Jun 23, 2009

The Notorious Newman Brothers (2009)

Over two years ago I was given a review copy of the movie Bums, starring, co-written and co-directed by siblings Jason and Brett Butler. This was the second of their "brews" (Canadian alternatives to Spike Lee's "joints"?)- an amusing and honest "twentysomething" relationship ensemble comedy.

In short order, I saw the writing-directing team's third offering, Confusions of an Unmarried Couple, screened at Innis Town Hall. This comic nightmare of revenge, longing and bitterness after the end of a relationship is a mini-marvel- excellently acted by a cast of two, and is as wickedly funny as it is perceptive.

This Friday June 26, their fourth brew The Notorious Newman Brothers, is also having its Toronto debut at Innis. This new project is directed by Ryan Noel, who co-wrote and stars with the brothers Butler, and is a departure from their pungently funny studies of love pains. Noel plays Max Chaplin, a wimpy aspiring filmmaker whose ad (canvassing for subjects for a documentary) is answered by these wannabe "goodfellas" the Newman brothers: Thunderclap and Paulie (Paulie Newman- get it?) -played by Brett and Jason, respectively- who recruit him to make a movie about their bad-boy exploits. This comedy combines the well-soiled traditions of gangster film parody and "mockumentary", yet the blending of both genres results in a clever study that gently overturns the conventions of these forms, but it also is a sly commentary on how its characters are influenced by pop culture.

Perhaps this will be an ongoing trend in the work of the Butler Brothers, as the hapless characters in Bums also incorporate discussions of movie characters in their dialog. This pattern of junk culture references is less a nod to the trend jump-started by Quentin Tarantino, yet more symbolic of how their characters cling to these references to get them through their daily realities. In this movie, the vignettes of Chaplin documenting these two-bit hoods at work, are intercut with on-screen quotations from such modern gangster classics as Scarface or Carlito's Way, suggesting a movie world that the Newmans attempt to emulate but are still light-years removed from. In one hilarious moment, they re-enact for the camera the famous "Do I amuse you?" scene from Goodfellas. Their pathetic delivery is reminiscent of a terrible amateur night performer being oblivious to his his own badness. (Perhaps this moment is more evocative of DeNiro's Rupert Pupkin character in King of Comedy, whose routines are intentionally, painfully, bad- therefore true.)

All of the spoofing of gangster machismo is intact (as the Newmans constantly chide the wispy voiced filmmaker for his lack of masculinity), and there are neat jibes at reality TV conventions (as in one scene where Chaplin meets a former associate of the Newmans, the only thing in the image that doesn't get blurred out by the traveling matte is the interviewee's face). But as any "movie within a movie" should, reel life and real life appropriately blur. As we continue to watch these three central characters, we realize that things aren't always what they seem. Much that we perceive to be real becomes as artificial as the glue-on moustache that Max wears to appear macho. Additionally, we see that Max and the Newmans alike are still little boys trying to grow up. Max is a thirtysomething mommy's boy (yes, he lives in the basement), and the Newmans are clearly insecure dolts trying to appear adult, allowing the childhood games of cops and robbers to take over their lives.

The structure of The Notorious Newman Brothers is rather simple. Scenes unfold with a minimum of cuts, to emulate the cinema verité style, capturing the moments as they happen. Perhaps this film is more clever and not as fall-down funny as their previous work, but this is not to suggest that this movie is anything less than enjoyable. Amidst the subtle spoofing of various filmmaking conventions, there are some great laughs, including an elaborate scene in a video store. (Mean Streets as a family rental? Hmmm.....)

After having viewed the movie, and allowing the experience to immerse itself in you, one begins to think back on various scenes and understand more of what is really going on beneath the surface. Like the desperate characters it documents (on both side of the lens),

Brett and Jason Butler have always managed to make a lot from a little, and this film is no exception. They, as well as Ryan Noel clearly have a lot to say for themselves, and after viewing this effort, once again I offer that it will no doubt be interesting to see what they come up with next.

The Notorious Newman Brothers screens Friday June 26 at Innis Town Hall at 9:30 PM as part of the ReelHeART International Film Festival. Visit the ReelHeART website for more information. Additionally, you can find out more about the makers of this movie here and here.

Jun 17, 2009

Allan King (1930 - 2009)

In late April, TVO ran a week-long retrospective of Allan King's work (in which the legendary filmmaker introduced some of the films personally), perhaps introducing his work to another audience apart from those who chanced upon whatever theatrical runs or revivals would be accorded him. Among my film friends, getting the opportunity to see a collection of his films from the comforts of our homes was a big event. Once again, Allan King was big news. This is one more reason why his passing just a few weeks later is saddening.

At 79, an age when most artists would have retired (or if they still worked, became in danger of repeating themselves), he was still at his craft, developing a new project as recent as this spring, before learning of his medical condition. As evidenced by his incredible career resurgence this decade, as long as we had Allan King, we could still expect to be challenged, disturbed and moved by his ongoing explorations of human behaviour.

It was in the 1960's when he came to the fore upon the release of two feature-length cinema-verité documentaries, Warrendale (1967) and A Married Couple (1969), both trail-blazing pieces which put in the same league with Frederick Wiseman and the Maysles Brothers, who practiced the same style south of the border. The cinema-verité approach disregarded the usual voiceover or talking-to-camera so customary to the documentary genre, and instead wanted to record activity as unobtrusively as naturally as possible. (The seeds of his work can be seen in earlier short films like Skid Row or Rickshaw, produced for the CBC, not necessarily in style, but for introducing you to people previously not seen as documentary subjects.)

Of course the controversy about the cinema verité movement centers upon the debate of how much on screen is in fact real. Whether one speaks of such work of the 1960's, or even today's "reality TV" (to coin an example of how this style has been distilled for the masses), the camera is still a powerful tool that its subjects can't easily ignore. But people like Wiseman or King would spend time with their subjects before introducing a camera into their worlds, so they would be less influenced (or inhibited) by it. At worst, one could say that we're seeing a magnification of reality.

Warrendale, named for the disturbed children's hospital it documents, would make for an interesting double-bill with Wiseman's Titicut Follies (released the same year). The latter film documented the poor conditions at a mental hospital, yet perhaps its target differed from King's. Warrendale instead focuses on the kids, not the institution, and we eventually see the humanity beneath their dysfunction. Although originally produced for the CBC, the network refused to air it because King wouldn't edit out the childrens' profanity. Instead, it was released to theaters, and received international acclaim, even having a good run in Canada- something unheard of for a homegrown film, let alone a documentary. It was banned from broadcast until TVO ran it in 1997 (where I first caught it).

But perhaps A Married Couple more questions the authenticity of filmed reality, as we witness the disintegrating marriage of Billy and Antoinette Edwards (who fight about everything). On screen we witness what appears to be a chronological study of how their relationship declines, however the scenes were not filmed in that sequence. One could say that the movie was edited in a more linear fashion, but still I don't think that we're seeing anything untrue (as the Edwards' eventually divorced), despite the couples' knack for performance.

Allan King also made commercial fictional features, and despite the earnestness of these (Who Has Seen The Wind; Silence of the North; Termini Station), one learns that the dramas of his "reel" worlds pale before those of "real" life. In this decade, King received some of the best notices of his career with the release of Dying At Grace (2003) (featuring terminally ill cancer patients at the palliative care ward of Grace Hospital), Memory for Max, Claire, Ida and Company (2005) (whose subjects have Alzheimers) and Empz 4 Life (2006) (about black youth in Toronto).

Every time I see one of King's documentaries, I ask "How the devil did he make this?" (which one can interpret as tribute to how affecting and unique they are). For example, how does a 75 year-old white male produce such a film like Empz 4 Life? How does he get terminally ill people to consent to have their final days recorded? Perhaps his greatest gift was winning the trust of his subjects to present risky topics matter in an honest, unbiased fashion. I remember one quote of Allan King (and I'm paraphrasing) where he says that when he begins a project, he never knows how it's going to end. Thus, one gets the sense that the moments of every new film is unfold with as much surprise to us as they did when King rolled the cameras.

It was his relentless curiosity to explore different facets of human nature, and the constant thrill of discovery, to make such remarkable films that may shock and upset us, but also change us in some way. These overwhelming experiences enrich us all the more for helping us to comprehend some of the harsh realities of life. Allan King was a true visionary--- and of the few filmmakers today (let alone in Canada) that are deserving of that title.

For more on Allan King, CBC has collected three videos and an audio interview which are accessible here.

Jun 15, 2009

Shock, Small Press and Somnambulism


That was an interesting two days on several levels. Usually, when one has a show, that becomes the "big event" of the weekend. However, if you have two (and each long ones at that) within the course of 24 hours, they instead feel like a couple of stops on a long journey. And looking back, these past two days seem more surreal than festive.

During the day on Saturday, I was an exhibitor at this spring's edition of the Toronto Small Press Fair. Once again, there were new administrators for the fair, and this time the location of the event was moved to the Toronto Reference Library-- appropriately enough. Likely to adhere to the library's hours, the fair ran from 9-5, when in the past, it never started before 11:00 at the previous Bloor St. locations, presumably to let people finish their brunches before they went book shopping.

This year, the fair had a record 96 exhibitors, right in the center of the library on the main floor, as the upper levels of the building loomed around us. Thankfully everyone had enough wiggle room to move around, and the readings were held in another room off to the side, so as not to disturb the vendors. I had spent most of the previous evening printing some more of the latest issue (which, naturally, I didn't end up needing), and so I was still pretty tired during the day. (This drowsiness is helped in no small part by my new diet for which I've cut down on sugary foods. I'm not even supposed to have coffee -despite that I drink it black- but I need something to keep me from nodding off.) Traffic came in the expected fits and starts, but sales were still pretty good.

Friends and fellow Trash Palace denizens Jonathan and Siue were exhibitors at the fair as well, and during the day I had remarked at how much the fair had changed over the years. Eight (count 'em-- eight) years ago, it seemed I was the odd-duck-out. I was initially allowed to sell at the fair in 2001, only after sending them the latest issue at the time, especially because in my first dialogue with the (then) coordinators, they didn't really have arts-related stuff at the fair. And so for the few small press fairs, ESR was the only vendor who was not selling poetry or fiction in any format, but gradually, one saw an emergence of self-published humour or political publications, as well as comic books.

In this age, after the desktop revolution, the meaning of "small press" has become as diverse as the material presently sold at the fair, which hasn't limited itself to the old guard of poetry chapbooks and small runs of fiction. Some of the veterans in the past have expressed disdain with the way that the fair has changed, and I do see their point, as during the year there are venues like Canzine that better support some of the less traditional wares (CDs, DVDs and crafts have found their way to this venue in recent times). However, I do know that there has already been at least one literary fair (where vendors are invited only) that harkens back to what the small press fair used to mean prior to the "zine explosion" of the 90's. (In fact, this year, my neighbour at the tables asked me was a "zine" was, pronouncing it as though it rhymed with "vine".) And by all means, if they want to have their own fair with that distinction, they should! The more ways people can get their work out there, the better.

This time out, surely a highlight for me was that I got to meet Ralph Alfonso, who under the sole name of "Ralph" released four CD's of his euphonic spoken-word beatnik poetry with jazz-garage-tinged accompaniment. He used to put out a monthly four-page fanzine (including a cover), also with the same one-word title, which one could acquire for the price of a postage stamp. The front cover usually had some beautiful silkscreen art which recalled the bohemian style of the 1950's, the centerspread would feature that month's collection of beat-tinged poetry, and the back would have a smorgasbord of album recommendations or other things which caught his interest those four weeks. The fifty issues were anthologized in two volumes: Coffee Jazz and Poetry (issues 1 - 25), and This is For the Night People (issues 26 -50). I had the latter, but the first volume was out of print for years. To my delight, he was selling both of these, as well as some CDs from his own Bongo Beat label.

That night, I was listening to his release of Ian Ferrier's album "What Is this Place?" on my way to the Fox. The artist's spoken word (closer to a whisper), with minimal jazz, rock, soundscape backgrounds seemed to perfectly fit the scenery of desolate sidewalks I was seeing out the streetcar window past 11 PM. Saturday night, or more accurately, Sunday morning, our friend Dion Conflict held the third edition of his "Shock and Awe" all-night screenings featuring grindhouse films. The film I was most eager to see was Hell's Angels on Wheels, which I have always enjoyed, and was excited to see it on a big screen. The headliner was the cult fave Return of the Living Dead which was surreal to see in a theater Sunday morning, but perhaps no less so than the hardcore film Mona which preceded it.

I was exhausted before I even got to the theater (despite having a nap), and slept through one film entirely (Swinging Pussycats), while my friends thrilled to the appearance of Andrea Rau from Daughters of Darkness. But still it was another interesting and unique Dion experience, with blue light specials a-plenty.

Unbeknownst to me, my full-time job was trying to contact me throughout the day, and so Sunday morning on the way home, I had to make a pit stop at the office to look after some stuff. After having some excellent Indian buffet for lunch, I shuffled off home to bed.

Looking back at this weekend, I am less struck by the whirlwind of activity than by how much I seemed to sleepwalk through them. (However, that seems to be the nature of this scene-- everything happens at once, and then nothing for two months.) Singularly, either of these would have been a cultural event unto itself, but one right after the other, coupled with my overtired-ness turned the entire weekend into a waking dream.

Since I had had another incident where my full-time job collides with my other life (AKA- what I don't necessarily make money at, but would rather be remembered for if I had to choose), I thusly had necessary fuel for reflection as we crawled out of the cinema, and were blinded by the sun as is befitting to us subterranean moles. On my third wind, I pondered how different facets of our lives often collide. Whether it's in the dark recess of a movie theater or at the tables of a trade show, we are sometimes reminded how much we must hang on to those honeycombs of culture with which we struggle to define ourselves. Our sporadic visits to the nest may embody who we are, but we still cannot hide from the rest of the world even before the masks come off, and nor can we necessarily bring part of that caravan into our daily lives. Sometimes these side projects must remain as much of a secret as Dion's Film Number Four.

Jun 11, 2009

Doc (1971)

Made during the period of so-called "revisionist" westerns a la The Wild Bunch; Once Upon a Time in the West; and McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Frank Perry's Doc doesn't so much redefine the genre as those apocalyptic films. However the release of these (and Italian westerns) surely influenced pictures such as this, and other scruffy titles like Dirty Little Billy or The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid. The heroes were painted in shades of grey, often against changing landscapes, and the films were rife with profanity, sex and violence for a new liberal audience. Perhaps these movies were closer to depicting the grubby reality of frontier life not necessarily seen in the classical pictures of John Ford, but even so these eccentric movies often had an otherworldly quality.

Doc surely is closer than most films in painting an accurate picture of the Earps. The famed OK Corral battle (while depicted as briefly in here as the actual historical gunfight really was) is seen more as a struggle for money-grubbing opportunism than law and order. Still, it takes some liberties with history-- and if we're going to take this film to task for inaccuracies then it's only fair to do the same for John Ford's My Darling Clementine (usually regarded as the definitive movie about Wyatt Earp and the OK Corral). For example, Doc Holliday's constant traveling companion "Big Nose" Kate Elder (with the nickname removed here, perhaps because Faye Dunaway's nose wasn't large enough) meets him for the first time just days away from his rendezvous with the Earps in Tombstone, Arizona leading up to the famed gun battle.

However, just as Julie Christie's glamourous image was erased in McCabe, so too is Faye Dunaway with some well-placed mud on her cheeks in low-lit interiors. Wyatt Earp (Harris Yulin) is a cold, smug lawman whose frequent activity is sneakily hitting people on the head with his gun barrel. Doc Holliday is no Shakespeare-spouting dandy a la Victor Mature-- instead, he's an opium-addicted lout who coughs up blood in every other scene (the gunfighter was slowly dying from consumption). Stacy Keach has added another interesting credit to his roster of unusual films in this period (End of the Road, Watched, The Traveling Executioner-- his Doc Holliday is equal parts charismatic and cad, dashing and disgusting.

But Doc is a superlative, wonderfully vulgar look at the old west. Pete Hamill's morally ambiguous script debunks the well-scrubbed white-hatted cowboys of previous movie lore, and presents us with frontier characters who curse, flatulate, fornicate and (it's implied) fellate. The production was shot in Spain, no doubt to emulate the Spaghetti Westerns of the time (which were often filmed around Almeria). Thusly, this film gives a supra-real effect: this "realistic" depiction of life in the old west is also given an otherworldly, larger-than-life, perhaps mythic, feel. Particularly striking are the moments in which Doc and Kate journey through the desert en route to Tombstone. The tone is nearly Biblical.

Frank Perry was surely one of commercial cinema's most interesting figures in the 1960's and 70's. His films (many scripted by his ex-wife Eleanor) always took chances. And if perhaps some of them were inconsistent, they nonetheless succeeded as gripping studies of unusual human behaviour. Whether it was the dysfunctional love stories of David and Lisa or Last Summer, quirky rural adventures at Rancho Deluxe, or Hollywood melodrama played to the hilt in Mommie Dearest, his scenarios implode the conventions of whatever genre they study, and present us with unconventional characters in these worlds. Doc is surely one of his finest.

Jun 9, 2009

Reefer Madness (1936)

As I gradually pick my way through my old VHS tapes, I re-acquaint myself with titles that I haven't seen in years (decades, even). In some cases, one reunites with an old friend, in others, one sees a movie with a different pair of eyes (for better or for worse). I've always enjoyed the misguided epic Reefer Madness, tonight's visitation was perhaps the most enjoyable time I've ever spent with it.

This dated cautionary fable (also released with the title Tell Your Children, still seen at the end) was rediscovered in the 1960's and quickly became a midnight cult favourite at college screenings or revival houses. Today it remains in high circulation as on public domain DVD labels. You don't need to be stoned to giggle at the ludicrous fear-mongering (as the narrator informs us of some kid who got high on pot and killed his parents with an axe), but I don't think it would hurt.

However, as you get older and have seen more movies, you get to put this misguided picture into greater context. No longer does one merely see this as a midnight camp classic. After the passage of time, one sees how a relic likes this fits into our popular culture.

The structure of this picture would still be used decades later in similar scare pictures (which masquerade as educational, but are exploitation at heart): a fire-and-brimstone authority figure would preach to a room full of shocked parents (or even addressing the viewer) about assorted depraved behaviours which exist just beyond our doorstep. Whether it was the evil vine of drugs, promiscuity or juvenile delinquency ravaging our land, our narrator would relate a story of how an innocent soul would be corrupted by one of these demons. And whatever thrills the public paid to see (dope smoking, cheap sex), they would still have far less screen time than all the sermonizing. Even as late as The Violent Years in 1956, this formula didn't change much.

In this sordid tale, Bill and his high school friends start hanging out at this adult couple's apartment where they are given the evil weed, along with the laughter, piano playing and cheap sex it accompanies. Today, this flick is a camp classic because the people begin laughing before they finish the first puff of the wacky tabacky, no-one inhales, and of course, for the stoned characters' irrepressible urge to play the piano with a storm that would do Cecil Taylor proud. ("Faster! Play it faster!")

However, my favourite scenes are the film's feeble attempts at action: witness the hilarious moments where one teenager hits a pedestrian with his car (you actually see the man duck a good six feet away from the vehicle), and when a distraught female can no longer cope with the damage perpetrated by marijuana and jumps out a window!

Seeing this film again after so many years, I was struck with the notion that Reefer Madness could also be an ancestor to all those educational films we saw in public school. And the fact that those shorts used stereotypes that were already outmoded in this flick is completely dumbfounding. The teenagers in this movie all look to be in their late 20's, and their abundant "Gee whillikers" dialogue is hackneyed to the extreme. Bill is such a wimp that he has to get his mother to stop his younger brother from teasing him. (One look at these two, and Bill looks old enough to have fathered him!)

Where a lot of early exploitation films usually expend their novelty value after one screening, Reefer Madness remains a delight. Like Dwain Esper's Marihuana, this naive antique continues to tickle the funny bone after repeated viewings.

Jun 3, 2009

My Very Own Private Sgt. Pepper Revue

Yesterday, there was an amusing bit of news about how House actor Hugh Laurie had once had a pact with his friends while teenagers, to kill themselves before the age of 40, because their juvenile minds had assumed they would have accomplished all that they would've needed to do by that magic number. Needless to say, this act was not carried out, but what interested me more about this piece was the actor's final statement. Laurie, who is approaching 50, added: "You hope that your teenage self would like and forgive your 50-year-old self. It would be awful to think that they'd be ashamed and appalled - that you were a betrayal of everything they thought they'd become."

Generally, I neither report nor comment on whatever piece of celebrity piffle currently masquerades as entertainment news, but this one comes rather timely, as I too have been self-reflexive on such things. Just this morning, I had an interesting philosophical chat with a colleague, who like myself still pays his dues in the trenches awaiting the big break. His concluding statement "I really feel that the clock is ticking for me..." is one I can certainly relate to.

All of this however coincides with a post I've been meaning to write for some time this year. To coin a lyric from the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band record, "it was twenty years ago today..." where I ended perhaps the most pivotal year of my life. (I had previously alluded to this way back in my "Pasta With Mr. Pleznik" post two summers ago.)

At the age of 20, I had made the daring, but insurmountably rewarding decision to return to high school and upgrade my Grade 13. Even during my two years previously spent in the work force, there was little doubt that I wanted to pursue a career in the film industry. However, I was biding my time (while making some money in the process) to decide if this was truly what I wanted to do. No starry-eyed individual was I-- the hardships and sacrifices I would encounter were already a reality; it was simply a matter of my deciding if I was prepared to take those risks. Therefore, in September of 1988, I re-enrolled in high school, with a full course load to upgrade my marks, and however possible turned every experience I could into something integral to getting accepted into film school.

Those crazy ten months to date remain the most overwhelming, trailblazing and rewarding moments of my professional life. In addition to taking a full day of classes, all while doing full-time shift work, I still somehow found time to be in two plays, and write and direct a feature-length video... all while forging bonds and being blessed with experiences that I still continue to cherish. The fall of 1988 understandably began low-key until I gradually became immersed in the arts-theater community at school. However in those early weeks, even then I needed only to look back a few months to my previously shiftless life, and compare to the then-present, where I was re-anointed with the possibility that I could do anything, and I damn near did.

But of all the things I had the good fortune of doing that year, the one that made me was the feature-length video, The Broken Circle. This was a dramatic piece about two friends who are killed in an alcohol-related car accident, and how the tragedy affects their friends and family. We managed to get money from Citizens Against Drunk Driving (or CADD, in its popular acronym) due to its subject matter, but I completely resisted turning it into a dry educational film, and instead made a narrative in which I could also explore some of my favourite themes as a writer even then (specifically mortality and time).

What it lacked in technical expertise, continuity or experience (it was the first time I used a video camera, let alone directed anything), I feel it made up for in ambition. To be honest, I had a great storyboard in my mind of how to shoot the movie, but couldn't due to lack of equipment, improper locations, and not having the experience of course to adapt to such changes. Still, for what it is (Tigger in a china shop), it probably remains the single most rewarding thing I've done to date creatively. It played on local cable for (I'm told) two years, and the Governor General (I'm told) received a copy. Most importantly, this was the thing that helped me solidify some friendships, and of course was the catalyst to help me get into school.

So, upon leaving school in June of 1989, I felt that I had the world on a string. My future seemed secure, and in place, and I also had the brains, the drive and guts to make it a reality. Now if someone had posed the question upon me as to what my life would've been like 20 years from then, no doubt my answer would've been that I would've been married, had a couple of kids, and was some hotshot filmmaker in the city of Toronto. For all that though, not once did I have glossy dreams about making a pile of money, and not, certainly not, about working in Hollywood. My modest goals were comfort and respect.

Still, in another imagined scenario, I'd be very interested to see what the precocious younger me of 1989 would have to say about my present setting. I didn't make the great Canadian movie, I don't have any little ones running around, and now perhaps more than ever, I am filled with indecision over what to do with the rest of my life. I am not turning this post into a pity party, because I don't necessarily regret how things have changed. Instead, things opened up to new and valuable life experiences. I've happily been with a special someone for almost fourteen years, and since I've been doing this publication on the side (which thereby begat screenings, webcasting and any other way I could spread the gospel about the kind of cinema I adore), I have forged new friendships and have had valuable experiences along the way. (In fact, most of the people in my current social circle I can attribute in one way or another due to this little magazine I sporadically publish.) For this little thing which is essentially a hobby and barely a business, however I would prefer to think that people take me seriously for what I do. And if given the choice, I'd much rather be remembered for it than what pays my rent. So therefore, I don't necessarily look back on my professional life with shame and scorn. On the flip side, had I ventured down my chosen path, there is a possibility I'd be starving right now, too.

This of course brings me to my next point-- another in our philosophical conversation this morning. The older we get, the more comfortable we are in our setting, and the harder it is for us to take risks due to the increase of obligations (among other things). In my current state of mind, I wouldn't care if I showed up on a film set for the rest of my days (although I grudgingly admit it is a necessary evil for any little projects I do). I no longer wish to be that hotshot filmmaker. My current passion is in my writing, and sharing my love and knowledge of film history. The clock may be ticking, but I don't necessarily perceive that as a threat, despite our youth-obsessed culture, and despite that too much of the clock ticks by while I spend too much time thinking instead of doing, and let things become excuses for not taking the risk or exerting the ambition.

As much as our culture tells us otherwise, I really don't think that life is a race-- if you play all your cards at 25, what are you going to do for an encore? You have to learn to make the best out of your situation, and value the experiences you garner along the way. I'm not one for self-help books, but one thing of late which has helped me gain more focus than I've felt for months, is list-making. Ultimately, I ask myself three questions ("What makes me happy?" "What in my life do I hate, and how can I change it?" "What do I want?") and vow not to answer them falsely.

I don't necessarily think I've betrayed who I was twenty years ago, it's just that I've found a different set of values, and have found happiness in other unsuspected ways. If anything, I am simply restless about what new experience I want to take on. Two decades later, as certainty recedes to confusion and energy wanes to a purring lull, one could say I wouldn't have all the answers I had hoped to achieve. Instead, I am still learning to evolve.