Things have been a little busy and distracting this past month, sorry to say. I have been making notes and thinking story on a couple of different projects, so I can't say I'd completely stopped writing, but I haven't been turning out pages in a while. That will change in the next week, I'll be working during the day again and should be able to schedule the day around getting some writing done and getting out on the bike. One day in the middle of April, I felt myself dragging while taking the stairs on my way to work. I've always been doughy and never one for dieting, but I'd usually been able to maintain at a somewhat comfortable level. Rather than see that change for the worse, I changed some behaviors (mostly portion control, amazing what that can do) and I'm happy to say I've dropped 30 pounds and I'm headlong into a Coke Zero addiction.
My wife scored passes to a screening of Indiana Jones & The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull a few days before it opened, so we made a date of it, our first movie together in too long. We had a great time, it's a terrific show. Sure, dig a few inches under the surface and you can see the creaking skeleton is missing a few bones, but there's no denying the ride is fun while it lasts. Getting her back into the theater must have flipped a switch, the wife will head out with a friend this weekend to see Sex & the City (Two and a half hours? Really? Really??) this weekend and I'll sneak out some night to finally catch up with Iron Man.
I was sad to see that Sydney Pollack died this week of cancer. Pollack seemed like a class act and certainly possessed enormous talent on both sides of the camera. I was shocked when I learned in high school that the same director made Three Days of the Condor and Tootsie. Just as I was logging on to post tonight, I read that Harvey Korman died today. My parents must have thought I was a strange little kid because I wanted to stay up to watch Carol Burnett on Saturday nights at the age of five.
One of the reasons I liked the new Indiana Jones has to do with how comfortable the movie is with the passage of time. Jim Broadbent tells Harrison Ford they've reached the age where life stops giving you things and starts taking them away. I'm far from that point in life, but when the talents I watched in my youth leave us, it's like I can see that point from here. Rest in peace, gentlemen, and thanks.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
family time
On Christmas night, about 20 minutes before the turkey was projected to hit the table, my son was bopping around the living room playing his prized clownfish-shaped electric guitar when suddenly he stopped and began to shriek and point to his privates. A closer look revealed one of his testicles to be swollen and red to a point that I was terrified meant testicular torsion, a situation where the testicle has rotated and constricted the connecting vessels, cutting off bloodflow.
Four hours later, I listened to a urologist explain that my son, now half-asleep on my shoulder watching The Incredibles on the overhead TV, had developed what's called a hydrocele. The pain had not returned, thankfully, and the specialist told me that hydroceles don't always require treatment, so although it looked like he was sporting a red Spaldeen down there, he advised we wait and see what happened over the next few weeks. The chief urologist told my wife in mid-January to wait another two months to again see if the swelling receded on its own. In March, the chief finally told us we should let him operate. Although I'd been hoping the issue could be resolved quickly, the thought of my three year old going under general anesthetic put my heart in my throat for two months until last Wednesday, the first available date for the procedure.
I scooped the boy up out of a sound sleep at 5:30 am, sat him in my wife's Volvo wagon and we took him to the children's hospital for a 6:30 call. Since he was the youngest scheduled that morning, he got the first slot and at 7:15, my wife walked him into pre-op to meet the anesthesiologist.
I sat in the waiting room expecting a ninety-minute wait. My wife read her paperback and I grabbed a five year old issue of Entertainment Weekly and read about their top 50 cult movies. At 9 am, I looked down the hall toward the post-op area to see if my son had been brought out.
Still not there at 9:05.
9:09.
9:15.
I took off my watch.
The waiting room flatscreens were running Cartoon Network, some manic flashing seizure-bait about seemingly hundreds of blobs with feet and faces named Mister (insert adjective). Mister Noisy. Mister Happy. Mister Rude. Mister Persnickety. And here I sat, Mister Internally-Boiling-Over. The staff that seemed so nice two hours ago now looked to me like they were intentionally moving in slow-motion. The aide who'd told us it was her job to tell us when our son was out of surgery sat at her desk doing paperwork. At indeterminate intervals, she'd stand up, dragging her slides, the flat heels slapping the floor with each shuffle, and buzz herself into the post-op area. I'd watch through the door's narrow inset window as she'd walk the length of the room, check in with the nurses, small talk a bit and shuffle on back through the door, making a hard left to her desk and resuming her paperwork. As she passed within view of the parents awaiting her glance, I wondered if she had trained herself to keep from looking in our direction during her travels.
A father with a tapered leather jacket and tight pants that made him look like he wanted to be a superhero sat down next to me, Blackberry fixed to his ear. From the effort he was making to be heard, my guess is he was trying to speak to someone on the other side of the planet. Underwater. And deaf. Still, he was there waiting on his child's surgery to finish just as the rest of us were, so he got a pass.
At 10 am I turned to look at the post-op area and didn't divert my gaze until I saw the chief urologist coming our way at 10:15. He told us the procedure went flawlessly, even with the addition of a correction for a hernia that was brewing with the other testicle, a problem we'd been warned a prolonged hydrocele could cause. They'd given him a spinal block afterward to help the pain throughout the day. All we had to do was wait for him to wake up.
Two hours later, Jack rolled over and whispered a weak hello. His voice was scratchy from the entubation. He was cranky and couldn't understand why he couldn't spring to his feet as he normally would after sleep. It would take the combination of Daddy, Mommy and a providentially-televised Scooby-Doo to get him calm enough to get dressed. I carried him down to the street, across to the garage and into the car. He was asleep within five blocks. My wife and I tucked him into his bed, dimmed the lights, stood in his doorway and watched him sleep.
Four hours later, I listened to a urologist explain that my son, now half-asleep on my shoulder watching The Incredibles on the overhead TV, had developed what's called a hydrocele. The pain had not returned, thankfully, and the specialist told me that hydroceles don't always require treatment, so although it looked like he was sporting a red Spaldeen down there, he advised we wait and see what happened over the next few weeks. The chief urologist told my wife in mid-January to wait another two months to again see if the swelling receded on its own. In March, the chief finally told us we should let him operate. Although I'd been hoping the issue could be resolved quickly, the thought of my three year old going under general anesthetic put my heart in my throat for two months until last Wednesday, the first available date for the procedure.
I scooped the boy up out of a sound sleep at 5:30 am, sat him in my wife's Volvo wagon and we took him to the children's hospital for a 6:30 call. Since he was the youngest scheduled that morning, he got the first slot and at 7:15, my wife walked him into pre-op to meet the anesthesiologist.
I sat in the waiting room expecting a ninety-minute wait. My wife read her paperback and I grabbed a five year old issue of Entertainment Weekly and read about their top 50 cult movies. At 9 am, I looked down the hall toward the post-op area to see if my son had been brought out.
Still not there at 9:05.
9:09.
9:15.
I took off my watch.
The waiting room flatscreens were running Cartoon Network, some manic flashing seizure-bait about seemingly hundreds of blobs with feet and faces named Mister (insert adjective). Mister Noisy. Mister Happy. Mister Rude. Mister Persnickety. And here I sat, Mister Internally-Boiling-Over. The staff that seemed so nice two hours ago now looked to me like they were intentionally moving in slow-motion. The aide who'd told us it was her job to tell us when our son was out of surgery sat at her desk doing paperwork. At indeterminate intervals, she'd stand up, dragging her slides, the flat heels slapping the floor with each shuffle, and buzz herself into the post-op area. I'd watch through the door's narrow inset window as she'd walk the length of the room, check in with the nurses, small talk a bit and shuffle on back through the door, making a hard left to her desk and resuming her paperwork. As she passed within view of the parents awaiting her glance, I wondered if she had trained herself to keep from looking in our direction during her travels.
A father with a tapered leather jacket and tight pants that made him look like he wanted to be a superhero sat down next to me, Blackberry fixed to his ear. From the effort he was making to be heard, my guess is he was trying to speak to someone on the other side of the planet. Underwater. And deaf. Still, he was there waiting on his child's surgery to finish just as the rest of us were, so he got a pass.
At 10 am I turned to look at the post-op area and didn't divert my gaze until I saw the chief urologist coming our way at 10:15. He told us the procedure went flawlessly, even with the addition of a correction for a hernia that was brewing with the other testicle, a problem we'd been warned a prolonged hydrocele could cause. They'd given him a spinal block afterward to help the pain throughout the day. All we had to do was wait for him to wake up.
Two hours later, Jack rolled over and whispered a weak hello. His voice was scratchy from the entubation. He was cranky and couldn't understand why he couldn't spring to his feet as he normally would after sleep. It would take the combination of Daddy, Mommy and a providentially-televised Scooby-Doo to get him calm enough to get dressed. I carried him down to the street, across to the garage and into the car. He was asleep within five blocks. My wife and I tucked him into his bed, dimmed the lights, stood in his doorway and watched him sleep.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Missing In Inaction
I've spent the better part of the past week putting together some video for a job interview that I had this morning. About six years ago, I left the video production company where I'd worked for about ten years. I'd been what can best be described as a creative strategic partner, meaning I didn't lay out any money other than the sweat and blood I put into the work that made the company its good reputation in our market. Eventually my creativity was undervalued and my strategies were rejected, the boss deciding he wanted to form a merger of sorts with two other videographers so they could go after the lower-end segment of the market. I didn't agree with the merger, didn't think the new partners had anything to offer that would benefit the company and wasn't shy about expressing that belief. It wasn't surprising to the boss when I left.
Right after I left, I shot a cross-country bicycle race for OLN (now Vs.) and landed a freelance corporate job when I returned from the race, then started working part-time in retail in the job I left last year, getting further and further away from working in a creative capacity. The past year I've been working for a company that lends tech support to advertising and PR agencies, and although the people I assist aren't doing what I'd been doing for the most part, I still observe people performing creative tasks for a living and it makes me recall the feeling I'd get when something I'd worked on was completed, that sense of accomplishment. It's the same feeling I get when I finish a good scene or burn through a stack of pages, although I've been doing less and less of that lately.
I stumbled upon the position I interviewed for today and applied as quickly as I could. They requested a demo a few days later and then some raw footage I'd shot afterward to get an idea of my camera sense. The interview went very well, the facility is putting out some good work and since the job is with a major university, I'd be able to complete my degree as well.
Now that all the prep work is done and the interview is over, I can get back to working on some story ideas I've got rolling. The children's movie treatment is getting longer as I work through possible story angles (it's always the second act that derails me with each script, so I'm working cautiously now) and I've unearthed some notes on plotlines I'd thought of months ago that look good on second reading, so I'll work on those next. I just want to get that feeling back.
Right after I left, I shot a cross-country bicycle race for OLN (now Vs.) and landed a freelance corporate job when I returned from the race, then started working part-time in retail in the job I left last year, getting further and further away from working in a creative capacity. The past year I've been working for a company that lends tech support to advertising and PR agencies, and although the people I assist aren't doing what I'd been doing for the most part, I still observe people performing creative tasks for a living and it makes me recall the feeling I'd get when something I'd worked on was completed, that sense of accomplishment. It's the same feeling I get when I finish a good scene or burn through a stack of pages, although I've been doing less and less of that lately.
I stumbled upon the position I interviewed for today and applied as quickly as I could. They requested a demo a few days later and then some raw footage I'd shot afterward to get an idea of my camera sense. The interview went very well, the facility is putting out some good work and since the job is with a major university, I'd be able to complete my degree as well.
Now that all the prep work is done and the interview is over, I can get back to working on some story ideas I've got rolling. The children's movie treatment is getting longer as I work through possible story angles (it's always the second act that derails me with each script, so I'm working cautiously now) and I've unearthed some notes on plotlines I'd thought of months ago that look good on second reading, so I'll work on those next. I just want to get that feeling back.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Hello Goodbye
In and out fast to tell you the cruise was great and since we got back I've been working on making a change in my professional life, so I'll be updating you at the end of the week. Stay cool.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Out To Sea
I'll be away until Monday with the family on a Disney cruise of the Bahamas. See you here next week!
If Love Is A Mixtape, Make Sure You Include Some Prefab Sprout (Stuff I Like)
My latest read was handed to me by my wife as I was close to finishing Then We Came To The End. "You're reading this next," she said. Not a suggestion.
The next morning I opened the book without studying the cover very closely and started reading. Here's Rob Sheffield, a music journalist I know I've seen a couple of times on one of those VH1 "Best Hottest Mostest F****ingest Greatest" clip shows that we're all secretly addicted to, the sirensong of Def Leppard causing us all to crash on the rocks on a lazy Saturday afternoon. The conceit of the book is Rob reviewing his mixtape collection and recalling for the reader the events in his life when he made each tape. The first chapter reads like he's just broken up with his wife Renee, and I was grooving on Rob's style, he's clever without being smarmy, a great mix of the raw emotion he's recalling and the sense of humor that time's perspective has given him. I kept grooving until I hit the end of the chapter: Renee didn't break up with him. Renee died, dropped to the floor in midtask with a pulmonary embolism. I looked at the cover more closely and read the subtitle: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time.
Damn, I just got over The Road, could I take another downer?
Luckily for me I pressed on. This isn't an epic love story, these aren't lovers trapped behind enemy lines during a blizzard running from Nazi pitbull cyborgs. This is the story of two people who fall for each other, fall hard like we can when we're too damn lucky to know we're that lucky. Their initial common touchpoint is the music they both love and that grows into the music they each love and introduce to the other and the music they discover together, and Rob lays it out for us tape by tape, a mental soundtrack that carries their story along. They're one of those great couples you think will go on together forever. And then they don't. It's both heart-breaking and life-affirming, but Sheffield doesn't make the argument that her death and his loss made him stronger. In fact, he finds great identification with a quote from Emerson: "I grieve that grief can teach me nothing[...]."
Rob and Renee were DJs at their local radio station. Some of the happier times of my life were when I was a DJ on my college station. It was the late 80's and our station thumbed its nose at the top 40 sound the local pro station was running into the ground (I think they took 'top 40' literally, they never seemed to have more than 40 songs in rotation). Instead, we played music from the growing college radio scene, bands like Hüsker Dü, R.E.M., 10000 Maniacs, The Clash, Fishbone, The Smiths. Some of the bands we played I can't find record of anywhere, even as I can still hear their songs in my head. For a guy raised on Billy Joel and Chicago, being a DJ there opened my ears to a whole new part of my personality.
One album all the DJs played until you could see through the grooves was Prefab Sprout's Two Wheels Good, known outside the U.S. as Steve McQueen.
I'd first heard another DJ closing his shows with "Moving The River" each week, then began picking tracks blindly during my own shows. One day I was thinking of playing "Goodbye Lucille #1" since I hadn't played it yet, and another DJ passing in the hall rapped on the studio window, shouting behind the glass, "'Goodbye Lucille'!" Sounded like divine intervention to me, so on it went. Divine indeed, the song hooked me and the album became the very first CD I ever purchased. It was pop, perfect pop, baby, yet it was hip enough for the cool crowd. It burned up the UK charts for seven or eight months.
The next morning I opened the book without studying the cover very closely and started reading. Here's Rob Sheffield, a music journalist I know I've seen a couple of times on one of those VH1 "Best Hottest Mostest F****ingest Greatest" clip shows that we're all secretly addicted to, the sirensong of Def Leppard causing us all to crash on the rocks on a lazy Saturday afternoon. The conceit of the book is Rob reviewing his mixtape collection and recalling for the reader the events in his life when he made each tape. The first chapter reads like he's just broken up with his wife Renee, and I was grooving on Rob's style, he's clever without being smarmy, a great mix of the raw emotion he's recalling and the sense of humor that time's perspective has given him. I kept grooving until I hit the end of the chapter: Renee didn't break up with him. Renee died, dropped to the floor in midtask with a pulmonary embolism. I looked at the cover more closely and read the subtitle: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time.
Damn, I just got over The Road, could I take another downer?
Luckily for me I pressed on. This isn't an epic love story, these aren't lovers trapped behind enemy lines during a blizzard running from Nazi pitbull cyborgs. This is the story of two people who fall for each other, fall hard like we can when we're too damn lucky to know we're that lucky. Their initial common touchpoint is the music they both love and that grows into the music they each love and introduce to the other and the music they discover together, and Rob lays it out for us tape by tape, a mental soundtrack that carries their story along. They're one of those great couples you think will go on together forever. And then they don't. It's both heart-breaking and life-affirming, but Sheffield doesn't make the argument that her death and his loss made him stronger. In fact, he finds great identification with a quote from Emerson: "I grieve that grief can teach me nothing[...]."
Rob and Renee were DJs at their local radio station. Some of the happier times of my life were when I was a DJ on my college station. It was the late 80's and our station thumbed its nose at the top 40 sound the local pro station was running into the ground (I think they took 'top 40' literally, they never seemed to have more than 40 songs in rotation). Instead, we played music from the growing college radio scene, bands like Hüsker Dü, R.E.M., 10000 Maniacs, The Clash, Fishbone, The Smiths. Some of the bands we played I can't find record of anywhere, even as I can still hear their songs in my head. For a guy raised on Billy Joel and Chicago, being a DJ there opened my ears to a whole new part of my personality.
One album all the DJs played until you could see through the grooves was Prefab Sprout's Two Wheels Good, known outside the U.S. as Steve McQueen.
I'd first heard another DJ closing his shows with "Moving The River" each week, then began picking tracks blindly during my own shows. One day I was thinking of playing "Goodbye Lucille #1" since I hadn't played it yet, and another DJ passing in the hall rapped on the studio window, shouting behind the glass, "'Goodbye Lucille'!" Sounded like divine intervention to me, so on it went. Divine indeed, the song hooked me and the album became the very first CD I ever purchased. It was pop, perfect pop, baby, yet it was hip enough for the cool crowd. It burned up the UK charts for seven or eight months.Sunday, April 6, 2008
Thanks and God Bless, Chuck
My mother is the oldest of three, with a brother in the middle and her sister Maureen bringing up the rear. They're all in their mid 60's to early 70's now, and the memories of going to their old apartment on the Lower East Side are receding deeper into my vault. My uncle once came home and discovered myself, my older brother and two older sisters piled on his bed watching his postage-stamp black-and-white TV and stormed back out. We were watching Santa Claus Conquers The Martians (as spoilerish a title as you'll ever find, second only to a purported foreign title for Psycho in a land where that word wasn't in the language, The Boy Who Was His Own Mother). My family lived on Long Island then, and going into the city was a big deal, so we didn't do it often. New York was so close, but a world away from our little town.
My aunt Maureen would come out to see us every so often, I loved when she'd sneak into my room just after I'd gone to bed to wish me a good night in French. A story from her own youth that my mother loved to recount with her on these visits was about how Maureen at the age of seven or eight would talk about her friend Chuck that she'd see out on the street as she sat by herself on the front step of their building. Chuck would come and talk to her, ask her how old she was now, tell her how pretty she was. As this went on for some time and as it became clear Chuck was an adult, a stranger adult, my grandparents began to grow concerned. Who the hell was this guy?
Eventually a stakeout was improvised and several days passed with no sighting of Chuck, and then one day mygrandmother* saw a man she thought she knew walking up the street. As he drew closer, she realized the man wasn't someone she knew, but someone she'd seen, an actor. His name came to her as he approached the front step of the building with a smile: Charlton Heston.
Maureen said, "Hi Chuck!"
Mr. Heston passed away Saturday in Beverly Hills, his wife of 64 years at his side. I recorded Planet of the Apes the other night and just got around to watching it tonight, not knowing he had died. Now I wish I had Major Dundee or The Omega Man or the Richard Lester Musketeer films ready to roll to pay tribute.
edit - I re-checked my source, my mother, and she cleared up my error, it was she that was there with Maureen that day.
My aunt Maureen would come out to see us every so often, I loved when she'd sneak into my room just after I'd gone to bed to wish me a good night in French. A story from her own youth that my mother loved to recount with her on these visits was about how Maureen at the age of seven or eight would talk about her friend Chuck that she'd see out on the street as she sat by herself on the front step of their building. Chuck would come and talk to her, ask her how old she was now, tell her how pretty she was. As this went on for some time and as it became clear Chuck was an adult, a stranger adult, my grandparents began to grow concerned. Who the hell was this guy?
Eventually a stakeout was improvised and several days passed with no sighting of Chuck, and then one day my
Maureen said, "Hi Chuck!"
Mr. Heston passed away Saturday in Beverly Hills, his wife of 64 years at his side. I recorded Planet of the Apes the other night and just got around to watching it tonight, not knowing he had died. Now I wish I had Major Dundee or The Omega Man or the Richard Lester Musketeer films ready to roll to pay tribute.
edit - I re-checked my source, my mother, and she cleared up my error, it was she that was there with Maureen that day.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Desperately Seeking Treatment
Hey, look, a rare post about screenwriting!
I've been writing notes on the story for my animated movie project and now I've begun writing up the treatment. As I've never been satisfied with my past efforts at writing treatments, I'm progressing carefully. My (bad?) habit of jumping into the first draft right from the start has resulted in a lower rate of completions than I'd like, so I figure I'll try this the 'right' way. My only problem is I haven't seen too many actual treatments and I'd love to see one from a movie I'm familiar with so I can get a clear idea of how the treatment lines up against the finished product. Anybody know of any I can pick up online?
I've been writing notes on the story for my animated movie project and now I've begun writing up the treatment. As I've never been satisfied with my past efforts at writing treatments, I'm progressing carefully. My (bad?) habit of jumping into the first draft right from the start has resulted in a lower rate of completions than I'd like, so I figure I'll try this the 'right' way. My only problem is I haven't seen too many actual treatments and I'd love to see one from a movie I'm familiar with so I can get a clear idea of how the treatment lines up against the finished product. Anybody know of any I can pick up online?
Stuff I Like This Week
About halfway through and it's damn funny. If you've ever worked in an office, you know these people. The book is about the gossipy, self-indulgent, procrastinating and deceiving creative crew at an ad agency just after the dotcom bubble burst. I'm currently at an ad agency in a technical capacity, and I can easily picture the people I see every day within the pages of this book. Plus, it's the first novel by a fellow named Joshua Ferris, and you've got to love it when a first-timer knocks one out like this.
Wilco's "Hate It Here" is on high rotation on my iPod, the rest of the album is climbing with a bullet.
Yes. count me in with the BSG fans eagerly awaiting the start of the fourth season this Friday. I'm a few episodes away from the end of the third season and I love the journey this series has taken. Yes, it's set on a spaceship. Get over it. This isn't your daddy's sci-fi, this is a rich character-driven ensemble drama, set on a spaceship.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Stuff I Like This Week
Super busy at work this week, plus I'm working the nights so I can shuttle The Prince to school most mornings, and when I get time I'm working on my animated-film story (which is nicely coming along), so no blogging of late as you can see.
I am voraciously ripping through a novel during my commute, however, and even though I'm not finished, I feel compelled to recommend Cormac McCarthy's The Road.
Even though it's won the Pulitzer and the 2006 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for Fiction AND was one of Oprah's Book Club selections, I'm sure my recommendation will make a difference and get Mr. McCarthy some well-deserved recognition [/smirk]. This is a brutal read, gripping and poetic. Read it now.
UPDATE: I've just finished and I feel like I've taken a 2x4 to the gut. Heart-breaking.
I am voraciously ripping through a novel during my commute, however, and even though I'm not finished, I feel compelled to recommend Cormac McCarthy's The Road.
Even though it's won the Pulitzer and the 2006 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for Fiction AND was one of Oprah's Book Club selections, I'm sure my recommendation will make a difference and get Mr. McCarthy some well-deserved recognition [/smirk]. This is a brutal read, gripping and poetic. Read it now.
UPDATE: I've just finished and I feel like I've taken a 2x4 to the gut. Heart-breaking.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Stuff I Like This Week
I'm going to keep it simple this week and just recommend one thing that I like: The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters. I finally watched this on DVD and to say it is involving and entertaining is an understatement. I'll tell you straight that this documentary works just as well as the good-for-society docs that win major awards do. I found it as compelling and full of insight into American society as Roger & Me and The Thin Blue Line, films I've respected as great contemporary documentaries.
What I'm curious to see is the approach the in-the-works feature version of this story will take. One of the virtues of the doc is how it depicts the extraordinary measures a handful of people actually took against a perceived outsider. If these same measures are taken by characters we know to be portrayed by actors, I wonder if they'd have the same impact. I'd be curious to see the screenplay (currently being penned by actor/writer Michael Bacall).
The accuracy of the doc (as it always seems to happen) is being questioned as people in the film are coming out to tell their own sides, but you can't discount the central conflict between these two gamers with different personalities: one wants to be the king of Donkey Kong, the other wants to remain king of the insular world of gamernerds he's ruled for 25 years.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Patrick, Not Paddy
I'm no social crusader, I'm certain I'm capable of casual social insensitivity through ignorance, but as a person of Irish descent, this time of year gives me a small amount of dread as I know from experience that I'll see or hear something that makes me upset. Last Friday, I got an e-mail from my company wishing everyone a happy "St. Paddy's Day".
To be fair, I didn't know how derogatory a term 'paddy' can be until I saw Tony Slattery constantly deriding Stephen Rea in The Crying Game by referring to him as 'Paddy' rather than his name. Sure, it's a nickname for Patrick, but it was used primarily by folks looking to demean Irish immigrants as lower-class, uneducated and socially undesirable, both by the British and by Americans. It's how the paddy wagon got its name as these vehicles were usually manned by Irish police officers performing one of the only duties people of their kind were deemed worthy to perform. Certainly the term 'paddy' has lost a good deal of impact since those days, but it is still a term some people are at best uncomfortable with hearing in reference to their countrymen, and certainly their patron saint. Toss that word in the same trash bin as kraut, wop and the n-word where it belongs.
If you want to refer to St. Patrick, refer to him as St. Patrick. He's the only saint most people can name anyway, give the guy some credit.
I'll leave you with a song I first heard about ten years ago. Ashley MacIsaac is a Canadian of Scottish descent who plays traditional Celtic fiddle in contemporary musical settings. When I heard "Sleepy Maggie" the first time, I had to call the radio station to ask what the hell they'd just played, the arrangement was that jarring. The album it's on now goes into rotation on my iPod this time of year.
To be fair, I didn't know how derogatory a term 'paddy' can be until I saw Tony Slattery constantly deriding Stephen Rea in The Crying Game by referring to him as 'Paddy' rather than his name. Sure, it's a nickname for Patrick, but it was used primarily by folks looking to demean Irish immigrants as lower-class, uneducated and socially undesirable, both by the British and by Americans. It's how the paddy wagon got its name as these vehicles were usually manned by Irish police officers performing one of the only duties people of their kind were deemed worthy to perform. Certainly the term 'paddy' has lost a good deal of impact since those days, but it is still a term some people are at best uncomfortable with hearing in reference to their countrymen, and certainly their patron saint. Toss that word in the same trash bin as kraut, wop and the n-word where it belongs.
If you want to refer to St. Patrick, refer to him as St. Patrick. He's the only saint most people can name anyway, give the guy some credit.
I'll leave you with a song I first heard about ten years ago. Ashley MacIsaac is a Canadian of Scottish descent who plays traditional Celtic fiddle in contemporary musical settings. When I heard "Sleepy Maggie" the first time, I had to call the radio station to ask what the hell they'd just played, the arrangement was that jarring. The album it's on now goes into rotation on my iPod this time of year.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Stuff I Like This Week
Liking this poster a lot. Seeing Karen Allen on a movie poster again is a gas.
Seeing Watchmen on the big screen will be sort of a cheat, I think, as the intended and most effective venue for this story are the pages of a comic book. However, that doesn't mean I'm not eager as all hell to check it out when it finally arrives a year from now.
I haven't seen any films that Amy Adams has been in, and that includes every movie on her IMDB page, but I did see her performing at the Oscars and then on this past weekend's Saturday Night Live, and that girl is pretty talented. My mark of a good SNL host is when a sketch seems like only they could pull it off, and everything she did seemed like only she could pull it off.
Blinky, Pinky, Inky and Sue finally get revenge.
And finally, this:
Billy Crystal gets a one-day contract with the Yankees.
I'm no Yankee fan, but I am a Billy Crystal fan and this sounds like a great way to celebrate your 60th birthday. Show 'em where you live, Billy.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Write Me Up
I haven't been working on the newlywed comedy for the past week, but I expect to get some work in daily over the next two weeks and beyond. What I have been doing is working on an idea for a kid's movie, specifically an idea for a CG-animated movie. What's funny to me about it is that it's based on the same old German genre silent I based Brother's Keeper on, it's just a different and updated take on the material. It's all very loose now, but it would have the relationship between a kid and a surrogate parent at its heart, the idea of accepting someone as family even though they are not related by blood. There's an additional wrinkle that will be the hook, I'll share that later as it takes shape.
What inspired me to try writing a kid's movie (aside from the bombardment of kid's movies I get at home) is that I'll be taking a trip to Disney next month for a Pixar-related event, and I wondered for a moment if Pixar folk will be attending. If I can wrestle a treatment out to bring along, I'd at least be prepared to pitch someone. It's a huge long shot, but it wouldn't hurt to have it in my pocket just in case.
What inspired me to try writing a kid's movie (aside from the bombardment of kid's movies I get at home) is that I'll be taking a trip to Disney next month for a Pixar-related event, and I wondered for a moment if Pixar folk will be attending. If I can wrestle a treatment out to bring along, I'd at least be prepared to pitch someone. It's a huge long shot, but it wouldn't hurt to have it in my pocket just in case.
Just When I Was Fully Recovered From Super Mario Thumb
I'm sort of a closet gamer. Seeing as I'm not 24 years old anymore, I don't experience overnight runs through Super Metroid anymore, but I've got my trusty Nintendo DS for my daily commute (and at least Brain Age 2 tells me I'm mentally 24 years old...Wait, that's good, right?).
When I talk about gaming with people in their twenties, though, their gaming experience is so much different than mine. Before I was 12, video games meant going to the local department store's basement arcade, between the escalator and the barber shop. Once the Atari 2600 came out for the '77 holiday season, all that changed (and the local department store closed a few years later, but probably not because I wasn't feeding quarters to Battle Tank). Trips to the malls that were opening up all around featured mandatory arcade visits, and the gap between arcade gaming and home gaming was wide. Those arcades are gone now that you can rock out Gears of War on your HDTV on your couch, and couch-based gaming is what these younger guys grew up with for the most part.
Now that I've been investigating which Blu-Ray player I want to get later in the year, I haven't been able to ignore the possibility that the Sony PS3 is the best way to go. Much has been made of the fact that the Blu-Ray player standard function profile wasn't nailed down before production began, a perceived weakness the HD-DVD camp was happy to trumpet loudly. Updating the profile should be no problem if you've got the player connected to the internet, but most players didn't have an ethernet connection. The PS3 has had that connection and has already updated to the current profile with the final profile expected by summer. Even with newer standalone players coming, most tech sites agree the PS3 is the best option for Blu-Ray in the home.
But probably not my home. The only game console that appeals to me is the Wii, and that's because it seems like a console the whole family can enjoy, even my non-gamer wife with the secret passion for Centipede and Ms. Pacman (sorry honey, but the first step to recovery is admitting the addiction). After that, I'd have to consider the XBox 360, mainly because some friends have been streaming HD programming through theirs from their computers, a practice that has me completely envious.
Of all these options, none of the popular games appeal that much to me (well, maybe Halo), so again the idea of a console for gaming seems superfluous. Games don't seem to have the charm they'd had back at the outset of home gaming. Warlords was a great multi-player game that pretty much ruled the 2600 at my house. Adventure looks like a third-grader's extra-credit project now, but chasing an ampersand dragon with a sword that looked like an arrow was loads of fun. There was one game for the Nintendo, an import from Japan that was mislabeled as 'Mario Baby' in the video store I managed years ago, that could not be resisted once sampled. This game was always out on rental once word got around the staff, and eventually a delinquent customer kited off with it. I've since found out that it was actually called "Bio Miracle Bokutte Upa". Have a look.
When I talk about gaming with people in their twenties, though, their gaming experience is so much different than mine. Before I was 12, video games meant going to the local department store's basement arcade, between the escalator and the barber shop. Once the Atari 2600 came out for the '77 holiday season, all that changed (and the local department store closed a few years later, but probably not because I wasn't feeding quarters to Battle Tank). Trips to the malls that were opening up all around featured mandatory arcade visits, and the gap between arcade gaming and home gaming was wide. Those arcades are gone now that you can rock out Gears of War on your HDTV on your couch, and couch-based gaming is what these younger guys grew up with for the most part.
Now that I've been investigating which Blu-Ray player I want to get later in the year, I haven't been able to ignore the possibility that the Sony PS3 is the best way to go. Much has been made of the fact that the Blu-Ray player standard function profile wasn't nailed down before production began, a perceived weakness the HD-DVD camp was happy to trumpet loudly. Updating the profile should be no problem if you've got the player connected to the internet, but most players didn't have an ethernet connection. The PS3 has had that connection and has already updated to the current profile with the final profile expected by summer. Even with newer standalone players coming, most tech sites agree the PS3 is the best option for Blu-Ray in the home.
But probably not my home. The only game console that appeals to me is the Wii, and that's because it seems like a console the whole family can enjoy, even my non-gamer wife with the secret passion for Centipede and Ms. Pacman (sorry honey, but the first step to recovery is admitting the addiction). After that, I'd have to consider the XBox 360, mainly because some friends have been streaming HD programming through theirs from their computers, a practice that has me completely envious.
Of all these options, none of the popular games appeal that much to me (well, maybe Halo), so again the idea of a console for gaming seems superfluous. Games don't seem to have the charm they'd had back at the outset of home gaming. Warlords was a great multi-player game that pretty much ruled the 2600 at my house. Adventure looks like a third-grader's extra-credit project now, but chasing an ampersand dragon with a sword that looked like an arrow was loads of fun. There was one game for the Nintendo, an import from Japan that was mislabeled as 'Mario Baby' in the video store I managed years ago, that could not be resisted once sampled. This game was always out on rental once word got around the staff, and eventually a delinquent customer kited off with it. I've since found out that it was actually called "Bio Miracle Bokutte Upa". Have a look.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Stuff I Like This Week (Oscars Edition)
I'm a little late to the party, but since I'm re-installing "Stuff I Like" at the beginning of the week, I'm playing a little catch-up.
After seeing Jonah Hill presenting at the Oscars, I finally Netflixed Superbad. I'd enjoyed Knocked Up and have been trying to watch The 40 Year Old Virgin going on forever (every time we record it on cable, we never get around to watching it), so although I know Judd Apatow is the flavor right now, I haven't immersed myself in his work. The cool thing about Superbad is its melding of the heart Apatow and crew showed in Knocked Up with the best parts of the high-school comedies I loved from the 80's. It's like John Hughes cast Farmer Ted as Samantha and told him to keep it real.
Jon Stewart's comment on classic spectacle meeting modern tech.
I haven't seen the film yet, but I've been listening to the Once soundtrack for a few weeks and it's superb, even out of context. I think once I see the film and know how the songs fit the story, I'll be able to see why everyone seems to be in love with Once.
Three Academy Awards for The Bourne Ultimatum. Well deserved for that rare franchise that just keeps getting better.
The last thing I liked about the Oscars this year? The concern over the low ratings. I don't think it's an issue with the show as much as it is with the process the Academy Awards have adopted over the last several years. The campaigns that studios are able to wage are creating an atmosphere where the nominations are not terribly surprising and the winners are all but anointed (in the public's eye) before the statuettes are even handed out. Promoting a movie once the nominations are out is one thing, but pimping a film as award-worthy to the industry to get an early jump should be frowned upon. Nominations should come from the membership without influence from the studios. Once nominated, promote on an equal-time model. Parity in promoting nominees would mean a big studio couldn't overwhelm the efforts an independent makes in trying to get voters to recognize their nominees, or that the race is decided by whomever yells the loudest and soonest. So Variety makes a little less money, so what.
It might not hurt to make a good movie that has such appeal as to be popular while you're at it. The fact that No Country For Old Men hasn't made a profit is criminal, but the idea that the industry seems to have (as reflected by releases over the last four or five years) that popular movies should be dumb and great movies don't make money is a crock. Some movie is going to come out soon and smash that idea to pieces. The public is waiting not-so-patiently to see that movie.
After seeing Jonah Hill presenting at the Oscars, I finally Netflixed Superbad. I'd enjoyed Knocked Up and have been trying to watch The 40 Year Old Virgin going on forever (every time we record it on cable, we never get around to watching it), so although I know Judd Apatow is the flavor right now, I haven't immersed myself in his work. The cool thing about Superbad is its melding of the heart Apatow and crew showed in Knocked Up with the best parts of the high-school comedies I loved from the 80's. It's like John Hughes cast Farmer Ted as Samantha and told him to keep it real.
Jon Stewart's comment on classic spectacle meeting modern tech.
I haven't seen the film yet, but I've been listening to the Once soundtrack for a few weeks and it's superb, even out of context. I think once I see the film and know how the songs fit the story, I'll be able to see why everyone seems to be in love with Once.
Three Academy Awards for The Bourne Ultimatum. Well deserved for that rare franchise that just keeps getting better.
The last thing I liked about the Oscars this year? The concern over the low ratings. I don't think it's an issue with the show as much as it is with the process the Academy Awards have adopted over the last several years. The campaigns that studios are able to wage are creating an atmosphere where the nominations are not terribly surprising and the winners are all but anointed (in the public's eye) before the statuettes are even handed out. Promoting a movie once the nominations are out is one thing, but pimping a film as award-worthy to the industry to get an early jump should be frowned upon. Nominations should come from the membership without influence from the studios. Once nominated, promote on an equal-time model. Parity in promoting nominees would mean a big studio couldn't overwhelm the efforts an independent makes in trying to get voters to recognize their nominees, or that the race is decided by whomever yells the loudest and soonest. So Variety makes a little less money, so what.
It might not hurt to make a good movie that has such appeal as to be popular while you're at it. The fact that No Country For Old Men hasn't made a profit is criminal, but the idea that the industry seems to have (as reflected by releases over the last four or five years) that popular movies should be dumb and great movies don't make money is a crock. Some movie is going to come out soon and smash that idea to pieces. The public is waiting not-so-patiently to see that movie.
Friday, February 29, 2008
And Now The Whining Starts
Dear Diablo,
No one cares what shoes Robert Towne is wearing. Until I read in the newspaper that he's been seen wearing a french split toe from J.M. Weston, whatever you're wearing is between you and your left and rights.
You've been doing really well lately, and you seem like you've got a good head on your shoulders, so you must have been waiting for the other diamond-encrusted shoe to drop. Still, coming off what should have been a universally-accepted bit of awesomeness like winning the Oscar, seeing you get slagged online over your choice of footwear of all things is a shame. Seeing as very few of us will ever take a meeting over which pair of slides we'd be endorsing by way of foot, I don't think too many people can question your behavior.
As for why spec-writing wretches are now gathering with torches and pitchforks against you, it's because you used to be one of them until you started winning awards, and now that the world has seen you win the Oscar, you are most definitely Not One Of Them.
In the end, one can't write with their feet, but if we could, you'd still be a better writer than most of the green-eyed wannabes railing against you. Hold that golden bastard high, you've earned it.
Tom
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Reality Rocks My Boat
I was reading this true story today and I was reminded of the post-Oscar inspiration I was feeling Sunday night, the feeling that juices up your "Yes I Can" a few notches. While sitting up after the show and feeding my daughter a bottle, I was running through story ideas in my head and one idea floated to the top, an extrapolation of the actual experiences of a friend of mine. Since this friend is more than capable of writing out and publishing her story if she wanted to, I've never pursued the idea of putting it to paper myself, but still the idea came back, mostly fictionalized but with the one anecdote I first felt made her story potentially cinematic the only remaining thing specific to her actual experience. The circumstance would be generally the same, but beyond geographic specifics necessary for the story, the rest would be fiction.
I tucked that idea away Sunday and thought of it again today while reading the Cougar Ace story and thinking someone must have snatched up the film rights to the article already since it lays out a macho team of mercenary adventurers on a dangerous mission right at the outset. That led me to thinking about my friend's story and whether or not to arrange for the rights to put elements of her own and her family's life experiences onscreen. Have any of you ever thought about or done something like this? I'm sure the specifics of what to do legally are obtainable, that's not what I'm concerned with. Rather, I'm interested in the dynamic such an arrangement brought to your relationship with your friend or acquaintance.
I tucked that idea away Sunday and thought of it again today while reading the Cougar Ace story and thinking someone must have snatched up the film rights to the article already since it lays out a macho team of mercenary adventurers on a dangerous mission right at the outset. That led me to thinking about my friend's story and whether or not to arrange for the rights to put elements of her own and her family's life experiences onscreen. Have any of you ever thought about or done something like this? I'm sure the specifics of what to do legally are obtainable, that's not what I'm concerned with. Rather, I'm interested in the dynamic such an arrangement brought to your relationship with your friend or acquaintance.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Wow, Sony Finally Wins A Format War
I'm into high-def, as is my right as a red-blooded American male. At first it had more to do with the aspect ratio than anything else, the 4:3 AR for television just seemed too narrow for modern programming. Seeing modern European films where TVs were displaying the Euro PALPlus 16:9 aspect ratio made me jealous. As I worked in video post-production, the standard-def 4:3 looked low-class next to even letterboxed standard-def, the equivalent of wearing horse-blinders rotated 90 degrees. While working for a firm a few years back that was remastering stock footage to high-def tape, I got to stare at HD footage all day for a few months and I was spoiled for less than HD at home and at work. I offer this in my own defense in case you're one of those folks that says a show is a show is a show, because there is a world of difference between say Lost in standard def and Lost in HD. Hell, even Jeopardy likes to party in HD.
So it was with interest that I began to follow the format war that a group of manufacturers led by Sony launched against another group led by Toshiba four or five years ago. Back then it was Toshiba's AOD vs. Sony's Blu-Ray, with Blu-Ray the latecoming underdog. Eventually AOD took the catch-all moniker the industry had generally given the emergent technology, HD-DVD.
I was a high schooler when the VHS vs. Betamax war was going on, and since Sony's Beta technology was better (and grew into the Betacam spec used across the broadcast industry), I was sorry to see Sony lose out. Sony has had bad luck with new formats ever since.
Seeing the format war gain momentum online was a new wrinkle, however, and I think the internet had a huge impact on the fight. I'm not talking about the fanboy drivel in forums, but the speed at which news hits the target consumer base. Sites reporting that Warner had dropped their HD-DVD exclusivity last month mere moments after Warner had issued their press release was as big a blow than the announcement itself, I think. The Syms retail chain advertises that an educated consumer is their best customer. Well, educated consumers became Best Buy and Circuit City's worst customers that day, bringing back the HD-DVD players they'd received for Christmas by the truckload. Last week's three 'We're dropping HD-DVD' announcements from Netflix, Best Buy and (the biggest blow of all) Wal-Mart even hit the mainstream news sites. Toshiba never had a chance to try and move their remaining player stock to uninformed buyers.
Toshiba announced this morning that they are dropping their format by the end of March. Of the two last exclusive studios, Universal has already announced plans to release new and catalog titles on Blu-Ray, and Paramount is expected to follow sooner than later. Having just one format should open the floodgates on catalog titles now that the studios know the consumers won't be waffling on which format to buy, so that's great news for someone like me that wants to see some old favorites released. As it is, I'm glad to finally be able to order the new Blade Runner package in an HD format. I just hope Universal gets on the stick and starts opening their catalog up. I'll pick the first three titles for you, Uni: Jaws, The Sting and Serenity.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Look Up 'Cantankerous', There's His Picture
Years ago in my late teens, I made my way into Manhattan to (what was then) the New York Penta Hotel to my last sci-fi convention. When I was fifteen, taking a ride into the city to look at old posters and props and get David Prowse or Jimmy Doohan's autograph was cool (Mr. Doohan was a gracious and charming man, I must say, but David Prowse was an autograph machine - 'Next, please...Next, please..."). One weekend we saw Tom Savini showing off pieces from Creepshow about a year before release and completely out of context, pulling out Adrienne Barbeau's shredded face (the thing under the stairs was supposed to spit it out onto the floor...Yeah, ick.) and E.G. Marshall's head from a cardboard box. It was an odd time to be a geek; we had great, great movies coming out but there were very few channels of information to learn about them from, and none of them had a lead time faster than Starlog or Famous Monsters, so a convention filled with nerd effluvia was Mecca.
But as I got older, the company that ran the cons shifted their emphasis from pricey New York to Los Angeles and the NY shows began to fade. That last show I attended was moved from the main convention floor to a series of spaces mapped out in one ballroom; tiny trade show to one side, presentations room on the other. I was on my way out when I heard over the PA that in five minutes Harlan Ellison would begin his presentation.
That made me turn around and come back. I didn't know much about the man, but I did remember he'd written a great Trek episode, and that made him cool, so I figured I'd hang for a bit. I wound up staying for the whole hour. Ellison was actually onstage with someone else, maybe a current collaborator, I don't know who, but the other guy obviously knew to be quiet and let the Mouth roar. Ellison was on fire, blasting anything he didn't approve of and lavishing praise on the few things he did (he lit up when someone mentioned Blackadder and he started singing the closing theme song from memory). I couldn't possibly tell you everything he talked about, but I can tell you he can command a room effectively.
Now that the WGA strike is all but buried, Ellison has come out with a statement regarding the settlement. I'd say he's disappointed (and though I usually refrain from cussing on the interwebs when I can, I'm going to let Mr. Ellison have his say any way he sees fit).
But as I got older, the company that ran the cons shifted their emphasis from pricey New York to Los Angeles and the NY shows began to fade. That last show I attended was moved from the main convention floor to a series of spaces mapped out in one ballroom; tiny trade show to one side, presentations room on the other. I was on my way out when I heard over the PA that in five minutes Harlan Ellison would begin his presentation.
That made me turn around and come back. I didn't know much about the man, but I did remember he'd written a great Trek episode, and that made him cool, so I figured I'd hang for a bit. I wound up staying for the whole hour. Ellison was actually onstage with someone else, maybe a current collaborator, I don't know who, but the other guy obviously knew to be quiet and let the Mouth roar. Ellison was on fire, blasting anything he didn't approve of and lavishing praise on the few things he did (he lit up when someone mentioned Blackadder and he started singing the closing theme song from memory). I couldn't possibly tell you everything he talked about, but I can tell you he can command a room effectively.
Now that the WGA strike is all but buried, Ellison has come out with a statement regarding the settlement. I'd say he's disappointed (and though I usually refrain from cussing on the interwebs when I can, I'm going to let Mr. Ellison have his say any way he sees fit).
HARLAN ELLISON ON THE WRITERS STRIKE SETTLEMENT
YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO RE-POST THIS ANYWHERE:
Creds: got here in 1962, written for just about everybody, won the Writers Guild Award four times for solo work, sat on the WGAw Board twice, worked on negotiating committees, and was out on the picket lines with my NICK COUNTER SLEEPS WITH THE FISHE$$$ sign. You may have heard my name. I am a Union guy, I am a Guild guy, I am loyal. I fuckin’ LOVE the Guild.
And I voted NO on accepting this deal.
My reasons are good, and they are plentiful; Patric Verrone will be saddened by what I am about to say; long-time friends will shake their heads; but this I say without equivocation…
THEY BEAT US LIKE A YELLOW DOG. IT IS A SHIT DEAL. We finally got a timorous generation that has never had to strike, to get their asses out there, and we had to put up with the usual cowardly spineless babbling horse’s asses who kept mumbling “lessgo bac’ta work” over and over, as if it would make them one iota a better writer. But after months on the line, and them finally bouncing that pus-sucking dipthong Nick Counter, we rushed headlong into a shabby, scabrous, underfed shovelfulla shit clutched to the affections of toss-in-the-towel summer soldiers trembling before the Awe of the Alliance.
My Guild did what it did in 1988. It trembled and sold us out. It gave away the EXACT co-terminus expiration date with SAG for some bullshit short-line substitute; it got us no more control of our words; it sneak-abandoned the animator and reality beanfield hands before anyone even forced it on them; it made nice so no one would think we were meanies; it let the Alliance play us like the village idiot. The WGAw folded like a Texaco Road Map from back in the day.
And I am ashamed of this Guild, as I was when Shavelson was the prexy, and we wasted our efforts and lost out on technology that we had to strike for THIS time. 17 days of streaming tv!!!????? Geezus, you bleating wimps, why not just turn over your old granny for gang-rape?
You deserve all the opprobrium you get. While this nutty festschrift of demented pleasure at being allowed to go back to work in the rice paddy is filling your cowardly hearts with joy and relief that the grips and the staff at the Ivy and street sweepers won’t be saying nasty shit behind your back, remember this:
You are their bitches. They outslugged you, outthought you, outmaneuvered you; and in the end you ripped off your pants, painted yer asses blue, and said yes sir, may I have another.
Please excuse my temerity. I’m just a sad old man who has fallen among Quislings, Turncoats, Hacks and Cowards.
I must go now to whoops. My gorge has become buoyant.
Respectfully, Yr. Pal, Harlan Ellison
Monday, February 11, 2008
Vote Early, Vote Often
I'm glad to see there will be a vote tomorrow on lifting the WGA strike, I'm certain the good (everyone gets back to work) outweighs the bad (vocal minority doesn't like the 17-day clause of the deal). There's a nice article covering the human element of the big Saturday meeting here in New York from Sunday's NY Daily News. To underline the point of the article that the average person wouldn't recognize a writer on the street, I noticed CNN.com's front page article on the meeting featured, as a visual representation of writers in attendance, a shot of Michael Moore. Filmmaker, yes, and union guy, absolutely, but hardly your typical TV or film writer.
Already the industry is said to be running in post-strike mode and one can only think that the SAG agreement will be wrapped up before the old agreement expires. I do wonder, though, about the after effects of the strike, the relationships between writers and the below-the-line folk affected by the work stoppage.
Good luck, everyone, it's good to know you'll all be back to work soon.
Already the industry is said to be running in post-strike mode and one can only think that the SAG agreement will be wrapped up before the old agreement expires. I do wonder, though, about the after effects of the strike, the relationships between writers and the below-the-line folk affected by the work stoppage.
Good luck, everyone, it's good to know you'll all be back to work soon.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Let's Make A Deal
I can't access the particulars of the proposed deal with the WGA from their site since I'm not a member, but I have faith the negotiators have taken care to address the interests of the guild and its members (although I reserve the right to change my mind once the details become more public). I just paid a visit to United Hollywood and see there is already loud vocal dissent, so I'm eager to see what today's bi-coastal meeting will bring forth. My hope is this is a good deal (remember, the idea is to settle the conflict, not destroy your opponent) and that everyone, EVERYONE, can get back to work.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Stuff I Like This Week
Free videos from iTunes. This week I grabbed the preface to Lost's fourth season, Past, Present & Future. I get as many freebies as I can from iTunes, it helps even out my mental iTunes ledger.
The teaser poster for the next James Bond flick, titled Quantum of Solace. Casino Royale was great, I'm loving the Bond-as-blunt-instrument angle they're using for the character rather than the ridiculous fop Roger Moore wound up playing toward the end.
Using your head. (Yes, I know this makes me the kabillionth person on the web to reference The Play. Get used to it.)
The 50th (and last) episode of Dinner for Five. Vince Vaughn, Peter Billingsley, Justin Long, Keir O'Donnell and Jon Favreau discuss, among other things, chewing tobacco, Ted Levine impressions and The Dirt Bike Kid.
Homemade frosting, made by my wife and son on my birthday. No, there's no picture, the frosting won't last long enough for me to snap a photo.
The teaser poster for the next James Bond flick, titled Quantum of Solace. Casino Royale was great, I'm loving the Bond-as-blunt-instrument angle they're using for the character rather than the ridiculous fop Roger Moore wound up playing toward the end.
Using your head. (Yes, I know this makes me the kabillionth person on the web to reference The Play. Get used to it.)
The 50th (and last) episode of Dinner for Five. Vince Vaughn, Peter Billingsley, Justin Long, Keir O'Donnell and Jon Favreau discuss, among other things, chewing tobacco, Ted Levine impressions and The Dirt Bike Kid.
Homemade frosting, made by my wife and son on my birthday. No, there's no picture, the frosting won't last long enough for me to snap a photo.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Giant Inspiration
If you were watching what happened in a movie, you'd have never believed it. It was too perfect, too much of a dramatic turnaround to be truthful.
It gets more unbelievable the deeper you get into the story. Take a young quarterback, right out of college. He's good, good enough to have won several awards, just not the Heisman, the big prize for college footballers. The kid gets drafted by a team in a small-to-medium sized market, a team that with only 4 wins the previous season has earned the right to pick first from the eligible college pool, but just before the draft occurs, the kid tells the team if they draft him, he won't sign a contract. Already, before he throws one pass, the kid looks like a jerk, maybe one with a chip on his shoulder. After all, his older brother is already in the NFL, having made a huge debut as a rookie quarterback himself years earlier.
The kid wants to play for a big market team, and luckily there's one that wants him in the biggest market there is, New York City. Big team makes deal with small team, giving up the rights to pick college players later that year and the next year, plus trading away the player they'd snagged with their first-round pick. The kid goes to New York, and after such a costly trade, the spotlight is on him.
His first year, however, the kid doesn't start. The team shepherds him along by giving him a mentor, a veteran QB on the tail end of his short career. Halfway through the season, the veteran falters, and the coach puts the kid in as starter for the rest of the season. He loses five in a row, finally winning the last game with a late touchdown. The next two years, the kid is inconsistent, his performance rating far below his contemporaries. The public sours to him, the press routinely referring to him in disparaging headlines.
Now we're in the kid's fourth season, and the most public face (and mouth) of his big city team quits and jumps into television, using his very first broadcasts to tear the kid's reputation apart, calling his attempts at leadership comical, even laughing about whether the kid's "testes [were] finally dropping." The season starts and the team loses the first two games, their opponents scoring a total of 80 points against them. The press writes them off for the year, no one thinking an 0-2 team could bounce back after such a blow. They're down 7 points going into the fourth quarter of their third game when they score twice, putting them up seven, but their opponent drives them downfield in the final seconds of the game. All seems lost, until the defense successfully keeps them out of the end zone, a demonstration of will and strength that will keep the kid's team believing the rest of the season. The following week, they begin a display of defensive force unlike anything they could have hinted at in the weeks prior. Offensive linemen are knocked aside, all-star quarterbacks are plowed into the turf before they can get rid of the ball. The rest of the team is excelling, setting the stage for the kid to come into his own.
But he's still struggling with interceptions and weak decisions. His team wins six in a row, but not against any particularly strong teams. In a rematch against their division leader, they lose again, unable to score a touchdown at all in the second half. A squeakout win the next week, a complete blowout loss the next and two narrow wins follow, but the team is losing key players to season-ending injuries. A loss in a nationally-broadcast game and a win against a low-ranked opponent sends the team into the playoffs in a wild-card berth and brings the kid to his biggest opponent in the last week of the season: The Perfect Team.
No one else has been able to stop The Perfect Team all season. They score an average over 35 points per game. Their star receiver is the best in the game, and is not afraid to tell you so. They've won three Super Bowls in the past six seasons. Their quarterback...well, their quarterback is perceived to be everything the kid isn't. He's confident, a passing machine. He'll close the season with a record 50 touchdown passes. He's a brand name, the darling of the media, a serial-dater of women unattainable to mere mortal men. He's just dumped his actress girlfriend in her eighth month of pregnancy with his baby, but this scandal can't touch him or his greatness as he merely picks up where he left off with the biggest supermodel around, squiring her to all the best nightclubs and into the gossip pages, mostly in the kid's team city, outmatching him socially without blinking. Prepare all you want, work out all you want, practice all you want. YOU WILL NOT BEAT THE PERFECT TEAM.
But the kid isn't phased. He doesn't even look tense. The press, so used to seeing star athletes showing the strain of achievement on their faces like a tribal tattoo, can't reconcile the kid's desire and heart with his puppydog expression. The press even questions the coach, wondering why he'd bother playing the game at all instead of sending in his second-string.
The anticipation for the game is unprecendented for a regular season matchup. Three national networks carry the game. Everyone wants to see The Perfect Team get their Perfect Season.
But someone forgets to tell the kid. He's solid on his feet, throwing for over 250 yards and four touchdowns. In the end, The Perfect Team squeaks by, winning by 3, tying their most narrow point margin all season. Out of this loss, however, a new fire begins to fuel the kid and his team. They know now what they are capable of. They are confident. They're not perfect, but they're hungry.
Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their first playoff game. After all, the quarterback they're facing has beaten them before.
They win, and handily, taking the lead in the second quarter and not looking back.
Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their second playoff game. After all, they're facing a team that's beaten them twice this season, won the division they share and features the next great quarterback leading America's Team.
They win, limiting America's Team to three points in the second half.
Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their third playoff game. After all, they're facing a great veteran quarterback in what could be his last season, a fantasy season that has captivated the media with its poignancy, plus they'll be playing in sub-freezing temperatures in the other team's storied stadium amidst their avid fans.
They win there too, in a game that would be a nail-biter if you dared expose your bare fingers in the -24 degree wind chill. Tied at the end of regulation, their opponent wins the coin toss in overtime and gets the ball first. The veteran begins his storybook drive to the end zone---and throws an interception. The kid gets back on the field and can't get very far. They call on their kicker, who has already missed two field goals that day due to bad snaps from frozen fingers. This time, the snap is good, the kick is good.
The kid is going to the Super Bowl.
Against The Perfect Team.
Every expert and every casual expert and every once-in-a-blue-moon football fan and everyone who watches just for the commercials says they'll lose the Super Bowl to The Perfect Team. The onslaught of dazzling offense and experienced defense will knock them silly. Despite their post-season achievements, the kid and his teammates are still 12-point underdogs. They won't win. They can't win. They'll be playing against destiny and they don't stand a chance.
But they do win the game. It's not pretty or graceful or even perfect, but when it looks like they're down and won't be able to scratch their way back, the kid pulls his team down the field and scores the winning touchdown. They and he are finally celebrated as champions, respected as great players and heralded as making a historic contribution to the game. More people see him named the most valuable player than have seen any other sporting event.
Millions watched this unfold as fans. I watched the game on Sunday and felt inspired. Eli Manning has been maligned by the press, booed by fans and at best underestimated by his opponents, yet he still was able to keep focused on the game, perform at his best and lead his team to fight together, and after the Giants won the Super Bowl, he didn't gloat, didn't brag. He stayed humble and respectful, even on the world stage where he could have said anything in his defense.
This is the measure of a man, a champion, a hero. This is a giant inspiration. Thank you, Eli.
It gets more unbelievable the deeper you get into the story. Take a young quarterback, right out of college. He's good, good enough to have won several awards, just not the Heisman, the big prize for college footballers. The kid gets drafted by a team in a small-to-medium sized market, a team that with only 4 wins the previous season has earned the right to pick first from the eligible college pool, but just before the draft occurs, the kid tells the team if they draft him, he won't sign a contract. Already, before he throws one pass, the kid looks like a jerk, maybe one with a chip on his shoulder. After all, his older brother is already in the NFL, having made a huge debut as a rookie quarterback himself years earlier.
The kid wants to play for a big market team, and luckily there's one that wants him in the biggest market there is, New York City. Big team makes deal with small team, giving up the rights to pick college players later that year and the next year, plus trading away the player they'd snagged with their first-round pick. The kid goes to New York, and after such a costly trade, the spotlight is on him.
His first year, however, the kid doesn't start. The team shepherds him along by giving him a mentor, a veteran QB on the tail end of his short career. Halfway through the season, the veteran falters, and the coach puts the kid in as starter for the rest of the season. He loses five in a row, finally winning the last game with a late touchdown. The next two years, the kid is inconsistent, his performance rating far below his contemporaries. The public sours to him, the press routinely referring to him in disparaging headlines.
Now we're in the kid's fourth season, and the most public face (and mouth) of his big city team quits and jumps into television, using his very first broadcasts to tear the kid's reputation apart, calling his attempts at leadership comical, even laughing about whether the kid's "testes [were] finally dropping." The season starts and the team loses the first two games, their opponents scoring a total of 80 points against them. The press writes them off for the year, no one thinking an 0-2 team could bounce back after such a blow. They're down 7 points going into the fourth quarter of their third game when they score twice, putting them up seven, but their opponent drives them downfield in the final seconds of the game. All seems lost, until the defense successfully keeps them out of the end zone, a demonstration of will and strength that will keep the kid's team believing the rest of the season. The following week, they begin a display of defensive force unlike anything they could have hinted at in the weeks prior. Offensive linemen are knocked aside, all-star quarterbacks are plowed into the turf before they can get rid of the ball. The rest of the team is excelling, setting the stage for the kid to come into his own.
But he's still struggling with interceptions and weak decisions. His team wins six in a row, but not against any particularly strong teams. In a rematch against their division leader, they lose again, unable to score a touchdown at all in the second half. A squeakout win the next week, a complete blowout loss the next and two narrow wins follow, but the team is losing key players to season-ending injuries. A loss in a nationally-broadcast game and a win against a low-ranked opponent sends the team into the playoffs in a wild-card berth and brings the kid to his biggest opponent in the last week of the season: The Perfect Team.
No one else has been able to stop The Perfect Team all season. They score an average over 35 points per game. Their star receiver is the best in the game, and is not afraid to tell you so. They've won three Super Bowls in the past six seasons. Their quarterback...well, their quarterback is perceived to be everything the kid isn't. He's confident, a passing machine. He'll close the season with a record 50 touchdown passes. He's a brand name, the darling of the media, a serial-dater of women unattainable to mere mortal men. He's just dumped his actress girlfriend in her eighth month of pregnancy with his baby, but this scandal can't touch him or his greatness as he merely picks up where he left off with the biggest supermodel around, squiring her to all the best nightclubs and into the gossip pages, mostly in the kid's team city, outmatching him socially without blinking. Prepare all you want, work out all you want, practice all you want. YOU WILL NOT BEAT THE PERFECT TEAM.
But the kid isn't phased. He doesn't even look tense. The press, so used to seeing star athletes showing the strain of achievement on their faces like a tribal tattoo, can't reconcile the kid's desire and heart with his puppydog expression. The press even questions the coach, wondering why he'd bother playing the game at all instead of sending in his second-string.
The anticipation for the game is unprecendented for a regular season matchup. Three national networks carry the game. Everyone wants to see The Perfect Team get their Perfect Season.
But someone forgets to tell the kid. He's solid on his feet, throwing for over 250 yards and four touchdowns. In the end, The Perfect Team squeaks by, winning by 3, tying their most narrow point margin all season. Out of this loss, however, a new fire begins to fuel the kid and his team. They know now what they are capable of. They are confident. They're not perfect, but they're hungry.
Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their first playoff game. After all, the quarterback they're facing has beaten them before.
They win, and handily, taking the lead in the second quarter and not looking back.
Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their second playoff game. After all, they're facing a team that's beaten them twice this season, won the division they share and features the next great quarterback leading America's Team.
They win, limiting America's Team to three points in the second half.
Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their third playoff game. After all, they're facing a great veteran quarterback in what could be his last season, a fantasy season that has captivated the media with its poignancy, plus they'll be playing in sub-freezing temperatures in the other team's storied stadium amidst their avid fans.
They win there too, in a game that would be a nail-biter if you dared expose your bare fingers in the -24 degree wind chill. Tied at the end of regulation, their opponent wins the coin toss in overtime and gets the ball first. The veteran begins his storybook drive to the end zone---and throws an interception. The kid gets back on the field and can't get very far. They call on their kicker, who has already missed two field goals that day due to bad snaps from frozen fingers. This time, the snap is good, the kick is good.
The kid is going to the Super Bowl.
Against The Perfect Team.
Every expert and every casual expert and every once-in-a-blue-moon football fan and everyone who watches just for the commercials says they'll lose the Super Bowl to The Perfect Team. The onslaught of dazzling offense and experienced defense will knock them silly. Despite their post-season achievements, the kid and his teammates are still 12-point underdogs. They won't win. They can't win. They'll be playing against destiny and they don't stand a chance.
But they do win the game. It's not pretty or graceful or even perfect, but when it looks like they're down and won't be able to scratch their way back, the kid pulls his team down the field and scores the winning touchdown. They and he are finally celebrated as champions, respected as great players and heralded as making a historic contribution to the game. More people see him named the most valuable player than have seen any other sporting event.
Millions watched this unfold as fans. I watched the game on Sunday and felt inspired. Eli Manning has been maligned by the press, booed by fans and at best underestimated by his opponents, yet he still was able to keep focused on the game, perform at his best and lead his team to fight together, and after the Giants won the Super Bowl, he didn't gloat, didn't brag. He stayed humble and respectful, even on the world stage where he could have said anything in his defense.
This is the measure of a man, a champion, a hero. This is a giant inspiration. Thank you, Eli.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Taking The Day Off
I've got my feet up, a hot cup of coffee, my daughter snoozing in her swing at my side and the Giants victory parade on the TV. It's a good birthday. I'll see you tomorrow to give you my take on the Super Bowl and what it meant to me (and it's not just about football).
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Stuff I Like This Week
Welcome to a new feature here at 3C, Stuff I Like This Week.
Death Proof. QT breaks every rule and still makes us care about his characters. And oh, 'Ship's Mast' is the craziest game ever.
Anthony Zerbe's eyebrows (I was reminded of these while wondering how random hairs in mine somehow grow several inches overnight).
Ari Hest's Green Room Sessions.
The Fabulous Baker Boys, as viewed at 2 am with my daughter sleeping on my chest.
The idea of Starbucks selling a $1 cup of coffee. The coffee may taste like oil and spent matchheads, but the idea is great.
Death Proof. QT breaks every rule and still makes us care about his characters. And oh, 'Ship's Mast' is the craziest game ever.
Anthony Zerbe's eyebrows (I was reminded of these while wondering how random hairs in mine somehow grow several inches overnight).
Ari Hest's Green Room Sessions.
The Fabulous Baker Boys, as viewed at 2 am with my daughter sleeping on my chest.
The idea of Starbucks selling a $1 cup of coffee. The coffee may taste like oil and spent matchheads, but the idea is great.
Monday, January 28, 2008
My Wife Is A Lost Widow
After a childhood raised in a home with borderline paranoids ("Bad grades? I knew that teacher didn't like you."), I sometimes feel like a recovering conspiracy theorist, especially when discussing with my wife any sour relations I've had with others. She'll lower her brow a hair while I ramble about whatever perceived slight I've been subjected to until I clue in.
However, I still can't help but wonder if my wife engineered the WGA strike to curtail the amount of time I obsess over Lost.
I've had last season's finale stored on the DVR for eight months. Eight months to a DVR is like 75 years to you and me. It's an eternity, especially when we've run into storage issues since the airdate. I just couldn't bring myself to cut it before the new season began, and now that the fourth season is shortened to eight episodes from 16 because of the strike, I'm feeling like I'm going to start scratching at myself and seeing bugs on the wall like Ray Milland once the season nears a close. I'm counting down the days to Lost's return on Thursday night, maybe even more so than the Super Bowl where my beloved Giants will take on Brady and the Boot.
Last week I Netflixed the Season 3 bonus materials disc. Aside from being at once jealous of and intimidated by the creative core of the production, I now also know that if I were airdropped into Hawaii with no chance of returning home, I might just be okay if I can get a daily dose of shaved ice.
However, I still can't help but wonder if my wife engineered the WGA strike to curtail the amount of time I obsess over Lost.
I've had last season's finale stored on the DVR for eight months. Eight months to a DVR is like 75 years to you and me. It's an eternity, especially when we've run into storage issues since the airdate. I just couldn't bring myself to cut it before the new season began, and now that the fourth season is shortened to eight episodes from 16 because of the strike, I'm feeling like I'm going to start scratching at myself and seeing bugs on the wall like Ray Milland once the season nears a close. I'm counting down the days to Lost's return on Thursday night, maybe even more so than the Super Bowl where my beloved Giants will take on Brady and the Boot.
Last week I Netflixed the Season 3 bonus materials disc. Aside from being at once jealous of and intimidated by the creative core of the production, I now also know that if I were airdropped into Hawaii with no chance of returning home, I might just be okay if I can get a daily dose of shaved ice.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Give My Regards To Mesrop Mashtots Avenue
I learned some valuable lessons yesterday.
Number One: Don't call out for a lawyer on a blog. They don't call back.
I also learned that for all my reticence about getting into the industry in the past, I relatively quickly can psych myself into bluffing my way into being a film producer.
Late last week, an acquaintance (let's call him George) asked a contact of mine if he knew anyone that had any horror scripts. Seems George's LA partner was meeting with a group of potential investors (from Armenia, of all places) and wanted to shop some horror projects to them. My contact called me and I forwarded my script "Brother's Keeper" over to him to have George read. Since George is an experienced music video director and his partner is reportedly a producer, my contact and I both assumed George intended to shop the script with himself or his partner producing.
Nope. Turns out they just wanted to shop a full production package to the Armenians. George at some point, in fact, asked my contact for a top sheet for my script, and my contact shrugged and asked what that was. Then my contact asked me for a top sheet. I asked what that was. Then I realized they were looking for a coverage sheet, and afterward George asked my contact for a budget breakdown.
This was spiraling northward of silly now, as far as I was concerned. Why would this guy think a writer would prepare these things when every serious screenwriting resource says not to, just like scene numbers and cast lists. That's for a production manager to do, not a writer. Plus, this wasn't even a script I intended to shop. I had some years ago considered sending an earlier draft off to an established Canadian producer at a friend's suggestion (the producer was shooting a film set in a hospital, "Brother's Keeper" is also set in a hospital), but the script was in bad shape then after a massive revision, so I declined (regrets...I've had a few...).
Meanwhile, at this stage I'd had no contact with George or any of his partners, no e-mail, no phone call, nothing. I was getting anxious because I'd sent the script off to them and had no paper trail to show for it. Finally, Sunday afternoon, as I was away from the computer finishing up any household tasks before the NFC Championship Game began, George e-mailed me. He didn't mention having read the script, but sent me a draft of a finder's agreement, naming them as the finder and me as the producer.
Producer? ME? I read this over and over after celebrating the Giants victory and burping my daughter. How can I be a producer, I'm sitting in a rental apartment with spit-up Similac on my sweatshirt.
The baby wouldn't sleep right away (she's a Giants fan and was wound up after the game), so I was awake an hour or so thinking about this agreement. This was bad communication, there's no way these guys could have thought I'd written up a proposal to make this movie. Had they simply called me directly, I'd have told them that.
But wait a minute, I began to think.
Why not? Why the hell can't I produce this myself?
The next morning was spent discussing the agreement with an attorney friend of mine. She's who I call before signing anything, so even though she's not an entertainment lawyer, I wanted to her to vet the agreement. The paper was solid (turns out it's a Litwak template), but the amount of the fee was bothering both of us.
They wanted ten percent of the money the investors would pay.
"Can you do this?" my friend the attorney asked. "Can you produce a movie?" She sounded like she was asking if I could scale the Chrysler Building barehanded.
"Why the hell not?" I replied. The truth was and is that alone, I could not. But, I have a friend who is currently directing his second feature. If he wouldn't or couldn't work on it with me, he could surely connect me with folks who could.
"But can you do it, is this something you would want to do?"
Note to self: It might be time to start introducing myself to new friends as a filmmaker. Having to explain to people that know me that I am more than just a fun guy to talk to at parties and the guy to ask about buying a new computer is a pain in the ass.
My attorney did some checking around and I Googled myself into oblivion (go ahead and Google 'finder's fee film', then have fun sorting through the Jeff Probst links). The results we were finding said finder's fees were usually between three and eight percent, depending on the track record of the finder. These guys were trying this for the first time, it seems like, but they must be used to hearing Ari Gold talk about getting ten percent from Vinny Chase, I guess, because they were dead set against changing their minds. I told George ten percent is an agent's commission on a script sale, not a finder's fee on what would be a lot more money. It was no use. They wouldn't consider lower than ten.
I was really disturbed by this when I read a quote from an entertainment lawyer online saying that for budgets over $10 million, finders fees were usually knocked down to 1 or 2 percent since most financial sources were unlikely to approve a higher finder's fee.
The investors, as quoted by George, were looking to spend $25 million.
It was ten percent or no agreement. Two point five million.
I wouldn't agree to it. I was desperate to talk to an entertainment lawyer, but these guys were saying the meeting was this afternoon, we need a signature now, can't sell your project without it...
And then they just kind of went away. Not with a bang or a whimper, but completely silently. There was no reply to my request that they reconsider the high finder's fee, not for my sake, but because it would hurt the budget immensely and because it wasn't the customary amount. I told them I could appreciate their hope to be compensated well, but I argued we had a better chance with the investors if it were five percent.
No reply.
Well, I thought, if they were meeting this afternoon, I guess they just shelved my project and tried to sell whatever else they had. C'est la guerre.
I e-mailed George this morning to ask where we were. I felt bad, like I should feel bad for killing a bum deal before it had a chance to explode in our faces. Plus, since my contact works with this guy all the time, I didn't want to hurt their relationship.
He replied this afternoon that he'd check to see if the investors were interested in just buying the script.
But I thought that meeting yesterday was the last chance to pitch them? And that the Armenians were flying out today? After the tick-tock drama of hocking each other over the agreement, this may still have a heartbeat.
Despite the bad communication, I might just try to get some coverage and a budget drawn up and let these guys or someone else try to shop it as a package rather than just a spec. Couldn't hurt.
But I'm not paying ten percent. The tiny producer in me is standing firm on five.
Number One: Don't call out for a lawyer on a blog. They don't call back.
I also learned that for all my reticence about getting into the industry in the past, I relatively quickly can psych myself into bluffing my way into being a film producer.
Late last week, an acquaintance (let's call him George) asked a contact of mine if he knew anyone that had any horror scripts. Seems George's LA partner was meeting with a group of potential investors (from Armenia, of all places) and wanted to shop some horror projects to them. My contact called me and I forwarded my script "Brother's Keeper" over to him to have George read. Since George is an experienced music video director and his partner is reportedly a producer, my contact and I both assumed George intended to shop the script with himself or his partner producing.
Nope. Turns out they just wanted to shop a full production package to the Armenians. George at some point, in fact, asked my contact for a top sheet for my script, and my contact shrugged and asked what that was. Then my contact asked me for a top sheet. I asked what that was. Then I realized they were looking for a coverage sheet, and afterward George asked my contact for a budget breakdown.
This was spiraling northward of silly now, as far as I was concerned. Why would this guy think a writer would prepare these things when every serious screenwriting resource says not to, just like scene numbers and cast lists. That's for a production manager to do, not a writer. Plus, this wasn't even a script I intended to shop. I had some years ago considered sending an earlier draft off to an established Canadian producer at a friend's suggestion (the producer was shooting a film set in a hospital, "Brother's Keeper" is also set in a hospital), but the script was in bad shape then after a massive revision, so I declined (regrets...I've had a few...).
Meanwhile, at this stage I'd had no contact with George or any of his partners, no e-mail, no phone call, nothing. I was getting anxious because I'd sent the script off to them and had no paper trail to show for it. Finally, Sunday afternoon, as I was away from the computer finishing up any household tasks before the NFC Championship Game began, George e-mailed me. He didn't mention having read the script, but sent me a draft of a finder's agreement, naming them as the finder and me as the producer.
Producer? ME? I read this over and over after celebrating the Giants victory and burping my daughter. How can I be a producer, I'm sitting in a rental apartment with spit-up Similac on my sweatshirt.
The baby wouldn't sleep right away (she's a Giants fan and was wound up after the game), so I was awake an hour or so thinking about this agreement. This was bad communication, there's no way these guys could have thought I'd written up a proposal to make this movie. Had they simply called me directly, I'd have told them that.
But wait a minute, I began to think.
Why not? Why the hell can't I produce this myself?
The next morning was spent discussing the agreement with an attorney friend of mine. She's who I call before signing anything, so even though she's not an entertainment lawyer, I wanted to her to vet the agreement. The paper was solid (turns out it's a Litwak template), but the amount of the fee was bothering both of us.
They wanted ten percent of the money the investors would pay.
"Can you do this?" my friend the attorney asked. "Can you produce a movie?" She sounded like she was asking if I could scale the Chrysler Building barehanded.
"Why the hell not?" I replied. The truth was and is that alone, I could not. But, I have a friend who is currently directing his second feature. If he wouldn't or couldn't work on it with me, he could surely connect me with folks who could.
"But can you do it, is this something you would want to do?"
Note to self: It might be time to start introducing myself to new friends as a filmmaker. Having to explain to people that know me that I am more than just a fun guy to talk to at parties and the guy to ask about buying a new computer is a pain in the ass.
My attorney did some checking around and I Googled myself into oblivion (go ahead and Google 'finder's fee film', then have fun sorting through the Jeff Probst links). The results we were finding said finder's fees were usually between three and eight percent, depending on the track record of the finder. These guys were trying this for the first time, it seems like, but they must be used to hearing Ari Gold talk about getting ten percent from Vinny Chase, I guess, because they were dead set against changing their minds. I told George ten percent is an agent's commission on a script sale, not a finder's fee on what would be a lot more money. It was no use. They wouldn't consider lower than ten.
I was really disturbed by this when I read a quote from an entertainment lawyer online saying that for budgets over $10 million, finders fees were usually knocked down to 1 or 2 percent since most financial sources were unlikely to approve a higher finder's fee.
The investors, as quoted by George, were looking to spend $25 million.
It was ten percent or no agreement. Two point five million.
I wouldn't agree to it. I was desperate to talk to an entertainment lawyer, but these guys were saying the meeting was this afternoon, we need a signature now, can't sell your project without it...
And then they just kind of went away. Not with a bang or a whimper, but completely silently. There was no reply to my request that they reconsider the high finder's fee, not for my sake, but because it would hurt the budget immensely and because it wasn't the customary amount. I told them I could appreciate their hope to be compensated well, but I argued we had a better chance with the investors if it were five percent.
No reply.
Well, I thought, if they were meeting this afternoon, I guess they just shelved my project and tried to sell whatever else they had. C'est la guerre.
I e-mailed George this morning to ask where we were. I felt bad, like I should feel bad for killing a bum deal before it had a chance to explode in our faces. Plus, since my contact works with this guy all the time, I didn't want to hurt their relationship.
He replied this afternoon that he'd check to see if the investors were interested in just buying the script.
But I thought that meeting yesterday was the last chance to pitch them? And that the Armenians were flying out today? After the tick-tock drama of hocking each other over the agreement, this may still have a heartbeat.
Despite the bad communication, I might just try to get some coverage and a budget drawn up and let these guys or someone else try to shop it as a package rather than just a spec. Couldn't hurt.
But I'm not paying ten percent. The tiny producer in me is standing firm on five.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Unexpected Tangent: Anybody Know an Entertainment Lawyer?
I've got a question or two and I've been caught short on time.
I'm at tom.blogger _at_ mac.com.
I'm at tom.blogger _at_ mac.com.
Friday, January 18, 2008
On Juggling
I took a course in children's theater in college. We produced a play about a troupe of commedia dell'arte players traveling the countryside. As I was playing the leader of the troupe, my professor wanted me to lead their parade into town doing something flashy and he hit upon the idea of having me juggle while walking onstage. I thought about our performance schedule, 10 shows through the local school system in theaters, gymnasiums, outdoors, all of these venues unfamiliar and unpredictable. Could I manage to learn how to juggle and walk through strange environments at the same time? My professor challenged me to do it, saying if I could make the entrance perfectly each time, I'd get an A for the semester. I'm proud to report that I got that A, but it wasn't pretty. One kid threw a tennis ball at me. Once the semester was over, there went my professional juggling aspirations.
I've been married for just over five years to a smart, patient and generous woman. We have two children, a three year old boy and a newborn girl. A friend told me once that having one child feels like a married couple plus one, but having two children makes it feel like a family, and I'm beginning to see what he meant. I feel a bigger responsibility to the three of them than I ever had.
I'm employed as a computer support technician presently, having spent five years working in the retail field for a major computer company. I've been at my present job for eight months, and while I enjoy the work, I've got my eye out for the next step.
If you were to ask me, though, what I really want to do for a living, what would I be passionate about, what would be that job that I love so much that I'd never 'work' a day in my life, I'd tell you I'd like to be a screenwriter. It began in high school, a feeling like the extra care I gave to essays and assignments meant I was having a relationship with words, characters and story that I wanted to continue for life. I had a group of friends that was as much into movies as I was and we saw everything we could, sometimes three in a day, followed by a stop at the video store. I managed that video store a few years later, managed a few movie theaters and finally went to work in the event video field as a way to make money telling stories onscreen as best I could. All the while I kept writing and rewriting whenever I could, but it always felt like I wasn't giving it enough time.
A few years back, I decided to give writing a harder push, pushing myself at first to put together a stronger portfolio of spec samples with my first true attempts to crash the industry to follow. I began a blog, The One Year Push, at first intended to focus on my writing, but eventually veering off into the other areas of my life, my marriage and my daygig. As I'd visit the blog later, especially after having passed my (incredibly naive) one year goal of making a sale, I felt the need to broaden the focus, to allow myself to comment on the rest of my daily life without forcing a link back to screenwriting, even if the whole point of blogging was to force myself to write on a regular basis, to sharpen the tools.
When it came time to think of a new name, I thought back to that semester of learning how to juggle and walk at the same time. In that show, I was juggling plastic apples. If I'd dropped one of those (and I did, plenty of times), I would pick it up and the apple would be none the worse. Now I juggle these three distinct elements of my life: marriage, career, aspiration. Dropping any of them isn't an option, they would bruise. They've all got weight, substantial heft, yet they need to be handled just the right way, I can't just palm them and toss them in the air.
The image became clear, and my blog had its new name.
I've been married for just over five years to a smart, patient and generous woman. We have two children, a three year old boy and a newborn girl. A friend told me once that having one child feels like a married couple plus one, but having two children makes it feel like a family, and I'm beginning to see what he meant. I feel a bigger responsibility to the three of them than I ever had.
I'm employed as a computer support technician presently, having spent five years working in the retail field for a major computer company. I've been at my present job for eight months, and while I enjoy the work, I've got my eye out for the next step.
If you were to ask me, though, what I really want to do for a living, what would I be passionate about, what would be that job that I love so much that I'd never 'work' a day in my life, I'd tell you I'd like to be a screenwriter. It began in high school, a feeling like the extra care I gave to essays and assignments meant I was having a relationship with words, characters and story that I wanted to continue for life. I had a group of friends that was as much into movies as I was and we saw everything we could, sometimes three in a day, followed by a stop at the video store. I managed that video store a few years later, managed a few movie theaters and finally went to work in the event video field as a way to make money telling stories onscreen as best I could. All the while I kept writing and rewriting whenever I could, but it always felt like I wasn't giving it enough time.
A few years back, I decided to give writing a harder push, pushing myself at first to put together a stronger portfolio of spec samples with my first true attempts to crash the industry to follow. I began a blog, The One Year Push, at first intended to focus on my writing, but eventually veering off into the other areas of my life, my marriage and my daygig. As I'd visit the blog later, especially after having passed my (incredibly naive) one year goal of making a sale, I felt the need to broaden the focus, to allow myself to comment on the rest of my daily life without forcing a link back to screenwriting, even if the whole point of blogging was to force myself to write on a regular basis, to sharpen the tools.
When it came time to think of a new name, I thought back to that semester of learning how to juggle and walk at the same time. In that show, I was juggling plastic apples. If I'd dropped one of those (and I did, plenty of times), I would pick it up and the apple would be none the worse. Now I juggle these three distinct elements of my life: marriage, career, aspiration. Dropping any of them isn't an option, they would bruise. They've all got weight, substantial heft, yet they need to be handled just the right way, I can't just palm them and toss them in the air.
The image became clear, and my blog had its new name.
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