Hey Asshole

     I am loathe to write this edition of my blog because it hits a little too close to home but as I have decided to let cowardice fade from my character like my ex-wife's last insult, let's get started.

     To be clear, I am an asshole.  You are an asshole.  Everyone I know and everyone you know is an asshole.  These are the facts.  These things are indisputable.  Not to your mother, not to your best friend, not to that cute little waitress that you keep over-tipping even though her service sucks, but to someone out there, you are indeed an asshole.

     I discovered and learned to embrace my own ass-holiness recently when it was pointed out to me by someone in my employ that I was indeed an asshole.  He didn't say the words.  He didn't yell at me or even curse me behind my back.  He simply agreed to do a job, the way I had asked him to do it and then, - wait for it-  wait- of course, then he DIDN'T do it.

     For a moment, I was mystified, shocked, maybe even a little blown away.  Had I not kissed the ass of this asshole hard or long enough?  Did my cash bounce?  I mean, I had just handed it to him.  Did my twenties and fifties suddenly lose their value once they slipped from my hand into his pocket?  Somehow in less than a minute I had transformed like an X-Man with worthless powers from a pretty decent guy into just another prick who was holding this man DOWN.

     I had become, THE MAN.  Not THE MAN in a good way, but THE MAN in the way that somehow diminishes another person's worth just by the association.  Again, he didn't say it.  He just looked at me with a certain disgust and lack of respect that was born solely and certainly from my desire to honor him and my work by bringing them together in what would surely be a marriage of talent and performance, of art and artist.  Instead I was simply creating an unholy alliance of spite and disappointment which could only produce a child of no discern-able kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus or species.

    F*%k!  I hate when that happens.  Not again!!!!!  Back to the lab boys, back to the lab....

     She is looking up at me with the eyes of a wounded baby seal and I am nothing but a starving Eskimo holding a battered piece of wood from which protrudes a long, jagged, rusted and deadly nail.  A nail which is covered in dried blood, broken flesh and shattered dreams.  Only thing is, I am no Eskimo.  In fact, I can't stand the cold.  When I go to MacDonald's for coffee, I have to microwave it for an extra three minutes on high heat, even on a hot day.

     She disarms me with a smile.  She whispers a tiny secret and I am defenseless.  She winks without the corners of her mouth turning up and I think that God has created a new universe with stars placed perfectly on the backdrop of the black tar sky.  To her, I am no asshole.  I am the purveyor of her wishes and the sandman for her dreams.

     I go back to work and my private usher to my new throne as King of the Assholes is there waiting.  Waiting to not do his job, waiting to not do what we agreed to, waiting to do again what I did not want but never to do what I wanted him to do.  Suddenly, I find that I have no anger for him.  I pay him no attention, I give him no purchase on this mountain, no hold on which to charge this hill.  Suddenly, I find myself back in my Eskimo dream.  The cool winds that blow now only serve to remind me that maybe I should enter every room from this day forward by bending over and walking into it backwards.  Perhaps this way I will be recognized by the other Assholes as their true King and they will move away quickly giving me a wide berth and straight path to my place in the sun.

     Perhaps this way, they will not hinder me from my true purpose, they will not delay me on my trek to her smile and my steaming cup of coffee.  Bent over and walking backwards with my face in my shins I doubt if they hear my screams to get out of the way but they do.  I have been recognized, I am bonafide.  They scurry away like fleas from a freshly dipped dog,  They have to move for I have wishes to grant and dreams to make come true!

     As usual, thank you for reading.  The images included in this blog remain the property of their owners.  Until next we meet, keep it clean kids.  No fish hooks, no biting and no eye gouging.  Oh wait, biting is alright.
D

We Die A Little Every Day

     I'm watching the breathing, shallow, harsh, faint and delicate.  Just sitting there, watching the breathing.  In, stop, out, stop, in, stop, out, stop.  Stop, stop, stop, cough, cough, in, stop, out for hours.  Fascinating.

      I put myself in the same position and watched my own breathing.  Slowed it down, sped it up, played with it like Sifu Ibrao used to say, 'come on, play with the motion.'  I was in Hong Kong the first time I saw someone play with the motion.  Right down the street from the Shangri La Hotel on a Sunday afternoon, walking with the maids who fill the streets on their day off.

Yes, this is Sifu Ibrao

     I guess I felt it first, before I saw it, white silks, thin shoes, short hair.  There he was, standing by the water, playing with the motion.  Everyone thinks of Tai Chi as some passive art.  That's bullshit.  Out of that peace came a lot of chaos.  A lot of asses got kicked from the roots of Tai Chi.  Anyway, this guy is breathing and going through the movements of Southern Style Tai Chi, long form, no stopping, no peace, no rest, no doubts.  What was amazing was not the number of people who were watching, but the number of people who weren't watching.

      I stood back and admired his precise movements and careful anger as he practiced.  He moved everything around him.  I could feel the wind moving around him -wind caused by his movements- and I watched his breathing.  I watched and noticed that the same way years later that my old friend died; that this young master was dying too.  He was on his way out and I could see it.  Owed the wrong somebody money, had a disease, was depressed over some girl who didn't think Tai Chi was as cool as he did.  Who knows?  Who cares?  Didn't matter, he was on his way out.

      Last week, a young actor was in my office working on a project and I watched the actor die a little. Screwed up the lines, got lost in the words, held the breath a little too long and then forgot to take another one.  I could have jumped in and helped but like I said, we're all dying a little every day.  Nobody in a Bay Watch outfit coming to save me.  I'm on my own -and  I'm no lifeguard- so, so was the actor.  Besides I wasn't really interested, more pressing issues at hand.  Not worth it, not for this.  Too trite, too pedestrian, too stupid.

Neither of these actors are the actor from my story

      So, back to the old guy.  He squirmed every once in a while.  He was remembering his life just as it was leaving him.  Bittersweet; like a fat girl with a pretty face.  What do you do?  Nothing you can do.  Carry on soldier, didn't you see her smile?  You live and he was living - as much as he could.  Funny to watch someone pass without realizing and wondering about who is watching you tick down your own private clock.

     It's dark in the room, just a sliver of light from a window with a crack in the curtains.  Reminded me of the thin lights on the floor of a theater which reminded me of the actors who choke on their lines and the actresses who can't remember their marks and the producers who throw money into bloated productions that will never make their money back.  If you listen close enough, you can hear their breathing too, in, stop, out, stop, in, out, in, out, stop....

     I've been paying a lot more attention to everything lately.  Everything.  A lot of stuff is slipping through the cracks, fading away, finding its way into my own little obscurity trap.  It's a personal place full of things, people, memories and efforts that weren't worth a damn.  What's left though is pretty exciting.  There's the new movie, the new documentary, the new book another show and the people associated with them.  Now, those things are worth fighting for.  Worth breathing deep for and worth playing with the motion to make sure they succeed.

     Today I got a coffee for Joe Pesci, actually it was a decaf caramel macchiato - decaf - easy caramel.   I could have sent someone else but I wanted to do it.  Not because it was for Pesci but because it was raining and and I wanted to get wet like I used to when I walked home from school with no umbrella.  Each drop of rain that hit me was more important than most of the crap that I used to think was important just a few years, months, weeks and even days ago.  I'm watching my own breathing now, listening to it and paying attention as well.  Maybe no one else is watching but I am and I'm realizing that we all die a little every day.

    As usual, all photos in this blog are the property of their owners.  To me, an actor can be male or female.

     Joe Pesci is a pretty cool guy, cooler than he seems in the movies.

     Oscar De La Hoya is a gentleman who helped a kid out whom he'll never meet.

     Dwight Hicks was the best free safety in the history of the NFL and very talented creation made by hand by God himself.  Dwight is on the left. The old man and the young master are both dead.

It's Christmas time.
Yeah baby!  D.

What Gives You The Right To Quit?

      Here we go again.  The same old bullshit rises once again.  AOF Festival 2012 just ended and I'm back on the trail of the great American Film.  Not someone else's but my own.  It used to be that everyone wanted to pen the Great American Novel.  Not me, I want to sit in that dark theater surrounded by strangers in a very familiar land and share an experience that is real, powerful, moving and surprising at every turn.  In short, my Great American Movie.
      From November to August I have the pleasure of watching everyone else's films, shorts, docs, animations, music videos etc., but from August through November, the tables turn and I'm the one pitching and wheeling and dealing to get something done.  That's not saying that I don't complete projects throughout the rest of the season, I'm just saying that those projects are usually work for hire or someone else's piece that I happen to be working on.

The Krikorian Theaters Home of the AOF 2012

      This season was amazing.  (A word I truly hate because every 'actor' uses it when they can't think of another way to say, 'incredible.')  And when I say amazing, I mean it because to watch the dynamics of so many talented people brought together for ten days to showcase their work, their dreams, their goals and even a few failures; really is a powerful and humbling experience.
     This year was a bit different though.  With over twenty thousand people visiting our festival during 2012 and sold out dinners and parties, it is easy to get lost in the shuffle.  Juggling sponsors, advertisers, vendors, filmmakers, writers, staff and even a few stars can be a challenge but with a great crew and support team, it isn't as hard as it used to be.  In fact, I found myself with a lot more free time this season than ever before.  So much in fact that I had time to just hang out with some really great people who all had a project to pitch.  Except for one freakin' guy.  This son of a bitch, really, I mean really pissed me off and that is so hard to do that I can't remember the last time it happened.

Stan Harrington - A Filmmaker who is definitely committed to his work

     We met up in the Filmmaker's Pavilion and instantly I knew I was in trouble.  He had a look on his face like he just lost his mother, his father, his dog, the keys to his Prius and the hard drive that held the only backup copy of his 'bullshit' masterpiece.  (His words, not mine.)  Now, the problem is, I'll listen to anyone, it's my job, part of my purpose and a great way to learn.  But this guy really just got to me.  It seems that he wasn't happy with the audience response to his efforts.  He wasn't happy that everyone didn't get it.  He was disappointed that the DP didn't follow his directions and the editor didn't agree with his decisions.  In a nutshell he thought that maybe he should pack it in and quit.
      I asked him if he thought that the experience had any value at all?  His answer was, and I'm paraphrasing here because I'm still a little foggy on all of the details this guy was throwing at me, but in short he felt the experience held no value - save for that to show him that it was probably time to quit 'trying' to be a filmmaker.

AOF 2012 Filmmaker Pavilion

      Immediately I began to go through the list of people who got rejection letters from us this year because we couldn't show their films.  Films which were just as hard to make, just as tough to produce and required just as much funding and love as the one that proved to be an albatross and not a badge of honor to Mr. Sunshine.
      After about thirty minutes of this bullshit, -not the bullshit I refer to in the first paragraph; that bullshit is comprised of meetings that will go nowhere, people who don't want to work with you but say they do, actresses who want to know who you're working with because obviously you don't qualify as talented enough as far as they are concerned, investors who have less money in their bank accounts than you do in the tiny pocket above the real pocket of your 501's and various other crap that goes along with getting something done- I've had enough of him so I say, and not in a shy way.  'What gives you the right to quit?'  He didn't answer right away which was cool because I needed time to calm down a bit.  Finally he asked, What do you mean?   I asked him again.  He said that he didn't understand the question.  

Committed Squared

    I told him that I assumed that it wasn't his money that I was looking up at when I saw his film on the screen and he told me that it wasn't.  I said that I'd bet real dollar bills that everyone besides the DP and Editor had worked as hard as they could?  Again, he said I was right and wanted to know, what exactly was my point?  I told him that my point was that he didn't have the right to quit.  He had used other people's money, he had taken a spot from another filmmaker who would have loved the chance to see their work on the big screen, he had used the labor of people who believed in him and worst of all he hadn't committed himself to his project and his work.  And if he wasn't really committed to the project and to his craft that maybe that was a reason to quit but the project itself, the people around it and the audience that watched it were no where near reasons enough to quit.  He didn't have the right to quit or to lay blame unless he was blaming himself, which he wasn't but he should have because it was his story, his project and he hired that DP and he hired that Editor.  The only place for blame was squarely on his shoulders, rounded as they were.

Shaun P. and the Crew and Cast from The Lackey - Another Super Committed Filmmaker

      Now, I find myself in October with only two months to go and it's time for me to make my movie.  Time to put my commitment on the line and I have to tell you.  I'm glad I had that talk with a guy who wasn't committed, who wasn't sure, who didn't know and frankly had no real concern for the time and efforts of the people who had believed in him and his work even when he didn't.
     A year ago, I started this blog writing about a project that had failed.  Today, I'm writing about the same project as it prepares to sail again.  Still committed, still believing and still sure that I don't have the right to quit we'll move forward.

Giovanni Zelko and Harry Lennix - Yeah Baby!

     Is it going to be the Great American Movie?  I don't know, but it sure is going to be my Great American Movie.  I'll keep you posted.
     Until next time, say 'Hi' to your sister for me.
D

Streets of Gold

     Nearly twelve years ago, I sat down with a friend to write a show we called, Streets of Gold.  The show would be a comedy about Persians living in the United States.  It would be funny, daring, entertaining and powerful.

      We wrote a total of three scripts and they were funny as hell.  Now after a dozen years, over a hundred and forty-four months, this project is finally going to be shot.  It's ready to be shot and it needs to be shot.
     Usually I don't talk about projects until they are nearly done because it has proven to be a deadly practice in the past.  After a while though; you get tired of worrying about what could go wrong and just get down to putting it out into the universe and seeing what comes back to you.
      We did a full cast rehearsal a few weeks ago in a 99 seat theater in Hollywood.  I invited a few friends to critique.   The actors did a fantastic job.  It was a good time.  Since then I've written two more revisions of the scripts with my partner and tonight I got to hear the two leads do their lines.

     Sitting there in that room with the two actors who will bear the responsibility of not ruining this show;  I realized that I'm glad we waited this long to do this project.  Independent of the subject matter, independent of the horrors of 9 / 11 and independent of the revolutions in the Middle East, it's time to do this show.  Now.
      Recently I was sitting at a Starbucks and I overheard a guy talking about how it had taken him a year to raise the money to do his project.  A whopping five grand that he raised from his mom and dad.  He was talking about how tough it was to get the financing in place and now he had to finish the script.  I was thinking, 'Fuck this guy.  One year?  I've been waiting twelve and you don't hear me standing in line for a latte acting like I just beat Spielberg out for an Oscar.'

     By the way, this guy wasn't a kid, he was a grown man begging off of his parents and he didn't even have a finished script.  Don't get me wrong, there have been times I wish I could go to Mom and Dad and pull a little something out of their accounts to play producer / director but that wasn't in the cards.

      At any rate, he's doing his project and I'm doing mine, no matter how they come about; I guess that's all that matters.  The reason I'm writing about it now is I realized that no matter how long it takes or how it gets done, you've got to get it done.
     One year, twelve years, five thousand or five million, investors or mom and dad, who cares?  In the end, it's all the same, did you do your project?  Did you take the chances?  Did you give yourself the chance to succeed?

      Will these streets turn out to be Streets of Gold?  I don't know.  No one does but we're going to put everything we have into it.  And I hope when your turn comes up, you'll do the same.  We'll keep you posted.  Until then, Filmmakers First.  Thanks for reading.

(Please note, I do not know the Persian woman in the berka, this is not my Cast, this is not my Starbucks Cup, these are not the parents of the guy in line at Starbucks and these dice, well, I don't like craps but it looks fun.  The rights to these photos are exclusively those of the folks who took the photos).  Thanks  D

Blood On The Page

     I love the concept of 'Blood On The Page.'  The phrase has been coined and used by a number of writing instructors and professionals and it refers to the intensity, risk, power, passion and loss conveyed through a writer and how he or she puts his or her characters in jeopardy.  Jeopardy.  I'm at a complete loss now for how and why people could possibly be at a loss for inspiration  to write in times like these.

     In just the last few months, Moammar Gadhafi was ousted from power and assassinated in a filthy gutter and laid to rest in a walk in freezer,  protesters are marching on New York, Europe, and across the United States.  Greece is near financial collapse and Thailand suffers from the greatest floods in nearly half a century.

     Blood on the Page?  Not even close, there is Blood on the Streets, here, there and everywhere.  If you can't look at what's happening right under your nose and see risk, drama, pain, suffering, jeopardy all around you; you might not be looking hard enough.

     I was watching Steve Jobs' biographer on 60 Minutes and he was talking about the fact that Jobs may have been wavering (or growing, depending on your point of view), regarding his belief in God and an afterlife.  Talk about beating the odds, here's a guy who was adopted, did drugs, built a company, lost it, came back when it was on the brink of disaster and took to a place that no other company has ever gone before.  Did I mention the fact that a guy who was given up at birth went on to amass a fortune of over seven billion dollars and changed the lives of hundreds of millions of people in the process?  Listen, if that incredible, painful, powerful, successful, hopeful life didn't prove the existence of God, nothing will. 
     At any rate, the thought of where the greatest CEO in the history of the world is now made me think, I mean, really think.  Where is Steve Jobs?  Where is that brilliance?  Where is his soul?  Where did it go and is it gone forever?  Immediately I began writing a story about my take on Steve Jobs; not his life, but his death.  You want Blood on the Page?  Doesn't get any bloodier than cancer.

     You want inspiration as a writer?  Put a photo of a dead Moammar Gadhafi next to photo of a smiling Steve Jobs standing on stage in front of a thousand fans while he introduces you to the new iPad.  While you're looking at the contrasting faces, hum to yourself, 'One of these things is not like the other...'  When you're done humming, ask yourself, what the fuck is going on?  Short answer, There's Blood in the Streets.  Next move, Put It On The PAGE.

And no, I am not comparing Gadhafi to Jobs.  All the photos are the property of their respective owners and yes, that is the great writer / director Vic Wright standing next to me.
Thanks for reading.
D

Andy Is Dead - Time To Write

     Andy Whitfield is dead.  The fast rising star of the hit cable show Spartacus died; handsome, talented, well loved and on the rise, he is dead.  He died this past Sunday, September 11 of cancer.  The story says that he had been battling the disease for 18 months and that he was doing well with his treatment but he didn't make it.  Thirty-nine and out.

Andy Whitfield from Spartacus - Photo from Fan Site

     As I read the story, the brief story of his short rise and fatal fall, I was wondering why, there wasn't more to read about a guy who made a hit out of a series that was so steeped in sex and violence that only an incredible performer with charisma and talent to burn could lift it out from and above the genre that it surely would have fallen to had he not been a part of the production.  Nothing negative about the show because like many other viewers; I like it.  I'm just saying how great I think he was for that role and what a fantastic job he did in it.
     Instantly, I was inspired to write because I'm not dead.  I don't have cancer, I'm not sick and the few problems I do have, most people would wish for.  So, hearing of the passing of this life cut short, I was instantly inspired to write and not just to write, but to write something incredible.  I wanted to write something beautiful and haunting, something moving and profound.  I wanted to write something better than I've ever written before.
     I was working on a project and it is good, it is very good, different, artistic, painful and funny in a pathetic way.  After reading about Whitfield, I wanted it to be better.  Why?  Because it would seem that I might have time to make it better, so I should.

Writer Christopher Canole and I at AOF 2009

     Funny thing, I hear from writers all the time about problems they are having with their script or this character or some bullshit story arc.  I never hear anyone say, 'Fuck, I better get my shit together and write that script because I'm dying!'  I've never, ever heard that once even after having worked on seven features, multiple shorts, four television series and a slew of other projects.  I've heard the complaints and the excuses, but I've never heard anyone ever say that they should write something well and write it now because if they didn't, they might not get the chance.
     So, with full knowledge that the end is near, at least, closer than I'd like, I am writing and I hope that what I write will be good, no not good, great.  If it is good and not great then I hope I get a little more time to make it so.  Andy is Dead - Time to Write.

Hey, Look There's a Story

     Alright, this story is pure fact.  Fact, not fiction, not made up, not imagined, pure, straight arrow, arrow straight facts.  It's no secret I run the AOF Festival, one of if not the best festival going as far as I'm concerned.  I can say that it's the best, not because I run it, but because of the people who make up the festival.  The filmmakers, the writers, the producers, actors, grips, dps, artists, the whole lot.  These people make my show what it is, so I can honestly say it's the best thing going.  I say it because they are the best storytellers I know, period. They put their money where their mouth is, they make their films, they tell their stories and they don't quit.   

     So, anyway I'm standing in the Academy Theater and I'm talking to a filmmaker from Florida and he asks me what's going on and I say that I'm looking for an actor who I was pretty sure wasn't coming but I was hoping would show up anyway.  So the filmmaker points and says, she's right over there.  I swear to God it's true, she made the trip, she's here.  I follow his arm and where he's pointing and she's standing right across the room, big as life and twice as beautiful.  Talent shining off her head like an Angel's glow and a small crowd standing around her. 
     Now, this crowd wasn't around her, they were 'around' her.  Not talking to her or looking at her just kind of there.  If you were part of the crowd, you wouldn't of noticed what I'm talking about, but standing fifty feet away, it looked like she had an entourage.

     I approached her and noticed that she was talking to someone so I took a seat on the stairs and waited my turn.  That is when the magic happened.  Sitting on those stairs; I noticed all of the people in the theater talking to one another and telling their stories.  Everyone was engaged.  They were talking about their films, their scripts, the money they were raising, the deal that just fell through and it wasn't until that moment, waiting on those stairs that I was able to really see what was going on.  All of these people, young, old, black, white, tall, short, male and female, telling stories and trying to get those stories made into movies.
     Now, the funny thing about the entertainment business is that it is known for the amount of pure bullshit that floats around, nothing new about that.  But this was different, it was amazing to see people who had spent their unemployment checks, savings, bonuses, vacation money to be at the AOF Festival on a beautiful Southern California night meeting with people who just might play a part in their future success.
     Stories were being told and it looked like a few deals were being made.  In fact, I was trying to make one myself.  See, I've got a few stories to tell and looking around that room, watching those people who had made the trip out to Pasadena from all across the states, from around the world; Germany, France, England, Austrailia, China, I realized one thing, they came to do more than just talk, they came to tell their stories.  They were there to share their experiences and make something happen.
     What I liked most about waiting to tell my story was that I had the chance to witness first hand people who were making the first step in getting their stories made.  The first step in that process was to show up and relate that story to someone else; see if the story has legs, if it works, if it's interesting, if it matters.  The stories are all around us, we just have to tell them.

     Now, it was my turn, this actress, this talented, beautiful actress who was waiting to hear about my story was all ears.  I told her my story and she told me hers.  Is it going to work out?  Who knows?  The important thing is telling the story and then doing whatever you can to move that story to the next level.
     Until next time, thanks for reading.
D