The Indie Auteur relaunch

I've relaunched my filmmaking blog, The Indie Auteur. The new host (Web Faction) seems a lot more stable, and responsive, than Yahoo! so hopefully this time it'll be up and running for a long time.

Moon

Moon was a much needed antidote to seeing Transformers 2. An excellent piece of Indie sci-fi, Moon evokes the feel of classic cerebral sci-fi like 2001, Solaris, Alien, and Silent Running (I've heard that several Silent Running SFX crew were brought on to help Moon capture that classic style). While its pacing and small scale won't appeal to most post-MTV viewers, I found it quite compelling. Made for only $5million, it's also a testament to the fact that you can make a great film for "hardly any money." If you enjoy thoughtful, slow-paced Sci-Fi, I highly recommend checking out Moon.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen

Having read a number of reviews, and heard from folks at work who'd seen it before me, I thought I was fully prepared for just how bad this movie is. I was wrong, and I wound up walking out.

My expectations were: a mindless joyride with an incoherent plot and some decent action sequences. A thin, incoherent plot was definitely on offer, but surprisingly so was a hefty dollop of sexism (which I had expected) and racism (which I hadn't expected). I expected characterization to be idiotic, not overtly offensive. The action is more visually coherent than the first Transformers, but (if you can believe it) even less meaningful. There are also some sequences that violate whatever rules of the Transformers world had been established (spoiler examples: a Transformer that can disguise itself as a human rather than a machine, baby Decepticons being born in Aliens-like egg pods, and a dead Optimus Prime being brought back to life with an object other than a shred of the "All Spark").

The audience I saw the film with was audibly appalled at the scene where the two ghetto minstrel Autobots admit that they don't read. Since this was part of a "plot" point in which only ancient Transformers can read Cybertronian, some let it slide, though only those two say they don't read generally (as opposed to not being able to read ancient script). Even more appalling is the scene in which John Turturro's character is reintroduced, mainly because there's no real "plot" point to the stereotyping of Turturro's family and their dark-skinned employee.

It was not long after that scene that I left the theater.

Since the film was showing at work, I went back in to catch the last ten or so minutes. Not only could I pick the "plot" right back up having missed over an hour of the film, but I was also subjected to a "final battle" in which (more spoilers, in case you care) a newly resurrected Optimus Prime kills The Fallen and destroys his sun-destroying machine instantly. No gigantic robot battle of epic proportions. Just a few blasts from Optimus' big gun, and the fallen is killed. Then Megatron runs away. Optimus unceremoniously discards all the newly-integrated parts that another resurrected Transfomer had committed suicide in order to bestown upon him, and gives a speech. So even if you can sit through the whole thing, it's all for nothing.

There's apparently some plot involving humans, as well. Something to do with Megan Fox's breasts, I think. The emotion I felt most strongly about the part of the film that's not about robots (i.e. too much of it) was a confusion over whether to feel sorry for or angry with John Turturro.

It is a shame that Michael Bay uses his obvious skill at staging visually spectacular shots, and managing large casts and crews, to produce such utter rubbish.

The fact that this film is making such huge amounts of much money is a symptom of a number of reasons why my faith in audiences, and the human race generally, has been so shaken for so long.

Michael Jackson Dead

The King of Pop, and possibly the most famous person in the world, has died. It is unfortunate when anyone passes, especially for their friends and family. However, the adulation heaped upon dead celebrities, and the media frenzy that accompanies it, makes the event subject to critique in ways the private mourning of the family isn't. Though I still fondly remember Thriller (mainly for its excellent use of Vincent Price), the rest of Michael Jackson's career (both as a musician and a circus freak) had long ago ceased to interest me in any way. It is sad that he died so young, and it will be intriguing and perhaps even amusing to observe the inevitable process of Elvisification. But despite Jackson's tragic life and untimely death, personally I was much more effected by the passing of Ragnarok the Cat. Jackson's contributions to pop music, and pop culture (especially celebrity tabloid fare), are undeniable and worthy of a nod -- but the same can be said of so many deceased artists, many of whose work was more meaningful to me personally than was Jackson's. I wish that rather than heaping all the praise and remembrance upon superstars like Jackson, some of that attention could be shared amongst more of those incredible talents who passed in relative obscurity.

Week 2 of Pain and Misery

We just finished our 2nd week of torture/exercise at The Ice Chamber, and despite the excruciating pain in my back right now, I am somehow glad to be doing this -- though only after a couple hours have passed and the most immediate agony has subsided.

Normally, when Anu looks at me and smiles, it's a nice reminder of how much she loves me. When we're approaching or inside the gym, however, my brain (which is reflexively set to high school gym class mode by impending arrival at any athletic facility) maps her supportive looks onto perceived taunts about women naturally having more endurance and dexterity than men. Today I discovered that not only can't I do push-ups (never could), I also can't jump rope worth a damn (which was one of the few sporty things I actually could do as a kid, along with swimming and riding a bike).

I've not yet experienced that endorphin high that athletes bang on about all the time, but presumably I'll eventually look forward to this rather than approaching each trip to the gym with the attitude: "well, I guess it beats dying."

Farewell Furry Friend

Ragnarok the cat was born in 1993, and passed away a few weeks ago at almost exactly 16 years of age. He and his sister Thelema were born to my friend Jason's cat Döden, and traveled with us across country from NY to CA in 1993. At truck stops along the way we'd do our shopping each with a kitten in his pocket. Ragnarok and Thelema were my constant companions from 1993-2001, when the demise of Webmind, Inc. forced me to send Ragnarok and Thelema to live with my Mom and sister Janine on Long Island. He spent eight happy years with them, staying there even after my Mom convinced me to let them continue living with here even after Anu treated her cat allergies.

Ragnarok was an impressive hunter, often bringing offerings of dead rodents to my door. He also enjoyed being a lap cat, sitting for hours on my lap or my mom's while we worked on the computer or watched TV (especially as he got older and less able to hunt). Anyone who isn't a "cat person" will probably find an obituary for a cat to be ridiculous, but Ragnarok and Thelema were with me during some very difficult periods of my life, and went on to keep my Mom company during some not necessarily great times for her, as well, and Ragnarok's head-nudges and soothing purr will be missed by all who knew him.

From The Lighthouse

We've returned from the East Brother Light Station, and it was a great time. Ed and Anne are fantastic innkeepers, and we not only had a great view and an amazing experience, but good food and wine as well. It's quite an experience to be about ten miles from San Francisco City (and less than five miles from our house), and yet feel so isolated. Being in a lighthouse on an island accessible only by boat really does feel like being "a world away" right in my own neighborhood. Especially enjoyable was sitting in the lantern room beneath the beacon and listening to mp3s of incredible readings of Edgar Allen Poe stories by Iggy Pop, Vincent Price, and Basil Rathbone. A visit to EBLS is highly recommended -- I'm sure we'll go back ourselves before too long.

Photo by Ed Witts.

To The Lighthouse

Today Anu and I, and some friends, are going to go spend a night at the East Brother Light Station in the San Francisco Bay. The Light Station was originally built in 1874 (though several of the buildings are newer) and is still a functioning signal facility, with a bed and breakfast that has four rooms in the lighthouse and one in the original Fog Signal building. It should be fun.

Week 1: First, The Pain

This morning Anu and I finished our second personal training session at The Ice Chamber. It's exactly the kind of place -- supportive and non-judgmental -- that had my high school gym been, maybe I would have taken exercise and sports more seriously before now.

In being supportive Jessica, our excellent new trainer, often asks us how we feel or if we feel good. Frankly, at this early stage, I mostly feel like vomiting and then going back to sleep. But I'm inspired to continue by a mid-30s realization that I'd rather not die in my 50s like my father did, combined with the impressive results achieved over the last few years by my friend Max, a former chubby nerd who is now a triathlete nerd in active training for Ironman Arizona 09.

My next health step: kicking my Diet Coke habit. It's the one addiction that I've tried and failed to kick, and finally doing so is on my todo list. While I enjoy being in the company of other Diet Coke drinkers such as Bill Clinton and Harvey Weinstein, I still think giving it up is for the best. Frankly, I think that my excessive consumption of the stuff contributes to the stomach pain and gas I have when working out. So if my mom can quit smoking after 40 years, I can quit drinking Diet Coke in the next few weeks.

The Land Of Rape And Honey

I'm listening to Ministry's "The Land of Rape and Honey" right now, and for some reason I am reminded of hearing the album for the first time as a fifteen year old and thinking: "I didn't know anything this amazingly awesome existed in our musical universe." Between 1988 and now, I've probably listened to this album (or at least parts of it) well over a thousand times.

Even twenty years later, it still sounds fresh, its impact undiminished by years of subsequent "industrial" and "nu-metal" stuff that's come along in the years since.

If you've never heard it, you're in for quite a treat if you seek it out and listen to it now. And if you haven't given it a spin "in years," I highly recommend that you put it on right away and remember that once upon a time, what was called "industrial" music was angry and innovative (and like punk of yore, covered a lot of disparate musical ground, not just one single sound -- in the case of contemporary "industrial," it's four-on-the-floor dance beats for "dark ravers" and all else has disappeared or been reclassified).

A New Kind of Bit Rot

My screenplay Welcome To Akron, which quarterfinaled last year in the Blue Cat screenwriting competition (as well as quarterfinaling in the Austin Film Festival competition and Slamdance, and getting past the proposal phase of Sundance Lab), did not even quarterfinal in Blue Cat this year.

I didn't change one word in the script between the two submissions. Therefore, I blame cosmic ray interference with my script.

This is my own personal example of how capricious screenwriting competitions are. Had my script been assigned to a reader more favorable towards it (and at least one professional reader who has read it has called it one of the best scripts he's seen in years) than the one(s) who read it last year, I might have placed higher this year. Instead, it went to a reader who was less favorably disposed towards it than the reader(s) last year, and it went nowhere.

So remember: the money you apply towards screenwriting competitions should be no greater than what you'd be willing to wager in Vegas, because once you've achieved a level of competence as a writer, what then constitutes a great script rather than just a very good one varies greatly enough from one reader to the next that placing in a competition is as much a game of luck as of skill.

Oh, Right... I Was A Blonde

In looking for photos of my late cat Ragnarok, to accompany his memorial post, I came across some photos of me as a blonde. I'd kind of forgotten about that period, even though I was blonde on and off for about seven years. It started with my manic panic blue washing out of my bleached hair, and eventually took on a life of its own. Personally, I liked the look, and it makes it very convenient to decide to go blue or purple, but bleaching really takes its toll on your hair and scalp. Nowadays I'm more likely to dye my hair black than to bleach it, but mostly I'm too busy with other stuff to pause and do anything fun with my hair at all.

I'm still trying to find some photos of Ragnarok, and then I'll post more about him, his eventful kitty life, and how much he meant to me.

(The synths in the photo are a PPG Wave, EDP Wasp, Memorymoog, and Nord Modular. I still have all four, though I haven't really had much time to play them since I started working in the film industry 7 years ago. Very sad. I need to rectify that particular scheduling issue post haste.)

Call Me A Nerd

Last night I heard an opinion piece on KQED / NPR the tagline of which was: "don't call me a nerd, call me an overachiever."

Call me nerd instead, thanks.

Nerds do whatever it is they're obsessed with because they love it. A nerd can't help their interest in computers, science, music, film, or whatever it is they "nerd out" about -- it just comes naturally. Overachievers are people who develop interests in subjects based on a deliberate analysis relative to some metric of achievement. They analyze the social landscape and their own abilities, then choose interests and activities based on what is most likely to help them "get ahead." It's overachievers that turn scientific and artistic interests into "horse races" with their obsessions with superlatives ("ten best whatevers!") and accolades such as Nobel Prizes and Academy Awards.

In this actuarial view of life, the joy of doing doesn't necessarily factor in. So call me a nerd. Personally, I'd much rather be associated with passionate endeavor than calculated gain for its own sake.

Post Party Depression

The last 3 weekends have been a lot of fun, as Anu and I have spread-out our 5th Anniversary celebrations over them. But, now that that's all passed, the high has worn off, and the crash has come.

First, we had a huge Memorial Day BBQ party at our house with about 60 attendees. I always get depressed after big parties, not just because of my usual post-party depression, but because I also regret not being able to spend more time with each attendee, and that leads to my second guessing myself about whether or not everyone had fun, and whether or not there was enough food for everyone. Perhaps, after the wrap parties on his films, Woody Allen has the same kind of neuroses about the success of the party.

Then we went to Lake Meade (and Las Vegas -- which was full of nothing but drunks and advertisements for hookers) with our families, rented a houseboat, and spent 2 days swimming in a cove and making more BBQ. That was awesome. As soon as we returned the boat to the Marina, I wanted to do it again. I spent most evenings the following week, after returning home late from all the overwork currently going on, falling asleep to the Lake Meade map, and dreaming about what other coves we might moor and swim in in the future.

Finally, we went to Los Angeles for the PGA Produced-By conference (yes, we spent part of our 5th anniversary at a conference). It was a great conference, and we met a lot of very nice, very interesting people. The weekend was packed with insightful information, amusing anecdotes, and hopeful musings about how the industry can embrace new ideas and new talent. I highly recommend the conference, if you're interested in film production. Now that I'm back up north, and back to the grind (and all the weird politics that conflates already difficult issues we need to work through, and quickly, for our next couple films), I wish I were back in any one of those three places: my BBQ, Lake Meade, or a big event in LA.