place of comfort, and not necessarily an abode?
Throughout my life people seem to go away just when things are getting good. Many of my relationships have had to be forged across this sort of physical distance. I find it intriguing that in the same breath people can become out of sight, out of mind; and that same distance can make our hearts grow fonder.
I got a call from my brother today. He was letting me know that his mother-in-law had passed away from the debilitating condition she had been dealing with for the past year. By no means was I in the dark on what was going on in his family during this time, but the fact is I don't really know my brother, and he doesn't exactly know me. We have been light-years away from one another for so long, it's hard to know where to step when he's around.
I offered my sympathies and attempted to gauge his needs. With people I know far better, I can detect the small things, but I can't bear subtext when talking with him. I don't know whether or not he was close to his wife's mother, nor do I know if a hearty amount of animosity lurked behind every meeting. This sort of trouble with openness runs throughout my family.
There are plenty of catch phrases and movie quotes to define life's parameters, but sometimes living and watching the manner in which people enter and exit one another's life does the job just fine.
19 September 2006
tidal pools
previously published by me elsewhere:
I remember one summer when I was about eight-years-old, sitting in the backseat of my parents' station wagon. We were roaring down the highway in the middle of nowhere during one of a couple summers in a row spent like the traditional image of Americana.
I recall sitting there listening to the deep vibrating hum of a car at high speeds, and whatever familial din filled the cabin. I had this extreme sense of self-awareness as I consciously started to listen to my own voice mumbling inside my head.
I wondered why I was me, and not someone else. Why these would be my experiences. I often ponder similar things, as certain people pass in and out of my life, and others take on unpredicted significance.
This September has been reasonably active in celebrating birthdays. Three people I consider close, for completely different reasons, have had one this month. Two of which have spread their birthdays out over several days, making it seem like much more.
One of those close friends came into my life only a year ago, but the intensity of the friendship came on as quite a surprise. She and I share one of those friendships that don't require a lot of frequent talking and hanging out because you relate on a different level. There's a certain understanding going on between us beyond the whole conversational.
Another of my friends is close in the more traditional sense of the word. She is half of a couple the wife and I have known for three years, who we spend time with several times a week, who we exchange presents with at all of the gift giving times, and that sort of thing. This is truly one of those lasting friendships built by shared experiences and mutual growth.
Tonight we went out to dinner with the third close friend celebrating a birthday this month. We told her several days ago that we'd like to bring her out for her birthday if she was free. So, we met at the restaurant of her choosing, enjoyed a good meal with some above average service, and held some pretty steady conversation.
Her boyfriend is twenty years her senior and frequently Mr. Quiet. In all of the years they've been together I've never been able to determine whether it comes from introversion, or just aversion, but he was there tonight as well. Surprisingly he did come out of his shell a little when a random bit about childhood pranks and mischief came into conversation, but that was about all we could get out of him.
And then the bill came. Sitting at the end of the booth within two feet of our waitress, he was able to do a quick pass of his credit card before we realized the bill had even arrived. How can we treat if someone else pays, right? I hate that whole check grabbing game that sometimes occurs, as the most determined demonstrate who's the more dominant of the species at the table.
That was tonight, but the friendship has been going on for seven years with a lot of lulls in conversation and contact. We like each other's company, and have spent a lot of nice times together over the years. I know that we are good friends even though I can't really express it here, but I can't help but feel as though it's as good as it will ever be.
She's one of the small margins of people who have always been there for me, even when I went through some dark times during this pursuit for the silver screen. I've shared a lot of painful stuff with her, but the discomfort that comes from doing that without reciprocation always takes over.
Throughout the years I always hit a wall with getting through to what's really going on inside her. It's upsetting to think that the friendship will only grow just so far.
I'm left to wonder why certain people grace the frames in your living room and some fill the pages of your memory, yet others remain forever elsewhere.
I remember one summer when I was about eight-years-old, sitting in the backseat of my parents' station wagon. We were roaring down the highway in the middle of nowhere during one of a couple summers in a row spent like the traditional image of Americana.
I recall sitting there listening to the deep vibrating hum of a car at high speeds, and whatever familial din filled the cabin. I had this extreme sense of self-awareness as I consciously started to listen to my own voice mumbling inside my head.
I wondered why I was me, and not someone else. Why these would be my experiences. I often ponder similar things, as certain people pass in and out of my life, and others take on unpredicted significance.
This September has been reasonably active in celebrating birthdays. Three people I consider close, for completely different reasons, have had one this month. Two of which have spread their birthdays out over several days, making it seem like much more.
One of those close friends came into my life only a year ago, but the intensity of the friendship came on as quite a surprise. She and I share one of those friendships that don't require a lot of frequent talking and hanging out because you relate on a different level. There's a certain understanding going on between us beyond the whole conversational.
Another of my friends is close in the more traditional sense of the word. She is half of a couple the wife and I have known for three years, who we spend time with several times a week, who we exchange presents with at all of the gift giving times, and that sort of thing. This is truly one of those lasting friendships built by shared experiences and mutual growth.
Tonight we went out to dinner with the third close friend celebrating a birthday this month. We told her several days ago that we'd like to bring her out for her birthday if she was free. So, we met at the restaurant of her choosing, enjoyed a good meal with some above average service, and held some pretty steady conversation.
Her boyfriend is twenty years her senior and frequently Mr. Quiet. In all of the years they've been together I've never been able to determine whether it comes from introversion, or just aversion, but he was there tonight as well. Surprisingly he did come out of his shell a little when a random bit about childhood pranks and mischief came into conversation, but that was about all we could get out of him.
And then the bill came. Sitting at the end of the booth within two feet of our waitress, he was able to do a quick pass of his credit card before we realized the bill had even arrived. How can we treat if someone else pays, right? I hate that whole check grabbing game that sometimes occurs, as the most determined demonstrate who's the more dominant of the species at the table.
That was tonight, but the friendship has been going on for seven years with a lot of lulls in conversation and contact. We like each other's company, and have spent a lot of nice times together over the years. I know that we are good friends even though I can't really express it here, but I can't help but feel as though it's as good as it will ever be.
She's one of the small margins of people who have always been there for me, even when I went through some dark times during this pursuit for the silver screen. I've shared a lot of painful stuff with her, but the discomfort that comes from doing that without reciprocation always takes over.
Throughout the years I always hit a wall with getting through to what's really going on inside her. It's upsetting to think that the friendship will only grow just so far.
I'm left to wonder why certain people grace the frames in your living room and some fill the pages of your memory, yet others remain forever elsewhere.
16 September 2006
small potatoes
previously published by me elsewhere:
If there's one thing people who are close to me have known for years, my sleeping patterns are 100% unpredictable. Some weeks the number crunchers in my head tally up all of the bits of rest I've gotten, and gather a pretty decent average, but other weeks I'm in the red.
For some reason there's always something small that sets me off in big ways. I'm awakened by the proverbial crying baby, if you will. So, I woke up at 3AM this morning after my requisite two and a half hours worth of shut-eye, and I've been going steadily since then.
I'm finally getting caught up on some back issues of MovieMaker, and I have unexpectedly found myself developing some really strong new ideas for a script that I started working on during the summer of 2005, but had since set aside.
There's something about going back to a project after some time that's still in the midst of its development. I find certain senility has set in during that time, and going back you find personal gems that are far better than your best perception of self, and the material re-inspires you.
The frosting for this fine day comes from one of my favorite cable channels: Turner Classic Movies. They were running a twenty-four hour marathon of short films that just finished at 6AM this morning. Not being one of those people with TiVo, I have taped the whole twenty-four hour stretch on good ol' VHS. I tend to have trouble watching things that I would like to fully digest in real-time, so I'm going to watch it all at my own leisure starting this morning.
To me the short film is so fascinating in a lot of ways. Except those darling judges of the festival circuit, few viewers really get the chance to see many short films in their time. The most prominent forms, music videos, were always this side of four minute advertisements, but what has actually become of music television is now self-parody.
Simplistically the short film has the potential to fall somewhere in the wide expanse between trifle and pretension. It's like listening to the twenty song "Fingertips" cycle at the end of They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18 CD. Was that great art, or just an underdeveloped idea?
If there's one thing people who are close to me have known for years, my sleeping patterns are 100% unpredictable. Some weeks the number crunchers in my head tally up all of the bits of rest I've gotten, and gather a pretty decent average, but other weeks I'm in the red.
For some reason there's always something small that sets me off in big ways. I'm awakened by the proverbial crying baby, if you will. So, I woke up at 3AM this morning after my requisite two and a half hours worth of shut-eye, and I've been going steadily since then.
I'm finally getting caught up on some back issues of MovieMaker, and I have unexpectedly found myself developing some really strong new ideas for a script that I started working on during the summer of 2005, but had since set aside.
There's something about going back to a project after some time that's still in the midst of its development. I find certain senility has set in during that time, and going back you find personal gems that are far better than your best perception of self, and the material re-inspires you.
The frosting for this fine day comes from one of my favorite cable channels: Turner Classic Movies. They were running a twenty-four hour marathon of short films that just finished at 6AM this morning. Not being one of those people with TiVo, I have taped the whole twenty-four hour stretch on good ol' VHS. I tend to have trouble watching things that I would like to fully digest in real-time, so I'm going to watch it all at my own leisure starting this morning.
To me the short film is so fascinating in a lot of ways. Except those darling judges of the festival circuit, few viewers really get the chance to see many short films in their time. The most prominent forms, music videos, were always this side of four minute advertisements, but what has actually become of music television is now self-parody.
Simplistically the short film has the potential to fall somewhere in the wide expanse between trifle and pretension. It's like listening to the twenty song "Fingertips" cycle at the end of They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18 CD. Was that great art, or just an underdeveloped idea?
15 September 2006
hairline fracture
previously published by me elsewhere:
In the past I've been given conflicting reports about some of the weaknesses in my character. I've been called impulsive and I've been referred to as overly hesitant in reference to the same sort of issues.
Truthfully I don't think there's any real consensus about what part of my personality causes the most ripples in my life. In a manner of speaking, I suppose I pre-navigate my own impulsiveness, and therefore only occasionally do significant things occur due to my pseudo-moderation in judgment.
My sister-in-law is in her mid-twenties, and seems to have found a workable way to take life by the horns with an exceedingly devil may care attitude with few or no negative consequences. It's perplexing at worst and admirable at best.
She has legally owned a hair salon in town for nearly six weeks, and has officially been relocated here for about two weeks. For someone so unfamiliar with planning, she's amazingly forward thinking and driven about the whole manner. She's got this frontier attitude about the hair business that includes thoughts of franchises and a complete overhaul of her shop. She came over tonight to get some input on some advertising ideas.
She's bought herself a real fixer-upper place with a cast of characters that fall together like something out of NBC's struggling line-up. She's the tattooed, young, attractive, modern stylist from South Florida, and they're God fearing, jaded, leathery, gray-haired men who look like something out of a police line-up.
Laughs should ensue immediately, right?
The truth is I very much want to see it all work for her, unlike the way I could feel about someone else trying to succeed in the film business.
Even though I don't feel I've gotten to many of the places I think I've truly worked towards, I don't really have that step on someone else's back attitude
I unflinchingly associate with Hollywood. Honestly I've worked through a lot more jealous rage in my past that has occurred as I have seen much weaker artists than myself "make it happen" just because they are more impulsive or less hesitant than I.
In the past I've been given conflicting reports about some of the weaknesses in my character. I've been called impulsive and I've been referred to as overly hesitant in reference to the same sort of issues.
Truthfully I don't think there's any real consensus about what part of my personality causes the most ripples in my life. In a manner of speaking, I suppose I pre-navigate my own impulsiveness, and therefore only occasionally do significant things occur due to my pseudo-moderation in judgment.
My sister-in-law is in her mid-twenties, and seems to have found a workable way to take life by the horns with an exceedingly devil may care attitude with few or no negative consequences. It's perplexing at worst and admirable at best.
She has legally owned a hair salon in town for nearly six weeks, and has officially been relocated here for about two weeks. For someone so unfamiliar with planning, she's amazingly forward thinking and driven about the whole manner. She's got this frontier attitude about the hair business that includes thoughts of franchises and a complete overhaul of her shop. She came over tonight to get some input on some advertising ideas.
She's bought herself a real fixer-upper place with a cast of characters that fall together like something out of NBC's struggling line-up. She's the tattooed, young, attractive, modern stylist from South Florida, and they're God fearing, jaded, leathery, gray-haired men who look like something out of a police line-up.
Laughs should ensue immediately, right?
The truth is I very much want to see it all work for her, unlike the way I could feel about someone else trying to succeed in the film business.
Even though I don't feel I've gotten to many of the places I think I've truly worked towards, I don't really have that step on someone else's back attitude
I unflinchingly associate with Hollywood. Honestly I've worked through a lot more jealous rage in my past that has occurred as I have seen much weaker artists than myself "make it happen" just because they are more impulsive or less hesitant than I.
12 September 2006
on display
previously published by me elsewhere:
Closure.
It's one of the pursuits in life that I feel I have sought the most, but have often found the least. To me life comes with so many starts and stops that only movies really flow in a neatly packaged three-act structure.
When things come to some point of fruition your psyche reacts to everything in a new way. All of a sudden you find yourself mentally erasing portions of the old slate, leaving yourself space to deal with a whole new mess from an improved perspective. Such is the process of littering the world with one's old baggage.
The world premiere, as they say, of the (AKA) 'indie flick with the longest fuckin' production I know of' went down last night at our local art house theater. There were two screenings (one at 7pm and one at 9pm). I attended the first one, and was reasonably surprised by the packed house, having torn tickets at the door when more major fare didn't fill but fifteen seats during an equivalent evening.
Unlike your average local movie showing, not everyone there was associated with the project, nor do I suspect they were several degrees out from the people involved. For that reason I can reasonably call it a success!
The production itself was a miniscule affair with a cast of seven and a crew of three, and the well-noted meandering production schedule. Looking back, the production was a constant state of someone gripping someone else's throat, at least on the level of subtext.
It seemed that someone was dealing with displeasure the whole time, which really dampened any opportunity to really enjoy the experience. Shouldn't the independent film world act differently than the Hollywood sorts? Isn't it supposed to be about connecting with people on a human level, instead of dealing with people like pieces of equipment?
Between Monday night's screenings several of us shared a champagne toast at the theater's bar, as provided by one of the actors. The toasters were an incomplete grouping of those involved, and the overall connections between us all remains under-developed. I did feel a spark of what could have been, though. And it made me hopeful.
Closure.
It's one of the pursuits in life that I feel I have sought the most, but have often found the least. To me life comes with so many starts and stops that only movies really flow in a neatly packaged three-act structure.
When things come to some point of fruition your psyche reacts to everything in a new way. All of a sudden you find yourself mentally erasing portions of the old slate, leaving yourself space to deal with a whole new mess from an improved perspective. Such is the process of littering the world with one's old baggage.
The world premiere, as they say, of the (AKA) 'indie flick with the longest fuckin' production I know of' went down last night at our local art house theater. There were two screenings (one at 7pm and one at 9pm). I attended the first one, and was reasonably surprised by the packed house, having torn tickets at the door when more major fare didn't fill but fifteen seats during an equivalent evening.
Unlike your average local movie showing, not everyone there was associated with the project, nor do I suspect they were several degrees out from the people involved. For that reason I can reasonably call it a success!
The production itself was a miniscule affair with a cast of seven and a crew of three, and the well-noted meandering production schedule. Looking back, the production was a constant state of someone gripping someone else's throat, at least on the level of subtext.
It seemed that someone was dealing with displeasure the whole time, which really dampened any opportunity to really enjoy the experience. Shouldn't the independent film world act differently than the Hollywood sorts? Isn't it supposed to be about connecting with people on a human level, instead of dealing with people like pieces of equipment?
Between Monday night's screenings several of us shared a champagne toast at the theater's bar, as provided by one of the actors. The toasters were an incomplete grouping of those involved, and the overall connections between us all remains under-developed. I did feel a spark of what could have been, though. And it made me hopeful.
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