"Straight Outta' Compton" (2015)

I put aside my feelings of gangsta’ rap and decided to go see this movie.

N.W.A. came out at a time when I was still in high school, and I recall people reciting the words. I remember my parents had a side business at a swap meet where people were selling banners and flags with their emblem on it. In fact, in this movie, Riverfront Coliseum in Cincinnati is featured in on of their concerts. That's pretty far reaching, in terms of South Central to suburban Ohio.

This movie is solid. Good but…it may as well be a “Dummie’s Guide To N.W.A.” as it glosses over a lot of legendary moments just to please the people who know nothing about the history. Do I know more about it after watching? Nope. But I do more about N.W.A. Which I won’t give away here if you know. But we now know of what became of Dr. Dre & Ice Cube and, of course, Eazy E.

This could be a superhero movie. The origination story, sort of speak. In fact, it’d be cool if they did do a trilogy. This movie specifically fell on Eazy E. They set up perfectly a side story about Death Row records and Suge Knight. Which could extend to Tupac’s demise, and Notorious B.I.G. What makes this culture so fascinating is that it now has very little to do with money (and drugs) and more to do with street respect. The most recent incarnation the same we’re so fascinated with the mob.

Director F. Gary Gray does a fantastic job organizing their career. It hits the high interest points. If there was real justice, the entire cast deserves an Oscar nod. Everyone is spot on in their role. And it never feels like they’re playing anyone important. Something that music biopics can’t seem to get around. AND the real bonus is that they used the real music. Something that other movies also tend to overlook (in terms of the real stuff). They integrate the music really well.

Now the bad, the historical stuff seems to be overshadowed by N.W.A.’s commentary on it. The 93’ riots occurred AFTER they hit big. So “Fuck The Police” was already an anthem going into the Rodney King beating. And also, I realize they want to paint the police in the early 90’s as racist militia, but they practically get cartoonish with every encounter they have with the L.A.P.D.

The portrayal of Paul Giamatti as their manager Jerry Heller is really good. But, Giamatti’s svengali presence in two biopics now seem heavy handed. He hits the same note in both this and “Love and Mercy” However, these minor gripes have nothing to do with the energy of the movie. In a strange way, and despite the tragedy of a disease that could now be held under control (missed it by about a decade), this could be about any rock band as well. It’s done with compassion and flair, and fantastic music.  It’s definitely worth a look.

Wes Craven

Could there be a more perfect name for a horror movie director?

I remember "Nightmare On Elm Street" freaked me the fuck out. I actually remember getting the novelization of it and...man, they didn't pull any punches. The mind that Craven had to conjure up something like this was...well, personally I think you could've closed the book on that genre. And you're talking about Jason Vorhees and Michael Meyers being outdone.

The other thing was that he was an Ohio guy. And as a teenager gave me hope to leave town and do something with my life. And he left with a cultural stamp on American culture. Pretty amazing.

Digging A Hole

In a "Simpsons" episode entitled "Homer The Moe"
Bart is digging a hole in the backyard, to which everyone wonders why...
 
Lisa: What are you doing?
Bart: Digging.
Lisa: Why?
Bart: To make a hole.
Lisa: A hole for what?
Bart: More digging.

Lisa walks away, but when Homer inquires as to why he is digging a hole, he gets unnerved.

I find that true about me making movies. People wonder what I expect or want from the movies I make. I have no answer. I just make it. I had this conversation yesterday. We've concluded, what is wrong with just making something just to make something. Why must it always be prefaced with a reason? For fame, for fortune?

 

Yes, making a movie is a communicative medium, but I realize, that this type of thinking also downshifts into constantly testing your instincts against others' sensibilities. Which, in itself, is the irony. Since, our instincts are our own. Introducing opinion opens it up for something that isn't yours. And then you're no longer a single voice. I get why...in a sense. It's commerce. We need to please a whole group of people, so they pay money to tell more stories. But money thrown at a project doesn't make it better. Read "Fiasco" which is about the bloated Hollywood movies that nearly tanked studios. The waste is insane. And it hasn't got any better. According to Lynda Obst, a big producer in the 90's-2000's, she claims the new abnormal Hollywood is no longer catering to stories that are good. They want tentpoles to franchise movies. The occasional "art house" gets through, but studios no longer care about movies like "Forrest Gump" or "Rain Man" or even "Pretty Woman." These movies, according to her, would never get made today. Too much risk. If you consider you've now whittled down a considerable demographic of filmmakers starting out who only have a budget to make these types of movies, you see where the economics stand. You've essentially priced your way into obscurity. The smaller movies that have critical acclaim are done by big directors. They're the only ones allowed to make it with studio money. The "one-for-you-one-for-me" method. As to why Kenneth Brannagh shills for "Thor" so he can make another Shakespeare remake (zzzzzz...).

And the market doesn't get better. Should you be hopeful as a new filmmaker? Sure why not? You've read all the success stories, and chose to believe those over reality. But people often confuse persistence with risk. I don't choose either. I choose to make something just to make something.

"Raw Deal" (1986)

I remember hanging with my friend Travis in his basement while his hot mom made us sandwiches and watching this movie. It's really underwhelming, in terms of Schwarzenegger movies, now as an grown up, it's just aggravating. Since last we seen, "Commando" (also directed by John Irvin) did this movie. And we see them doing different versions of their one-liners. These are awful. And the comedy is odd. For instance, in a scene where Ah-nold and his wife are having a spat, she drunkenly tosses a cake at him, to which he replies "you should not bake and drink." That's the cut point.

Well, the story is also outrageous. Arnold plays Mark Kaminski a re-assigned FBI agent stuck in the heartland of America and posing as an undercover sheriff, saddled with a wife who is bored out of her mind. When an opportunity comes up to get re-instated in the feds, he goes deep undercover to pose as a mob-like muscle but is actually tearing up the organization from the inside out.

It's not so much crazy, as it is silly. And that's okay, because Arnold tries really hard. And, in truth, he adds enough fun to it to get past the crap. For instance, his joy of killing people at a gravel pit while "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones is playing is pretty damn funny. Whether it meant to be or not, there's Arnold. Also, not explaining his heavy accent, even though his name is Mark.

AND, I'm still confused as to what the "raw deal" was. His friend who recruits him gives him a great deal. The guy who hires him for the mob-like heavy even better deal. I think the "raw deal" in question may've been that he did this movie so he could get money to buy "Total Recall" to which I say...Carolco got the raw deal.

"Stick" (1985)

It's hard to remember when Burt Reynolds was the talk of the town. I would think him and Loni Anderson's celebrity divorce was the dam that broke when it came to sensationalizing these things.

In 1985, the guy could do what he wanted. I remember seeing this movie on t.v. edited and was struck by the very scary performance from stuntman Dar Robinson as Moke, the Albino creepy hitman/muscle. The guy had a future in acting, had he not died in a stunt a year later. The guy was chilling.

The movie...well...it's really uneven. I even recall this as a kid. Burt Reynolds was known as something of a comic actor. Post "Deliverance" he was this smart alecky weirdo. His comedy was goofy, but it often worked in movies like "Cannonball Run." This, he adapted from an Elmore Leonard novel. To which I am surprise hasn't been remade. It involves a drug deal gone wrong, and Stick...Ernest Stickley to be precise is left with a dead friend and money that is owed him. Stick is fresh out of prison and has little to no option but to go along. Along the way, he harasses the ringleader of the failed deal, Chucky played by an odd wigged up Charles Durning. This was clearly a friends called in favor movie for Reynolds, who also directed. As he also brought in Candice Bergen. Now looking at it, really really mis-casted. She seems too sophisticated for this romp. As does George Segal, who plays Stick's employer. There are really misplaced jokes. At one point Stick is a badass staring down the frosty "bunny eyes" of a Albino. the next cracking wise and schtick with Segal in regards to breaking into his car and being hired to be his driver. My lesson here, a tough guy stare down in one scene, doesn't cut well with Marx Brothers humor.

With all this going on, it's no surprise why Reynolds chose this movie to make. In other hands, I could see a really decent movie. In a way "Out of Sight" did the same material right. George Clooney, in that movie, had the right mix of charm, out-of-prison feel. Reynolds seemed to have bit off more than he could chew, and you see the desperate tap dance that goes with it.

I do remember seeing the behind the scenes decades ago, when Dar was testing a decelerating cable rig to do a fall off a hotel building. It's amazing, and is still used today.

By the way, anyone remember Anne Murray? Her corny song (co-written by Reynolds) at the end sent a weird sense of nostalgia through me.

Ron Jeremy

I responded to a Craig's List ad almost a decade ago in regards to a New York Film Academy short film that needed a cinematographer. I answered the ad and discovered that the director was also from Ohio. We bonded over mutual stories of the cold, as is the Midwest culture. What I learned about the NYFA is that it is a dumping ground for rich kids of parents who didn't want them around the house anymore. This also included international students as well. I mean, these guys had MONEY. I was astonished to suggest shooting on the top of the line equipment with nary a protest. What I asked, I got. Which I learned much later, these parents were just proud their kids wanted to do something. Anything. So they paid a king's ransom for this "film school." Yes, I put it in quotes, because at the time, it was closer to a vocational school. The instructors then were pretty po-dunk. Now, they've gotten industry people. In fact, they have their own sign on the 101 Freeway. That's some good dumb rich kid money!

We spent a lot of time working out the details of this short. Lighting and such. It was a paid gig so I wasn't about to fuck around. The premise of the story wasn't all that bad. About a guy who uses casting call notices to snare women into taking off their clothes but ends up being something darker. I mean, it was pretty good for late night Skin-o-Max.

At the beginning of the short, it had interviews with various beautiful people. This was to bookend the core of the story. And at the end, Ron Jeremy was going to be the casting director. He happened to be the next door neighbor of the actress playing the naive girl who is the lead.

Ron is an amazingly nice guy. He has a lot of energy, for someone who looks tired. And despite the fact that he's banged every porn star I jerked off to in the late mid to late 80's, he was incredibly humble. And supportive. He had no idea we were shooting film, and on 35mm. He got excited about that (not boner excited, but excited). And he was gregarious, cracked a LOT of jokes (pun based) and barely looked at the script, but remembered his lines (that was amazing).

He also showed up at the location deep in the hills of Mulholland Drive. It was a frustrating roll of hills he just snaked (pun intended) up to find us, overlooking the Hollywood Bowl. I still have no idea how we shot here without tourists completely fucking us over. We had permits, but couldn't lock out the street.

Ron came in, did his line, and went traipsing for a meal somewhere. Gave me a handshake and left. That's when I realized, he did this completely for free. As a favor. He wasn't banging the actress, and we didn't have food set up. He just...showed up. An absolute professional. He just wanted to be involved in something.

A few years back I saw him again at Adult-Con. I was there with Lauren and Ben, these two people I'd just met through a mutual friend. Ben yelled "Hey, there's Ron Jeremy!" Ron was being mobbed by a crowd and loved it. After people started to disperse, I walked over with Ben and Lauren, and told him "Hi. Do you remember we did a short film together, like...7 years ago?"
He rubbed his chin. I was expecting the pat answer "Oh yeah, hi, how's it going?"
Instead he brightened up "Hey, yeah, that short film we shot up there on Mulholland." I couldn't believed he remembered. I just shook his hand, good to see you again.

If you work in this town back in the day, you'll find everyone has a Ron Jeremy story.

Linds Redding: Words For The Creative

Linds Redding died of cancer of the esophagus.
He was an ad man for large companies like BBDO. Chiat/Day and so forth. When I was in my early 20's I wouldn't have mind having his career. His last words to us "creative types" in regards to our perception of the creative world versus what is truly important, an excerpt from his blog:

"The scam works like this:
1. The creative industry operates largely by holding ‘creative’ people ransom to their own self-image, precarious sense of self-worth, and fragile – if occasionally out of control ego. We tend to set ourselves impossibly high standards, and are invariably our own toughest critics. Satisfying our own lofty demands is usually a lot harder than appeasing any client, who in my experience tend to have disappointingly low expectations. Most artists and designers I know would rather work all night than turn in a sub-standard job. It is a universal truth that all artists think they a frauds and charlatans, and live in constant fear of being exposed. We believe by working harder than anyone else we can evaded detection. The bean-counters rumbled this centuries ago and have been profitably exploiting this weakness ever since. You don’t have to drive creative folk like most workers. They drive themselves. Just wind ’em up and let ’em go.

2. Truly creative people tend not to be motivated by money. That’s why so few of us have any. The riches we crave are acknowledgment and appreciation of the ideas that we have and the things that we make. A simple but sincere “That’s quite good.” from someone who’s opinion we respect (usually a fellow artisan) is worth infinitely more than any pay-rise or bonus. Again, our industry masters cleverly exploit this insecurity and vanity by offering glamorous but worthless trinkets and elaborately staged award schemes to keep the artists focused and motivated. Like so many demented magpies we flock around the shiny things and would peck each others eyes out to have more than anyone else. Handing out the odd gold statuette is a whole lot cheaper than dishing out stock certificates or board seats.

3. The compulsion to create is unstoppable. It’s a need that has to be filled. I’ve barely ‘worked’ in any meaningful way for half a year, but every day I find myself driven to ‘make’ something. Take photographs. Draw. Write. Make bad music. It’s just an itch than needs to be scratched. Apart from the occasional severed ear or descent into fecal-eating dementia the creative impulse is mostly little more than a quaint eccentricity. But introduce this mostly benign neurosis into a commercial context.. well that way, my friends lies misery and madness.
This hybridisation of the arts and business is nothing new of course – it’s been going on for centuries – but they have always been uncomfortable bed-fellows. But even artists have to eat, and the fuel of commerce and industry is innovation and novelty. Hey! Let’s trade. “Will work for food!” as the street-beggars sign says.

This Faustian pact has been the undoing of many great artists, many more journeymen and more than a few of my good friends. Add to this volatile mixture the powerful accelerant of emerging digital technology and all hell breaks loose. What I have witnessed happening in the last twenty years is the aesthetic equivalent of the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century. The wholesale industrialization and mechanistation of the creative process. Our ad agencies, design groups, film and music studios have gone from being cottage industries and guilds of craftsmen and women, essentially unchanged from the middle-ages, to dark sattanic mills of mass production. Ideas themselves have become just another disposable commodity to be supplied to order by the lowest bidder. As soon as they figure out a way of outsourcing thinking to China they won’t think twice. Believe me.

So where does that leave the artists and artisans? Well, up a watercolour of shit creek without a painbrush. That one thing that we prize and value above all else – the idea –  turns out to be just another plastic gizmo or widget to be touted and traded. And to add insult to injury we now have to create them not in our own tine, but according to the quota and the production schedule. “We need six concepts to show the client first thing in the morning, he’s going on holiday. Don’t waste too much time on them though, it’s only meeting-fodder. He’s only paying for one so they don’t all have to be good, just knock something up. You know the drill. Oh, and one more thing. His favourite color is green. Rightho! See you in the morning then… I’m off to the Groucho Club.”

The Virginia Media Shooting

Vester Lee Flanagan ruthlessly gunned down Alison Parker (24) and Adam Ward (27). If all facts are to be believed, this was a crash course for which the two victims had no idea how this man saw the world. Not only did we see the live feed through Adam's camera, as he was recording it, but Vester took it upon himself to actually capture it on his own camera and post it online.

I have no words to speak about the cowardly act of firing on unarmed people while their back is turned, but it does raise questions about how much coverage of these tragedies effect our desperate need to be heard.

I think in the world of information first, the internet really has changed the dynamics of human interaction. Without going into the thought processes of Vester, we are instantly fed so much background of all parties involved. And I got to thinking about these other shootings and seeing the aftermath and the sadness it brings, and it doesn't appear to slow this train down. Watching terrible events happen seem to have zero effect on carrying out your own agenda.

For instance, I recently watched the Boston Marathon bombing documentary and saw it from a different perspective. It was nauseating to see, because it had no reason to be a preventable terrorist attack. These monsters actually walked amongst the crowd, blending in as typical Americans, and then unleashed terror. I wanted to reach through the screen and choke these kids before that happened. But it was looking at history. The sickening feeling is that you see it unfold and can't undo it. I would think that perhaps there are people who see these events and are deterred by the anger and pain it causes to innocent people. The mind boggling thing is that Vester and all these other shooters or stabbers or whatever, have no clue the toll it takes on humanity. It's as if they elected to place themselves on a different strata. A God ability that seemed to have been stripped on this planet. I just don't see and cannot feel the amount of anguish a person could inflict if their world tends to be so dark. My guess is that they don't see the aftermath.

But back to my point, I feel that maybe if we didn't see so much coverage of these events, there wouldn't be decisive arguments online. Or people being unnecessarily cruel. I think the less we see of these events, we tend not to understand these options. I don't recall this many large scale tragic events as I was growing up in the early 80's. Probably were, just didn't hear about them until much later. Like a myth. I recall hearing about a politician in Pennsylvania who killed himself on live television. I just heard about it. It was strange to even wrap my head around it. It seemed my imagination made it far more tragic than the actual event.

I don't think we need to see everything.

The Flickering Light In The Basement

I arrived in Bowling Green, Ohio in August of 1993. I showed up early because it was a weekend, and my Mom thought it’d be a good idea to acclimate myself to my new surroundings. My sister actually told me I should go to Bowling Green State because, well, it’d be a good chance to re-direct myself after my initial fiasco in Los Angeles. I’d spent a year at Loyola Marymount at the age of 18 in film school, only to hate it so much I had to leave. And it was too expensive to be taking classes I’d already taken in high school. The unfortunate thing was that BGSU didn’t have a film program. It had a television program, but no film. I chose to get a bachelors in fine art, which I had tentatively selected graphic design as a major. I had to find some way to make movies, so this was at least biding my time before I returned to Los Angeles.

I had a massive chip on my shoulder coming back to Ohio. This wasn’t just Ohio, this was middle of the state Ohio. Practically Michigan. The school considered itself liberal arts, but the place made me skittish. It was really flat lands and the nearest town was about 10 miles away. The town functioned solely to support the school. It was literally one lane that ran into town and one that was perpendicular that led out. I never got a straight answer as to why my sister chose the school. I guess, since it’s far away enough from home to feel like you’re away and close enough for emergencies (3 hours). I showed up to the dorms, a single suitcase in hand and my electric guitar. I stayed in the dorm called Conklin. It was all boys. The place was dumpy. The hallways narrow. Definitely different than the “resort campus” of Loyola Marymount. I didn’t care. I felt defeated. When I arrived, I was saddled with this ape, named Joe. He had a mushmouth palooka voice that drove me nuts. In fact, even his mother would mock him. So I already knew I wasn’t going to spend that much time in that room. Plus it was about 8 feet wide. What a disaster. I met my resident advisor. A thick stocky guy named Chris. Chris greeted with a bright smile and a cheery “Hey! I’m your R.A. How’s it going?”

“Fine” I mumbled. Still smarting from the shit room.

“Cool. Look, if you need anything, my door is always open” he was so bright and friendly I thought he had a head injury or something. Turns out, he was just a sincerely nice guy. A jock in his hometown, he had an artistic streak. My first week at Conklin, I’d played a few Hendrix tunes I learned in our band, and he and I became lifelong friends. I recruited him to be in all my projects, as I eventually convinced my folks to lend me their camcorder for college. We’d do crazy dumb shit. Like have him pretend shoot someone with a paintball gun on the live railroad tracks. Or have him vamp about philosophies on life. I had befriended a odd looking guy in our dorm named Dan.

Dan and I became inseparable when it came to just smoking cigarettes and playing Nintendo’s NBA Jam. We held our dorm in such contempt, especially having just found out that they were going to demolish it after our year anyway. I’d often smoke in his room and snub the butt out on his carpet. His roommate was a dude who fucked a TON of chicks. Each morning there’d be a different girl as Dan and I would be playing video games. They were both so close to our chairs, my elbow would often their bunk. His roommate didn’t give a fuck. I guess he thought the girls would leave if they saw two muppets playing video games and maybe get self-conscious and dart. He was wrong. They had no shame.

I’d get bored and walk the campus. One night I’d stopped by the old television department. They did three camera news out of this building. It was still open as they radio department was there too. And it was the ONLY broadcast radio in Bowling Green. I walked inside and started to explore.

The place was musty. The studio had the typical large soft lights. Big scoops or chicken coops. It was specifically for a wash of flat light for the newscasters. I went to the other side of the building where I noticed a staircase going down. Curiosity got the better of me, so I followed it down.

There were the typical rooms  of a campus. The linoleum floors squeaked as I stepped down the hallway. The rooms were dark. But through the light in the hall, I could see that they weren’t rooms but practice rooms. This must’ve been a music building at some point. I recall these rooms resembling the one on one lessons. I stuck my face through a window and saw, emptiness. Then the next one. Then the next. All dark.

I came across a door that was wider than the others. It’d been some type of storage room. Storage implies “locked.” But, I decided to give the handle a try anyway.

Voila! The handle turned and I pushed the door in. The room was really dark. I saw what looked like laundry baskets. I took a look inside. It was THE very first time I saw what would be the next 20 years of my life.

I dipped my hand into the bin and pulled out 16mm film. It’d been dumped and unspooled into these bins that had cloth as the liner. Thousands if not hundreds of thousands of feet of film. There were bins, next to bins all crammed into a room. And buried in the depths of the bins, was an upright Moviola.

This was a machine used to watch and edit this footage. I stepped back, unsure what this contraption was. It had spindles, and wheels and buttons and footpads and…it was all military grade green. I drew a breath, and searched for the chord. I dug it up in the rubble, and found an outlet. Plugging in the machine, I heard the fan kick on. No way! It had light emanating from a grated fan port. Not sure if the bulb was still good. Then it occurred to me. I pushed open a latch on the side, it snapped open with a tight click. I saw the light through the back port now. The bulb was fine, it just needed film. Having never seen 16mm up close, this was amazing. I looked at the images as stills through my fingers. I couldn’t believe this was abandoned. I pressed the celluloid against the rail guides that was designated for film. I closed the viewer window and then I saw my first image. I honestly don’t recall what it was. Only that it was in that washed out film look. It didn’t have the color but it had the image. I think it was from some war or something. CLEARLY stock footage of some kind. Printed so that the students could train on it. The trim ran through my fingers as I stepped on the motor, it lurched forward. Then the image started to move. It moved in succession, and gave the illusion of motion. This revelation…I wish people now had the capacity to understand. That the concept of persistence of vision is lost on those who will never understand the simplicity of a flip book. This is what makes movies…move. It blew my mind. I sat in the dark storage room for what seemed like minutes, but hours had passed. I watched every trim in the bin I could watch. When I grew tired, I eventually shut the machine down. It was morning now.

I ended up visiting that storage room throughout that semester. Each time digging up other pieces of editing gear. A splicer I found I used to cut the movie, then I used scotch tape to edit pieces together. I kept playing footage over and over again, watching the little screen move. It was like a Nickelodeon (not the children’s network for you young folk, like in carnivals at the turn of the century). I wondered about the production that went into these cells that were passing in front of me. Just fascinated by the physical nature of it. I eventually put together a reel with edits from different parts of movies. It was totally Ed Wood style crap, but it was my crap. This was also the storage room I saw a box STUFFED with 16mm Bolex cameras. Just collecting dust. I think back now and how sad that was that I didn’t even think to rescue these Swiss machines of precision (as they are even used today). I did use one for my short film thesis project. But even that I returned to the University, which I’m sure they’ve long since gotten rid of.

From what I thought was being abandoned in the middle of nowhere Ohio resulted in the best education I could’ve gotten for making movies. Necessity being the mother of invention. I didn’t need to go where the action was (L.A.), I had to make opportunities where I found them.

From that point on, I thought Bowling Green wasn’t so bad. I can do something here.

The Lesbians & Little Caesars

My first job as a teenager (14 years old) was at Little Caesars. This was a time when you could get two pizzas for the price of one. I'm not sure what inspired me to pursue this job, other than free food...and possibly since it was close to my parents' place I could commute with them.

I first met Irene after the first summer I started Little Caesars. I was prohibited to use the oven as I was underage. So I'd stay in the sink area and wash pans for 6 hours a day. You learn a TON washing pans. The drunks next door at the bar would come in and just vomit all over our floors (keep in mind I could only work morning to afternoon hours, this would mean they were drunk over the night). And I'd offer them pizza on their way out. Preferably so they'd puke THAT up elsewhere. There was a manager Ken, who always talked about guns and his ex-wife. He HATED his ex wife, but he loved his guns. Which is an awful combination. At 14 I didn't understand this animosity. Guy was from Memphis, TN, looked like Daniel Hugh Kelly from "Harcastle & McCormick." Irene was hired the beginning of that summer.

Ken instantly took a disliking to her. For one thing, she was frumpy for his tastes. And secondly, she was the co-manager. Irene was also a lesbian.

She was exactly what you would think a lesbian should look like. Back in the late 80's anyway. Pants jacked to the midsection, large eyeglasses, stringy hair and not a bit of makeup on her. She chain smoked Virginia Slims. She would always address me by my last name. But always shouting for some reason "Kuo! Bring us another can of tomato sauce!" "Kuo! Another bum vomited! Mop!" And so forth. I didn't care. I thought she was funny. But Ken, boy...Ken didn't like her giving orders to anyone. Even to a peon like me. It became something of prison rules. Who would knock the other one out claim alpha dog. Irene had seniority while Ken was a technically, a transplant. Ken would also spend more time on the phone yelling at someone than his job. This didn't go unnoticed by Irene. They'd eventually brought in an older woman as a night operations manager. She was from a nearby store, and had to be there to train us on the promotions. Her name was Beverly.

Bev smoked more cigarettes than Irene. Bev was the spitting image of Polly Holliday from "Alice" even had the beehive hairdo. She didn't care what I did as long as I was cleaning something. She was so cool. She was also a lesbian. A different kind though, as she'd been married before.

Boy, when Irene and Bev got together, they'd sit in the back room, about 10 feet from where I was washing pans and just let loose about their dildos. They would name them and start cackling. Forget the fact that I was within earshot. But I didn't care. I thought they were hilarious. Bev would make jokes about her ex-husbands dick size. Irene would just make crass statements like "if we ever run out of yeast, we can just pull down Bev's pants!! Hee-hee-hee" I'd laugh along, completely oblivious as to what that meant.

At a certain point, the "ganging up" between the lesbians got too much for Ken and he disappeared. Transferred to a different shop. Bev told me later he did time for beating his ex-wife. I spent another two years with these two. They were fun. Irene even came out for one of our high school picnics. Bev never showed up. She felt it odd to be a over middle-aged chain smoking woman hanging with teenagers. Yeah, that's a red flag now...kinda' endearing then. These two really made sure people didn't fuck with me back then.

Irene actually showed up to my high school graduation. "Good job, Kuo" she nodded towards me. First time I'd ever seen her wear a dress.

How I Got A Writing Agent...For A Week

I got a graduated degree in 2001. At that time, I’d had three short films under my belt and a couple of feature scripts written. I’d sent one of them “Nicki Sweet: Blood Burns The Eyes” to contests. But none panned out. Script contests were pretty new to everyone. Getting your script evaluated if you submit to contests. I doubt now if anyone read my script. I think the title alone pretty much told them “dump.”

I didn’t let rejection really deter me. I was too dumb for that. I just spent every dime I earned sending these submissions out. Then when the options started to wane a little, I’d gotten an odd email from someone in the Czech Republic. It was  a fellow alumni. I didn’t recognize the name, but was recommended by another friend at school that told him I’d written a script. They were just re-tooling Stillking studios and needed material. A LOT of material. Seems that I had a feature script they could read. A few things about my script. It is bathed in American slang. And even though this came a few years before Quentin Tarantino’s strong female action hero lead character with an eyepatch, I’d had this idea first. Or let’s just say concurrently. I doubt he stole any of my ideas (although I did intern at his music vid company A Band Apart and did pitch this script at the development stage at school)..hmm…anyway, shit-minds think alike I figure.

I sent them “Nick Sweet…” which I also sent my short film which was a compendium to the script. Give them an idea of the genre they were dealing with. I didn’t get a response back for a while. Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to Months and so forth. Along the same time, while I was waiting, I started reading screenwriting books. Something I’d detested in film school. I cracked open one that specifically talked about selling scripts. It really gave you nuts and bolts of the hustle  (incidentally, it was written by J. Michael Stracynski who, within the book had an early pitch for Clint Eastwood directed ‘The Changeling’ which I find comical now how long it was from the print of that book to the eventual filming with Angelina Jolie. Even funnier…he thought it would NEVER be made). So I pored through the book, seeking any advantage I could. One specific piece of advice had it that you should contact agencies to send them interest letters. Fish for people who represent writers as it’s near impossible for studios to read anything not submitted by a certified agent. My mind started churning. As I lived in Sherman Oaks at the time, I checked to see who was local. Yes, there was an agency listing that published agency information. Phones, emails and faxes…and addresses!

I searched through the big dog agencies. CAA, William Morris, UTA, and so forth (Endeavor had not been fully up and running yet). I got discouraged as they took NOTHING from unsolicited people. That didn’t mean you couldn’t send it. Only meant you were wasting your time.

I found one agent that was close by to where I lived. I’m not sure why it stood out, other than it looked like just a normal address with no agency name attached. We’ll call this guy Issac. I targeted this guy, but, before doing so, I made one last visit to my screenwriting teacher, Steve.

Steve was a cool dude. He looked like Venus Flytrap from “WKRP” and created “China Beach.” He lived through that decade on the residuals alone. I consulted him about which script I could send. He discouraged me about the “Nicki Sweet” one. The title…man…the title. I loved it and was my homage to a Cassavetes movie I’ve never even seen. Steve suggested I send my other one, a sci-fi action movie called “Scorch The Earth.” He thought they could potentially see a vehicle with Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones in it. Well, that sold me.

My palms were sweaty when I picked up the phone to dial Issac. Almost had a heart attack when he actually answered.

“Hullo.” His voice was sandpaper. He sounded about 70 years old.

“Oh hi, my name is Thom Kuo, I just graduated from grad school, and well, I got a script and looking for representation.”

There was a silence. Then…

“I don’t really take unsolicited material. How did you get this number?”

“In a book” I was really fumble mouth now “um..well, I just polished it up and it’s ready to go.”

“Oh?”

My throat was dry. I squeaked out “A studio in Czech Republic has it now, they’re looking through it. Place called Stillking.”

“Never heard of them.”

My brain went nuclear “um, they’re new, and uh…well, it’s in their hands now. Gotta a friend who works there. Really excited.”

A pause. I’m certain this guy has heard all this shit before. But in my mind, it would be a coup if say…he checked out Stillking and contacted them wondering about this script. And they would be wondering why an agent took an interest in a script they have. Playing one against the other (it’s in the screenwriting book).

“Well, look, just drop it off and I’ll take a look at it. See if we can’t do business. I’m going to send you something, sign it and fax it back. For the time being I’ll represent you. If they ask you anything send them to me.”

I pumped my fist, fuck it…he couldn’t see it “Right away, sir. Thank you!”

I hung up the phone and nearly cried. My first agent!! My egotistical brain was wondering why this was so easy. The next day, I crammed my latest draft of the script into a folder, and drove to his place. The letter I had to sign was an agreement that he would represent me in pro tempore and that was also to protect me, that he was legally allowed to read it. Well, I scribbled my Herbie Hancock on it and was attached to the packet.

Arriving at his place, it turned out to be a house. He was working from his home. No big deal. I’ve got a pitbull now. I left the package on his doorstep and skipped away.

A few days past and I hadn’t heard anything. Then a week past. Still nothing.

One day I get a phone call in the morning. It was my roommate from grad school, he was still in school and calling my cell.

“Hey, turn on the t.v.”

“What? Why?”

“Turn it on.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious.”

I flipped it on. That’s when I saw it…a plane whizzed through the air and bisected a tall building. What the fuck? I thought, an action movie. I was woken up for an action movie. My brain didn’t comprehend it.

“No it’s real.”

“What?!”

“It’s real.”

“Who? Why? What?!” Half asleep, I just couldn’t figure it out. A passenger plane, which I assume was an accident slammed into a building. Again. And again. From different angles. It was 9/11 in New York City.

I clicked off the phone. And attempted to dial my long distance girlfriend at the time. I’d saw that United Airlines had one go down. She was a United Express flight attendant out of Dulles. I had to know.

One of the most chilling things you can hear is when your cell phone is prohibited to call out. It was all emergency lines cut off. It’s stupid when I think of it now as there was no way I was getting through to Washington D.C.

The months that past were still focused on the tragedy and gruesome crime of that day. But things eventually sunk back to normal. Or our “new normal.” Then it occurred to me that Issac, my agent for a week, never called me, never contacted me, nothing, just…nothing. I chalked it up to the events of that day. Or that he just passed on the script. After reading it years later, it was complete garbage and understand not returning any calls.

I maybe called once and left a message. But since that day, I just lost the persistence to be pushy. I stopped to think what “Scorch The Earth” was about. The movie is about terrorists who hijack a plane (and AC-130 to be exact) and plan to smash it into the Pentagon. They get sidetracked in the desert because an AC-130 can’t make cross country without a refuel and release a toxic chemical that turns them into mutated aliens.

I learned a lot calling the United States military and asking them specifically what it would take to make a cross country trip with a cargo plane and crash it. I recall the media advisor laughing as I told him my script. The silliness of it all. I mean considering they become mutated monsters that destroy a small town on its way to Washington. That much wasn’t accurate. But it was funny when I saw that they had assembled Hollywood movie people as a think-tank to what the possibilities were based on fictional storylines. I wonder about that military media advisor who answered all my questions with such enthusiasm. He must’ve remembered our conversation. I wonder where Issac was, or who he actually represented. Could’ve been total bullshitter like me. Most of all, I wonder if my script is still dead in the water, because it’s just too stupid to be made now, since it actually happened in reality. Go figure.

The 11th Hour- Story of The Making Of "The Targets" pt. 4

My gut hurt a lot in those days. I'd still been smoking cigarettes, and always nervous. Strangely enough, I never even drank coffee.

I knew something was up when Lizette had taken a few days off. "Exhaustion" was all Mark could say. "Hope it wasn't anything I'd said or done" I returned. Mark shook his head, "it's a lot to deal with."Mark seemed unusually calm for a shoot that was happening in a week. I figure if you're paid to get blown up or thrown out of helicopters, I'm sure starting a movie wouldn't keep you up at night. But I didn't know a few things.

For one, Mark had people he was dealing with to secure the money. So far a deposit had been made but we needed the full amount in order to secure the completion bond. The money were from some...questionable people. To this day I'm not sure who Mark was tapping into. But I doubt it wasn't anything that he'd get in over his head. People in this business really like Mark because he is an honest person, and genuinely nice. Two traits that Hollywood has very little of. At worst, I think he was leveraging a few of his homes.

I sensed something was up when the week before we'd gone location scouting downtown. There were these stand alone sets that required the tiniest bit of art/set work. I mentioned to the VERY inexperienced production designer that we needed to "tech down" the walls to be able to photograph. To which Mark insisted we shot "as-is." I argued that it wasn't even picture ready, meaning...it's not, at its most basic, ready to be filmed. He ignored me and we moved on to the lot tour. You see, anything I suggested costs money. And Mark wouldn't say we couldn't afford something. Only offering solutions "Ah, just throw a plant in front of it." That type of shit. I didn't know then, I do now...when compromises are made that come from the director, it's usually because there is no money for it. Duh.

The days blew by until the night before the shoot. My friend and gaffer from film school and I were going over game plans. We were psyching ourselves up. No mistakes. No stress. No prisoners. Yeah, strike that last one. We wanted so bad for this to go. I got the call that night around 10PM.

"Hey, it's over. Money's not in place, we have to postpone. Shutting down the office." Mark's voice was steady but disappointed. I would say he'd sunk in $50k in just pre-production costs and securing actors and vendors, office. I can't remember what I mumbled, but I'd hung up the phone and told my friend that it was over. If I were to say now what it was, it was a charade. We were phonies acting as if we were with the big dogs. It felt great that industry was taking us seriously. I mean, enough for people to put us on the map of ongoing production. This was literally the 11th hour when the plug was pulled and we'd not ONE prospect since all our time was invested in this one project. We were bankrupt in money and in possibilities. Yet, at that age...this was a set back, never aware it would end our careers. The hardest part was to go back to the vendors and tell them we got the plug pulled. Many were more sorry for me than for themselves. Others added that you haven't worked in this town until you have that happen. None of it made me feel better about it.

This was a fluke production that occurred and as fast as it showed up, it disappeared. It's not an abnormal thing, I've come to find out. A TON of movies get pulled. Nothing is in the can until it's in the can. And people who promise you money, isn't a done deal until those numbers show in your production account. This isn't just for small movies like this one, "Troubled" productions usually come from people with really cold feet. Or the most ridiculous reason to quit. There actually is no reason. I just knew we sat in some Sherman Oaks apartment wondering what'd just happened. No one wanted to talk about it. And it's hard to talk about it now, since it can only be a jinx, if you believe in that type of thing. We've all moved on to other things. We've crossed paths and done work together in other capacities. But this one lingering pink elephant hangs in the room when there is a get together. "The Targets" never got made. No crane shot over the side of a building. No fast cars, pretty women. No nothing. Just another script in a pile somewhere.

A week ago, I got a text from Mark, in Atlanta "Hey, I got a script you've got to read..."
Why not?

The 11th Hour- Story of The Making Of "The Targets" pt. 3

When it came time to negotiate my day rate, I had no clue as to what to ask for. I didn’t have an agent or management, so that didn’t help. I eventually went into the office to sign the deal memo. To which Lizette told me “you and Mark have your own deal. He wanted to speak to you directly about it.” It occurred to me that we didn’t even speak about money.

It was like being called to the principal’s office. I sat there wondering what a sensible rate was. I started calculating backwards. “If a grip makes $75 on a low-no budget movie, then a cinematographer should get five times that?” That sounded about right.

I met Mark in his office one afternoon. He leaned back in his chair, clearly not one to waste formalities asked “How much you thinking?” It occurred to me, HE didn’t know what a cinematographer day rate was either. To not sound stupid, I threw out the easiest number I can think of (in order to calculate with days). I blurted out “$1000 a day.” I thought he was going to laugh me out of the office. He took a moment. Scribbled something on a piece of paper and simply said “okay.” That was the end of the meeting. We were shooting for 30 days, so that would be $30,000, see how easy it was. No wonder people have managers to negotiate this very uncomfortable talk. I learned later that Mark made triple that per day in stunt work or as a coordinator. But we were talking about a studio movie. NOT low budget. There was just no bar set. Or he just didn’t know how to do it any other way.

One thing I can say about the production side of movies, as far as vendors go, they really like helping out up and coming talent. Why not? If you make it, they make it and what they lose besides time. Their investment in you is that if you found them, more than likely they will be considered for future projects. I developed very close connections to the film lab and camera rental house. These connections and “loyalties” are essential in support in progressing. I know one cinematographer who has been shooting for over 30 years using the same rental house. The longer you’re with them, the more they cater to you. This extends to the crew you use too.

My gaffer and I would continue to show up to the Burbank office checking in regularly to see the progress. Lizette looked so whacked. She ended up bringing in another assistant to take over some of the Screen Actor’s Guild paperwork. Everything submitted to anywhere in L.A. at that point tended to costs an average of $300. Every time you filed anything, best have $300 on hand. You wanna hear a nightmare?…insurance for a project like this probably costs a quarter of the total budget. Every stunt you added, piece of equipment, location, personnel, practical effects, etc…insurance companies bump you into another bracket. If you don’t have a track record with a specific insurance agent, then your deductible will be enormous.

Boring shit aside, I dug up a storyboard artist in hopes of showing the director Herman what we intended to do. The guy was just starting out, so he got paid per page. He made some great stuff, but it just took too long to map out. We were shooting in about a month. We eventually dropped him, unfortunately, since Herman had no clue as to how to establish the “look” of the movie. A month turned to a few weeks. That’s when I started to feel ill…

The 11th Hour- Story of The Making Of "The Targets" pt. 2

...I bit my tongue. I couldn’t believe this guy was the director of the movie we’d been discussing for at least a month. Mark brightly clapped (made up name) Herman on the back and said “he’s the man.”

I kept thinking “there is no way the crew is going to have any confidence in this project if Herman is sitting behind monitor.” That is to say, he makes it out alive. Film shoots are a boxing match, and stressful.

Not that I claim to know shit, but it was apocryphal. Herman was a disaster. And Mark didn’t see it. I recall asking Mark “has he…um..directed anything?” Mark replied “no, he’s a acting coach, between his coaching and you and I dealing with the visuals we’ll be good.” Oh Christ. In other words, we have the youngest most inexperienced cinematographer working with the oldest inexperienced director. Did Mark believe it would offset in the middle somewhere? I didn’t think that then, I went along with it, eager to work on any movie. We’d caught Herman at the tail end of a play he’d been rehearsing at his theater. He seemed disinterested in us. Like the scene in “Major League” where James Gammon gets a call from the Cleveland Indians. He was more interested in the shipment of whitewalls coming in for the tire shop he now ran.

On one occasion I was doing makeup and wardrobe testing at Panavision in Woodland Hills, CA. Herman didn’t show up. As he got lost or more than likely too tired to show up. It isn’t a director’s duty to show for these things, but I’ve never seen one that didn’t want to take part. He’d review later, I suppose.

I didn’t press the issue of Herman directing anymore. I figure Mark may have some allegiance to him, in the same odd loyalty he had towards me (unearned trust, by the way). My gaffer frequently joked of his concussions being the cause of these bizarre moments. Again, as long as we weren’t too far off the script, we’d be okay. And quite frankly, the script wasn’t bad. It was a typical action movie, mostly culled from 90’s style action. Girl gets kidnapped who happens to be the daughter of a high profile dignitary. A specialist is enlisted to find her, they fall for each other blada-blada-blada.

I look back now at the insanity we were attempting. I actually suggested we take a crane on top of a downtown L.A. building and have the stunt be where we repel with the actor down the side of a building. To this, Lizette, our trusty production manager just stared at me with wide-eyes like I was nuts. “Yeah, what’s the problem?” I said, with a sniff.  The “problem” is the logistics of such a menial part of the script would be millions of dollars alone. Safety concerns, locking off streets, construction of platforms, insurance, permits, police, fire, etc…that is if the film commission didn’t laugh at us and give us the thumbs up. Studio movies=no problem. Us=big problem. My ignorance for trading spectacle for common sense knew no bounds. My biggest concern was making it look like a billion dollar movie for what amounted (even at that time) a single star’s salary. Mark, to his credit, supported all my nonsense. Good or bad, he didn’t mind I suggested these ridiculous things “we could always scale back.”

After we did the makeup/wardrobe test, I also decided to do a shutter test. Ever since “Saving Private Ryan” there was a revitalized technique of  adjusting shutter for action. This gave the impression of a “strobed” look. The sequence made things look more violent and the image much more sharp. It was unique, and at this time, underused. I’d done it once for short film. It required much more lights though, because as you close down a shutter angle you need more light to get exposure on film. The more you close the gap, the more light you need. We’d tested this in Panavision in Hollywood, where our cameras would be rented out of.

After all the tests were shot, we’d sent it through Deluxe Laboratory (which unfortunately closed shop a year ago after 100 years of service…blame the union). They made prints from the negative and we’d scheduled a screening. We saw the wardrobe, hair and makeup and lighting test for complexion. Jaymee was the actress she was beautiful. Just glowed. This is her today:

During the tests, I recall her pronunciation of the name “Mark,” came out as “Mok.” I leaned into Mark and asked “...that doesn’t bother you?” He was fine with it. I shrugged. That’s life.

Herman, our director, showed up to the screening room at Deluxe. They threaded the film and we watched the footage. One roll at a time. Roughly 15 reels. This was going to take all day. We did a push, pull, under and over exposure, different films stocks. I saw what the film would do with the print stock we’d be using. Meanwhile, Herman was just…well, if he’d been awake (yes, he fell asleep), he would’ve been overwhelmed. When he was awake, he had no clue what he was looking at. I explained that he should be looking for what combination he liked the most. He, of course, couldn’t make a decision. Mark stepped in and made the executive decisions. I silently watched the images pass by…taking notes…this was a lot to deal with…I looked down at my pencil and realized I'd been going over the same line over and over again...I'd taken to sketching out the platform and crane for which we were going to repel down the side of a building...

The 11th Hour- Story of The Making Of "The Targets" pt. 1

"The Targets" was a feature film my friend Mark had written. Forgive me if I've mentioned this story before.

I was still in school when I was recruited to be the cinematographer for this movie. It had a budget of about $3 million. I had no prospects and was interning at some music video place at the time. I'd finished film school and just lingering when I got a meeting with Mark. I'd met him before on a different set, while I was setting a light. Mark is a movie stuntman. He's done a lot. He brought me on early, since he knew very little about equipment needed to make a movie. In those days, you'd have to put together lists for camera equipment, usually a first assistant camera would do this on your request. But I knew no one, except for film school friends. And they were desperately trying to get their own jobs. This would've been a freebie.

Mark rented an office in Burbank, CA. It was a tiny space upstairs from a bunch of other offices. I often wondered if these people were doing the same thing. Having nowhere else to go, I'd spend hours at that office. Just to feel like I was doing something. Lizette, the production manager was always...she just seemed overwhelmed by everything. Her hair actually turned gray towards the end of it. Well, I recruited my friend to be my gaffer. He was from school and I knew if I at least had one person I knew, it'd be easier. He happened to live on my way to the office, so I'd pick him up in the morning before going to hang with this production at the office. In a strange way, we thought our presence could will the production forward. We'd make lists after lists. Spent days and hours and eventually weeks breaking down the script. Mark, having come from the stuntman world, would never admit he didn't know the process, was a little overwhelmed we spent so much time dissecting the script into a shootable stage.

On the wall were headshots of actors he'd want in the movie. I didn't have an opinion on any of them. Except one. The lead actress and love interest was a mixed race girl, half Mark's age. She was Australian and had a part in "Pearl Harbor." She was definitely beautiful, but...also very inexperienced. I didn't say anything. I didn't have experience. It is what it is.

One day we took a field trip, Mark, me, and Lizette to a studio in West Hollywood. It was a tiny theater in the parking lot shared with a bookstore. We went inside and Mark told me he wanted to introduce me to the director. "Cool" I thought. Even though I thought Mark was going to direct it. He informed me this guy was an acting coach for "Baywatch" or the "Playboy Channel movies." Didn't even realize they made movies. Didn't even realize they needed acting.

When I walked into the theater, it was dark. But I sat down until...a guy about the age of Methuselah walked out. It took effort for him to shake my hand. I panicked. This guy was going to helm an action movie...

Wiffle Ball With Chris

Chris was this weird kid I'd met through a different neighborhood kid. He lived with his mom, his step-father and his sister, Colleen.

It was the first time I'd ever met anyone who went to Catholic school. Shit, his last name was "Pope" I guess now, it was stupid to think otherwise. But Chris loved baseball. He also had THE most massive baseball card collection known to man. In fact he had a bunch of vintage Cincinnati Reds crap. Collectible Hudepohl beer cans, vintage caps, jerseys, he had a bunch of stuff like that. His room smelled like an attic.

I'm not sure what happened to his birth father, but it seemed to be a hushed subject in their household. I recall Colleen being a wild child. She was beautiful. She seemed to know it. One day, around when she was 17, she'd disappeared from their home. I'd always go over to their house for Kool-Aid, as my mom HATED anything with sugar or color. She'd known about artificial coloring before a lot of suburbia. And Colleen was just...gone. I'd ask Chris where his pretty sister went. She was nice to me. Kinda' like that sister in "The Wonder Years" Karen played by Olivia d'Abo. She'd tussle my hair and punch Chris in the arm on her way out on a date. That's what girls should look like, is what I thought. Chris told me she'd just left. I asked where. He didn't know. Which is all the information he was given.

Every Saturday morning around 5AM, Chris would go door to door knocking on kid's door to come out and play wiffle ball. The knock in the morning drove my mom insane! "Tell that idiot to stop pounding on our door." He was that guy who not only knocked he'd also ring the doorbell. And wouldn't stop till you showed up at the door.

Bleary eyed I take a look at him, and he'd just brightly chime "let's go."
"Let's go" meant walking 30 yards to the circular turnaround at the cul-de-sac we lived on. It was a
perfect baseball diamond shape, and home plate ran right to the edge of my front yard.

"Jeez, Chris, give it a rest on the bell, dude." It never stopped him. He loved irritating people. Forget that he was also waking up parents, grandparents, and whoever else lived in those houses back then. I knew he was just being a jerk when he got to Eric's house one day. Eric...man...I feel bad to this day. Eric's dad died of cancer when he was really young. His mom became a widow in her 30's. He was a dentist. A weird guy who had a super weird rubbery face. He used it to great effect during Halloween. He thought it was a gas to peel back his eyelids and greet trick o' treaters with his rubbery face and inverted eyelids. He'd give out the biggest candy bars. Damn shame. Anyway, Chris would get to Eric's house, mind you this was about a month after his pop had died, and he go to a window and start cawing like a bird "caw-caw, caw-caw." Then he'd tap the end of the wiffle ball bat on the window. I thought he was gong to break it. That's when Eric's mom came out and saw the both of us waiting for Eric to come out for the game. She was pissed. I don't think I've yet seen any mother this irritated at anyone. "C'mon, Eric!!" Chris would yell. "Chris!...do you mind? Really?!" Eric's mom would say. For some reason Chris would just laugh "oh sorry, just wanted to get the game started." "You do this every Saturday morning. Sorry really doesn't cut it anymore." "Yes, ma'am" he'd chuckle to himself. She just rolled her eyes and went back into the house. Eric pull on his t-shirt and met us in his driveway. There is no boundaries with him.

Back at the "field" I grabbed my duct taped bat and went outside. There'd already been a bunch of other bleary eyed kids waiting to pick teams.We used a tennis ball, since it got more distance. And we pitched underhand, since it was about busting the ball and putting it into play, rather than strikeouts. I'd crack one over a house in center field, and it'd land in the veterinary field where horses were grazing. That was a home run. My sister came out to play as well. She took the game seriously. And she had a pretty good batting average. Though, we always had to play on separate teams, 'cause that'd be weird. Man, we were out there from sun up to sun down. We'd drink water through our garden hose. Being inside sucked!

Over the years we did this, kids came and went. We saw some new faces, and some that stayed forever. Chris stayed for a while. Until eventually he grew up and left the neighborhood. I'd already gone off to college. My Mom asks about him every once in a while "You ever talk to Chris anymore?"
"No, ma. I haven't talked to him in...since I started high school."
"Ah." I'm not sure what her point was. Only that maybe we keep in touch with hometown kids. Or that she remembered his birthday was one day after mine. I learned later on that Chris didn't spend much time at home because his pop was hitting him. His mom did what she could. She was a sweet lady, but...step-dads, back in the 80's really stood their ground. Chris never wanted to be this dude's friend. So he spent as much time as he could outside. And we had to join him or he'd annoy us to death.

I went back home a few years ago and saw some children playing in the street, as we did. I looked through the group and wondered if there was a Chris in that bunch.

Iconoclast

When "Back To The Future" came out in 1985 it was 30 years from 1955 (yep, Asians good at math). "Rebel Without a Cause" came out in 1955. The whole time watching the movie, I often wondered who was alive to have walked the Earth at the same time James Dean did. That was pretty bad ass. It's also very stupid. Like if someone here in L.A. knew I was from Cincinnati, they'd ask if I knew so-and-so. Yeah, Cincinnati only has five people (incidentally, this did happen once, and I did happen to know the people).

I don't think people think like this anymore. We're in 2015 now, and going back 30 years...to 1985...we've got no one iconoclastic. I believe it's because they're so accessible. The biggest star then, if we were to consider "legends" was maybe...I dunno...Tom Cruise. But even then, it was at the beginning of his career, and he still walks the Earth. Could be because that era sucked though.

I think it may be because the people today don't marvel at celebrity the same way, since it's oversaturated with people who didn't do shit and are famous. It dilutes the ones that really made an effort to gain notoriety. The tabloids were always the same. Especially in the 50's. There 'aint no kid out there that looks at me and says "Wow!...you were alive when Rob Lowe was walking the Earth." I often did say that about James Dean to people from his generation. Or Marilyn Monroe or pretty much any actor that died before I got interested in movies. I also think there were a certain touch of class that came with these stars. They had a very glamorous persona, and we maybe felt better when we discovered how flawed they were. Nowadays, we know how flawed the are and they never cease to surprise us.

I wonder if there isn't a kid out there that just looks at me and marvels that I'd walked the Earth when Paul Newman was alive.

Katie

I've known Katie for as long as I can remember. Met her in 3rd grade as a cute, blonde hair, freckled girl with bright eyes, she smiled a lot. She was incredibly popular. Smart and nice to boot. But I never knew her like a friend nor dated her. But our paths crossed at some odd moments...

I recall her friends would come up to me during recess and put their arm around me and ask me who I liked. The ring leader was a girl named Shelby who was a rich bitch snob who, if lessons were to be learned, just was interested that someone was interested in me. They didn’t say shit to me all throughout school, until I found out Katie liked me. I was a hot mess. I mean, worse than I am now, but I didn’t shower , had thrift shop clothes and I often played in the dirt. I think she felt sorry for me. I think she took in stray feral dogs.

We played a game called “pickle.” In baseball terms this was trying to steal a base and being trapped between two bases. On the middle school lot we extended it to three different bases. When you got tagged out, you had to go sit on a bench, until everyone was “out.” I got tagged out early. This was the opportunity for Shelby and her cronies to approach me and pry me for who I was interested in. Girls have always made me nervous. Shelby definitely didn’t make it easy for me to run. She had that cool girl thing going. Barely flinched when talking to boys. She seemed to take joy in ribbing me. “Who do you like?”

“I don’t like anyone”

“C’mon, you have to like someone” I couldn’t even look at her.

“No. Just playing pickle” (looking back this sounded sad). She scoffed and walked away, her goons in tow.

Katie never talked to me in middle school. Directly anyway. She’d get her friends to plant ideas in my head. Who I was going to take to Canteen, which was the middle school dance they held every Saturday. I didn’t know what they were talking about. I wasn’t interested in girls at that age. I was more interested in kung-fu theater and ninja shit. I would read the martial arts magazine until they just started to highlight Chuck Norris (sans mustache). Seemed really odd to me that a white dude was on the cover constantly. And Chuck Norris without a mustache is just not right. Same with Tom Selleck.

Which is why it seemed strange when I got a call one day from Katie. She just wanted to talk. She had dug up my phone number from a school directory. She wanted to know if I’d be at Canteen. I told her I would. Then she asked me what kind of t.v. shows I was into . I think I was watching “Robotech” at the time. And “Chip & Dale: Rescue Rangers.” I was pretty lame. She didn’t know any of that. But she sounded interested in my boring life. I was so nervous, I wasn’t sure what to say. Just talk endlessly about stupid shit. But she kept listening. It was really nice. And strange. Since she was so popular and I was not. But looking back, that took a lot of balls to call people up. I couldn’t do it. Shit one time I wrote a letter to a girl I liked, but was paranoid she’d recognize my handwriting, so I cut and pasted from letters from a magazine. Now that I think about it, I’m surprised the FBI didn’t think it was a ransom letter. Different times.

At Canteen, I never got the nerve to ask any girl to dance. Nor did I want to dance. “Dirty Dancing” was still popular with the girls. So they were itching to dance. I did see Katie there. I freaked, since I’d just got done talking to her on the phone. And was sure the stupid shit I talked about would come up again. I grabbed a soda and ducked out. My closest friend at the time Doug called me all kinds of names for that. I called my Mom and waited in the dark until she picked me up. “How was it?” she asked. “I dunno. Fine.” but in teenage speak it came out as “Imumunun” and a shrug. My mind was on Katie and what the hell did she want. I never found out.

Eventually when we did get to high school, I developed a heavy crush on her. She’d moved on to the quarterback…blonde hair William Katt look a like by the name of Andy Knight (I’m not joking). They were king and queen of everything. Shit, they could’ve started their own island of just Teutonic super race of beautiful children. Andy’s dad was the wide receivers coach, for which I played 3d string wingback. The guy was tough. Treated me like total shit, since I was undersized and constantly reminding me how much I was wasting his time. There was one scrimmage where he thought it was funny to throw me into the defensive line. I got creamed. But I didn’t quit. Our sophomore year in high school, Andy’s Dad and a friend were flying back in a private plane after playing golf in Florida somewhere. It crashed killing them both. It was really a weird feeling being screamed at by this guy one day, wishing him ill will and then something tragic happen. If I believed in hoo-doo I’d die of guilt.

When it was my 13th birthday, we held it at my parent’s restaurant. Man, was I lame. I hadn’t spoken to Katie in years. And yet…I invited her to the party. I thought it was to reconnect from those kid years where we both seem to like each other, although I didn’t understand it at the time. Her mother was the one to call to confirm. Seems she’d heard about me years ago from Katie and thought it was cute some immigrant kid was inviting her daughter to a party. To my surprise, Katie showed up. I didn’t say much to her, as I’d rented “Elvira: Mistress Of The Dark” & “No Holds Barred.” I look back on these choices with embarrassment. At this point, she’d made the best of it, put on her best attitude and enjoyed the party. I just couldn’t believe she showed up. I wanted so bad to tell her how much I liked her. Couldn’t do it. I still have photos of that party in an album, wondering what was going on in her mind.

She went on dating Andy through high school. I saw her in the hallways from time to time. I just nodded. She just smiled. Pleasantries. Classes were dull as shit. I was bored. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible. I had a girlfriend at the time (Amy) who occupied my life. Made my life Hell since she couldn’t decide if dating me was driving a big wedge between her and her parents who didn’t like me (as I figured out, people still didn’t accept the interracial thing, forget that her brother turned out to be a homosexual…very nice guy though). I chalk it up now to the fact that they saw no potential in me. And Amy was ambitious, and intelligent and didn’t need me as a boat anchor.

There was a massive graduation party in a field out in the middle of nowhere. There was a lot of alcohol and a bonfire. It was amazing. Although we graduate with only 119 students, it looked like freaking Woodstock. I was sure it wasn’t just seniors. Off in the distance I saw a familiar figure: Katie. She was alone drinking from a red Solo cup. She was looking off to the woods, seemed deep in thought. I peeled off from my friends and went towards her. Which is when I noticed her shoulders moving. Shuddering. She was crying. It stopped me. I vividly remember her standing away from everyone in the firelight. It was chilly that night. I wanted to tell her good luck in college, as I think we’re supposed to. The infatuation feelings were gone. It was just two people going out into the world. New beginnings. I inched closer. Then I completely stopped. Whatever it was that she needed to work out, didn’t involve my dumb ass making it more difficult. She didn’t need to share with me whatever it was that was bothering her. That she may be missing many people, least of all me. So, I turned and walked back towards my friends. I kept an eye on her that night. I caught glimpses of her here and there. Then that night just went blurry.

When we all graduated, I went out to Los Angeles, Andy went to Stanford in Northern Cal, and Katie stayed local at John Carroll University. A school for which had a great field hockey program (she got a scholarship). She could’ve gone anywhere, she was that smart. Andy became a doctor and at the forefront of discovering cures. He really was The Golden Boy.

Loyola Marymount University my freshman year introduced something to us all called Eudora. It was an early chat system via colleges. You could find people at colleges and send them text, and it would, like magic, show up in their window. This was EARLY chat. And was only available through universities throughout the country. Out of curiosity, I searched for Katie. If you think about how clunky the system was these days and where we are now, it’s ridiculous what 20 years ago was like. It was as basic as you could make it. I found her at John Carroll. I typed a message, and waited. The window was blinking. Then bing…a message popped up. She was “online.” I was amazed. We’d now reconnected again in the new cyberspace. Or whatever it was called then. We “chatted” about the technology. Was just floored by how easy it was. And we chatted for hours about the dumbest college shit. The food. The dorms. People she’s met. She was interested in Los Angeles. I told her all I saw was the campus so far. Eventually she had to sign off (I was using a community computer and had limited time as well). That was the last I heard from Katie.

A few years ago I signed onto Facebook and instantly added my friend from 3^rd grade, Kevin. Kev and I ran into each other a lot. Played in a band together. Played in orchestra together. He now lives up in northern California. He was really good at keeping in touch with people.

I looked through his friends page and…there she was: Katie. She is married now with three daughters who are at the age in which we first met. I know without a doubt she is a great mother. Her own mother was so sweet, it was a no-brainer. I sent her a friend request, clarifying who I was since I use a pseudonym. A few days past. Then I got notice that she’d added me. She didn’t follow up with any message. Just that she knew it was me. And here we are again, decades later, online…as close and distant as we’ve always been.

Credit Where Credit Is Due

My friend made a movie, and completely left me off the credits. I essentially scanned all 9 hours of his footage for him to make a feature. In dollar amount, you're looking at roughly $8,000 worth of services. Personally, I didn't really care. I like people who are nutty in their endeavors to work with film, so I was onboard no matter what. I mention it now, because a person who did a lot for the movie certainly felt some massive slight for the work she did on it.

Screen/movie credits are a funny thing. Back when it took a lot of effort to burn your name into film, people jockeyed for position. You have to understand, this was a time when the only way they could see your name was at the movies. What it is now is just to show your crew you appreciate them. Luckily, I don't have many people in terms of crew, so it's easier for me to remember. But I understand how some people get rabid for being forgotten. A lot of people in this town are already marginalized, just to have it be done by someone you did a favor for is a more sour apple.

I remember going to a screening for a friend's documentary. I'd done ONE day of shooting on it. I caught him after the screening and jokingly told him "Hey, my credit wasn't on the screen."
"Yah, it was. I made sure."
"Nope. I would've seen it. Remember that interview at the house? That was what that was for, huh?"
"No, I swear it's there." His girlfriend confirmed it wasn't. "No, it is."
He looked after getting home. It wasn't. He re-did it with new titles with my name added, plus re-did the DVDs (as they were already pressed). Made me sign a release too. All because I was just joking. I didn't care, since it's pretty much lost in the other 50+ credits. But people are serious about that shit. So be careful.

Incidentally, a short film I'd scan for this kid from Chicago gotten into L.A. International Short Festival. It's a biggin' up in these parts. And yes...I am in their scrolling credits. So I guess, you just never know.

Cuckoo For Cocoa Puffs

We done lost our minds with emotional support animals. I love dogs. But got-damn! if I want their asses sitting in a booth at a restaurant.

Who first thought of this garbage? That a pet can make you emotionally feel better. Great, go to a pound, a petting zoo, an old lady's house...these emotional animals who go to a Starbucks and act like nothing's wrong is so real trouble. What it is is our entitlement rearing its head again. The attitude is that "I have a dog and I want it go where I want." Now it's an official disability. Yes folks, in America people who have emotional issues are entitled to a pet walking everywhere with them. By the way, this shit was passed before gay marriage, that's the extent of our stupidity.

There are good things that come from this though. Anyone with an emotional support animal, good we know the stay clear of your nuttiness. It's like a beacon to tell us who's crazy. Better that then stare into the whites of their eyes. The ones where their eyelids don't touch their pupils...yep...nuts.

I honestly thought this was a joke at first. Like what people did to mock the service animals, that hustled for the blind. It almost feels like an F.U. to the blind actually. As if to say "you may be blind, but I'm emotionally blind." Anyway, you walk around with this, you deserve to be thrown off planes if your pup gets out of hand. Like this lady:
Lady Gets Booted With Dog

"Hitchcock" (2012)

This is a really frustrating movie, since it moves at a brisk pace attempting to get all the myths answered, but in the end walking away with more questions than answers about Alfred Hitchcock’s making of “Psycho.” What we gather from the movie is his insecurities matched with his ability to take risks. And in the end, we know the outcome. So how did this get made into a movie? It seems they tried to get clever. By having Hitchcock narrate it himself. The same as he would his shows.

Hitchcock is played by Anthony Hopkins. Because the director is so iconic, his clever wit are moments we wait for. And they seem to come at pitch perfect timing. Something that draws way too much attention to the personality of Hitch and not necessarily the man. Yes, he was witty, but the banter is very uneven. It suffers from balancing his dark sense of humor with rudeness and cruelty. We’re not sure which one it is. The movie is referenced throughout by the actual source material. The real life serial killer Ed Gein, who whispers in his ear all the terrible thoughts, an internal monologue. But it seems so silly to stagger his visions of Gein to suit his mood. Or actually convenient. As I also doubt Gein would’ve been that expressive in his own thoughts.

Along for the ride, is his wife and collaborator Alma played briskly by Hellen Mirren. She is the real star of the movie, since she is the invisible talent that we learn did more for Hitch’s career than we realize. Perhaps it was the system at the time, when women weren’t taken so seriously. Or maybe it was just better to have the myth of genius foisted on Hitch as he generously lapped up the praise. Or maybe it's just being politically correct. Again, the truth is likely somewhere in the middle.

I don’t fully understand Hitchcock as a complete person. As we discover in the making of “Psycho” he mortgaged his home to fund the production of it (a myth, never happened). Yet, the shoot was consumed by what he thought was his wife having an extra-curricular affair. Was it a possibility? More than likely. Did it belong in this movie? I’m not sure how you would make her interesting if all she did was garden.

I didn’t know all that much personal about Hitchcock going in. He was always a film school favorite, considering his mode of working was unconventional. I’m sure our movies are really influenced by him today. Especially certain are how murder mysteries are constructed. To me, maybe his overblown popularity struck me in the same sense Woody Allen movies do. When you like them, you can’t shut up about them. This movie is a light snack if you plan on watching “Psycho” afterwards. So, in all, it’s not bad. But, the tone of the whole movie gets pulled into Lifetime movie land. Which is strange, considering who we’re talking about. Or appropriate if you consider their library of murder mysteries.

Sir Ian McKellen

When I was working on my thesis project in film school, I knew I was shooting film. Not just film but 35mm film. Loyola Marymount didn't support this, since it didn't own any 35mm film gear.

For whatever reason, and perhaps this is why I covet working in film, it gave me the confidence to swing the fact that I was shooting what the big dogs were shooting. I sent out a backstage notice for an older gentleman for the role of Jerry. I've mentioned this in the past, but...there isn't really a call now for more mature actors. Women or men. I didn't know this at the time. The roles were very specific, and the Hollywood market could care less. So I thought maybe writing something that had an older actor in it would get some real talent. I got really great submissions. I actually got to talk to Seymour Cassel. He seemed miffed I didn't know he'd been nominated for a Best Supporting Academy Award in 1968. This was the time before IMDB was really in full bloom. But I guess I should've at least remembered him as the father in "Rushmore." Odd coincidence, but I also got a submission from Mason Gamble for the kid part in my short, another "Rushmore" cast member. And I got a submission from Conrad Bains, the father from "Dif'rent Strokes." Being truly a film student snob, I didn't even consider Mr. Bains. I think it had to do with being tempted with asking too many questions about the show. But probably more that I'd be overwhelmed by his celebrity. I'd felt obligated to cater to him, and on a student film budget, it wasn't going to roll. Stupid when I think about it now. BUT, I also believe his presence wasn't right for the role. Taking-in-orphan stories shouldn't follow him around.

Well, early in the writing stage, for some reason I'd seen Ian McKellen in a movie called "Apt Pupil." It's a dark Stephen King story about nazi living next door to a young man. I thought he was great. He had the look of a silent film actor (which is what the role called for). I wrote "Jerry and The Kid" with him in mind. Just his steely look that could intimidate. Though the character in my movie was suppose to be like a cactus. Really soft deep down inside. I'm not sure what prompted me, but I dug up a Hollywood 411 (which is a book back in the day that showed you who the actor's agents/publicist/managemet were). And I printed out a script on my shitty dot matrix printer, and enclosed a handwritten letter (which I wish I remembered what it said. Most likely I was begging my ass off). And I scribbled in my AOL email (remember those?!). And signed it. I mailed it. And freaked out, knowing I'd sent it "out there."

A month later I got this:

My first reaction...I won't lie "Fuck! So close." The second reaction was...holy shit, the guy actually personally turned me down. Without any money on the table, without any credits, without even knowing who I was but a student with a script, he took the time to write me to tell me that he couldn't be in my movie. I spent the first years with this email convinced his publicist or management wrote this form letter. BUT, when I read it again it really is him as the writing is informal. He'd read the handwritten letter I'd sent, and I was amazed that it reached him in some way. I'm not sure you can get away with this now, since the world is what it is now.

I eventually made the movie, and it's still screened at Loyola Marymount for incoming students wanting to get in their program. It's flattering in that sense. But I wonder...what if Ian McKellen...

Naps R Good

I think if you want to live a long life you really need to take naps. My parents are huge endorsers of naps. It recharges your brain from the morning or night. I think more important if you have a night schedule. I use to have something of a night schedule. Started at 4 P.M. and didn’t get out until 1A.M. I find it odd now that I was able to sustain that. It did buffer the shift a lot easier knowing I had a bottle of scotch waiting for me when I did get home. Drinking did make the day go by faster.

My folks would always shut down the restaurant after the lunch break. Somewhere around 3:30 P.M. Kinda’ sucked for people who wanted their food at a certain time. They could always hit the fast food Chinese restaurant place next door, if they were desperate for it. Yes, my folks opened up a restaurant next to another Chinese restaurant. In today’s business this would be death. Back in the 80’s, no one cared. There weren’t that many Chinese places anyway.

When they shut down, they were closed. Phone off the hook, and just silence, up until dinner time. I wager they saved themselves a TON of stress issues not having to drive back and forth from the restaurant (although we only lived a mile and a half from work). It was really convenient. I didn’t realize how efficient this set up was until I had to commute in L.A. traffic from the San Fernando Valley to Santa Monica (23 miles). The wear and tear on your car too. At the previous schedule I had, I usually went to the beach and read a book or took a nap before going into work. So in that sense, it worked out really well. Wake up, went to the gym and just hung out at Will Rogers beach until I had to get to work. I didn’t know it then, but this was pretty much how my folks functioned throughout their life. Just easy with the siestas. I think most Americans lead a stressful on-call life. We seem to be so paranoid that a phone will ring and we won’t be there to answer it. Or that we are required to check in with the office. I mean, the more successful you get, the more indispensible you become. And you are constantly fighting your time. As I’ve said in the past, time is a commodity that we fully own. It would suck to realize other people have control of it.