Undulations

Sorry for the lack of posts in recent days. I've been in a pretty serious writing groove this past week, so I've been riding the wave while it lasted. 

I can already tell that today is going to be completely unproductive. I had to pick up my girlfriend at the airport last night/this morning, and I didn't hit the sack til 4:30 or so this morning. I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders right now. 

Even yesterday, though, I was starting to get the sense that my current hot streak was starting to cool. I'm not the type of writer who can sit in front of his computer and just write. I wish I were. I remember reading/hearing an interview with Paul Thomas Anderson following Magnolia were he said he pretty much wrote that script in two weeks. And now having tried to write several screenplays, I can appreciate what a remarkable feat that was. 

I consider it a productive day when I get a scene done. I'm just painfully slow when it comes to writing, and often I find it terribly frustrating. I just want to get the writing done so I can move on to the fun shit: working with actors, shooting and editing. 

Even when the writing is going well, I don't enjoy it. In fact, I know when I write something of quality when I start getting nervous while I'm writing it. For instance, I wrote a scene the other day that I was really happy with but by the time I was done with it, I was almost shaking due to anxiety. I don't understand why it touched a nerve. Anyone got any ideas?

So today, I'm taking a load off and listening to the song below on loop. 

Moving On...

Now that I've provided an extended introduction to this project, I thought I'd finally deliver some of the goods. Please take a look at the first scene that I came up with and leave a comment or two. I'm interested to hear what people think. 

How did you go bad?

I've developed a bit of a terrible habit when it comes to working on scripts. I'll come up with an idea, get really excited about it, and come up with the basic story almost immediately. Then I'll sit on it for a while, letting it languish. Shortly thereafter, I'll come up with something else that gets me more excited and completely neglect the previous idea. I have a hard drive full have half finished outlines and scripts, and lord knows if I'll ever get back to them. 

Fortunately, my previous idea kind of dovetails with the new one. Much of last year, I was doing research into cults and cult leaders for an idea I had for an artsy exploitation film. I kind of figured out that I would need more resources than I could probably get to make it as a first feature, so I moved onto something else. But the research I put into it has proved to be invaluable for "Chupacabra."

For a time, I read every book and watched ever TV program I could on cult leaders. Of the sources I found, Len Oakes' Prophetic Charisma: The Psychology of Revolutionary Religious Personalities proved to be the biggest influence. Len lived with a cult for 11 years, during which he dedicated himself to the research of the charismatic leader. The common denominator he found amongst all cult leaders was their intense narcissism. They all possessed an unerring sense that they held a special and unique place in the world. In extreme cases, charismatic leaders would develop delusions regarding their powers, developing messianic complexes. 

This was all great stuff...if I had decided to write a movie about a cult. But I did have all this stuff floating in my mind when I was coming up with the idea of "Chupacabra." Probably the question on the forefront on my brain was, "How do these cult leaders develop such a strong sense of narcissism? How do they become delusional?" Oakes does spend a chapter in his book trying to explain this phenomenon. But it's nearly impossible to explain the intricacies of human behavior in one cover all theory. There has to be more to it than just having an overbearing mother and distant father. There's got to me much, much more to it. I hope I can figure it out. 

With that said, on we go...

But One Man Alone...

Sing to me of the Man, Muse, the man of twists and turns

driven time and again off course, once he had plundered

the hallowed heights of Troy

Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds,

many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea,

fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home.

But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove-

the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all,

the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun

and the Sungod wiped from sight the day of their return.

Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus,

start from where you will-sing for our time too. 

My brother was always into Greek mythology growing up. Thanks to him, my parents took us to see "Clash of the Titans" and as a four year old, the film made a huge impression on me. We went out and bought the toys released to coincide with the film. We'd go play in our backyard, imagining that we were vanquishing Medusa and turning the Kraken into stone. We'd watch the film whenever it was on cable.  

Thanks to that film, I tried to learn as much as I could about Greek mythology as I could. I'd scour through our set of encyclopedias, reading all the entries I could about the Greeks. I recall being stoked that we got to spend two weeks studying the ancient Greeks while I was in sixth grade. Shortly thereafter, I had my first exposure to Homer when I read "The Illiad" in seventh grade. I remember being struck by the vividness of the language, by the breadth of the characters...and by the violence. Up to that point, I had never read anything that violent and dark in my young life, and I was hooked. 

In tenth grade, we got to read "The Odyssey." Perhaps it was getting older and growing up a bit, but I was fascinated far more by the emotional undercurrents of Odysseus's journey than the fantastic elements of it. At that age, I could somehow relate to Odysseus. He was absolutely alone, subject to the whims of the gods, searching for home. But I also took from his story that his tale was not tragic. It was because of his hubris that he suffered what he did. His arrogance was to thank for his pain, his travails, his loneliness. He only had himself to blame. 

  

At The Break

Sorry about the lack of post yesterday. I suppose like the big leaguers, I was on my All-Star break. Rather than blog, I watched the game last night. And something kind of bizarre happened: I got a little misty. 

Now I don't consider myself a terribly sentimental guy. I don't cry and I very rarely get wispy. But during the introductions of the game, I started getting a little choked up. The All-Star game has traditionally been on of my favorite events of the year. I think I've watched just about every one since 1986. Perhaps there was some significance because it was the last All-Star game at Yankee Stadium. Maybe it was the presence of all those Hall of Famers. But quite suddenly, I wasn't the jaded 30 year old has been ball player. I was the 10 year old kid who was dreaming of being on that field one day, playing against the best in the game. 

So, yeah, I was getting a bit emotional, but I was hanging on to my composure. Then they brought George Steinbrenner out to deliver the balls used for the ceremonial first pitch. And he was bawling, absolutely crying his soul out. And I lost it. I'm no Yankee fan, but even I was affected by seeing The Boss sob. To me, it was like being a soldier in Patton's platoon, and seeing him cry. You just can't help yourself. 

Thankfully, I wasn't a complete blubbering mess. But a couple tears were shed. Then Sheryl Crow came out and sang the National Anthem and the moment passed. 

Aye Dios Mios!!!

Wow. That's all I can really say about the epic display put on by Josh Hamilton in today's Home Run Derby. In my many years of watching baseball, I don't think I've seen anything quite like this. I think I have a new mancrush.

Here's a bit of the show he put on. Wow. 

You gotta feel good for this guy, considering all he's been through. Hopefully he can keep it together.

When discussing the huge influence my family has had on my life, I really don't know where to start. I could easily write a book on the subject. I suppose it goes without saying that the primary influence on any child's life is their parents. Hopefully, without speaking in generalities or in hyperbole, I can make the case that this is true in my case. 

As a young boy, I guess I looked to my father as my role model. I think I still do for the most part, probably more now than ever. As I've gotten older, I can see all that he did to provide for my brother and I, all that he sacrificed and all that he shared. My dad developed polio at a young age, so he grew up an undersized, rather frail boy with a serious case of asthma. I know he's had numerous surgeries to stabilize his back and legs due to the polio. But when I was growing up, he never betrayed any sense of pain or discomfort. He'd always hit me fly balls or play basketball with me, even though I'm sure it wasn't comfortable for him. He always busted his ass to provide for the family. But he was always stern. He would quickly put me in line whenever I stepped out. He had a look of utter disappointment that was just crushing. He rarely ever yelled at my brother and I, but we knew we were in for some hell if we ever saw that look. 

Much like my dad, my mom had to deal with constant discomfort due to her Lupus. She also has a history of back trouble which has laid her up on several occasions. But she always found a way to be a constant, steady and loving influence in our lives. She was my scout master while in Cub Scouts, and for trying to corral that group of kids should have earned her a Noble Prize. She'd always come to my ball games, often keeping score. At home, she was the prototypical mother. She was the one we turned to whenever we needed nurturing, comfort or a damn good meal. 

If there was an downside to living in such a great home, it is that you don't want to leave. And this was the case many times throughout my life. In my early adolescence, I'd often stay at home with my folks rather than go out and hang with friends. That's not to say they were overly protective. They'd often push me into getting out of the house. But I never really saw any reason to, at least until high school.

My parents themselves came from drastically different backgrounds however. My dad's parents are probably some of the sweetest, most genuinely loving people I have ever met. Even after being married for more than 60 years, they still behave like newlyweds. My mom on the other hand had a much rougher go of it. Her father died when she was 11, leaving her with an exceptionally stern mother and four siblings sharing a small trailer on the outskirts of Las Vegas. 

What was remarkable was that her mother turned into such a softy by the time my brother and I were born. Maybe it was because we were her only grandchildren, but we never saw the cold, austere woman my mother so often spoke of. Instead, she was exceptionally sweet. 

Early in 1987, my mom's mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. My mother spent most of that summer in Vegas taking care of her. We'd move into my aunt's house for long stretches of time. Early in July of 87, she decided to go on vacation with her husband, so my family had the run of the place. I don't think my brother or myself really appreciated the gravity of the situation, at least I didn't. At all of 9 years old, I didn't realize that I was slowly watching someone die. I knew what cancer was, but for whatever reason, no matter how sick or frail she got, I didn't worry that I was spending my last days with my grandmother. I always thought she would just get well. 

I don't recall if my parents ever sat my brother and I down and explained the situation to us or not. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious that she was not going to make it. By that point, the cancer had spread all over her body. All we could really do was make her final days as pleasant as possible. 

So, my brother and I would occupy ourselves the best we could, often by watching Cub's games on WGN. My dad would take us around Vegas, showing us the sights and taking us to my favorite place in all of Nevada: the Clark County Natural History Museum. 

One saturday I begged my dad to take me to the museum yet again. He obliged. As we were about to leave, my grandmother called me into her room. She was laid up in bed, looking frail and sickly. Her hair never really grew back after her chemo treatments. She asked me where we were going and I told her. She then dug out some money from her purse and gave it to me, saying with a smile, "I'm probably not going to be around for your birthday, so go get yourself something." I stood there for a moment, flabbergasted. I didn't know how to react. She laid there for a moment, smiling, then told me to get going and have a good time. 

After we went to the museum, my dad took me by Gemco or Target and I picked out a toy to buy with my grandma's money. As soon as we got back, she called me into her room again, and asked me to show her what I had gotten. I don't remember exactly what I got, but she was fascinated by it. It was probably the last joyful moment we shared together. 

My aunt returned shortly thereafter, so we went back up to Sacramento. All seemed well for a spell, then my mom flew back down to Vegas. Soon afterward, my dad called my brother and I at home. Our grandmother had died.   

When my mom used to tell me the horror stories of her youth, she'd always end them with, "...and I promised myself that I would never raise my own children that way." Thankfully for my brother and I, she held true to her promise. Yet, despite the scars of her own childhood, she never held any bitterness towards her own mother, especially during that summer. She gave everything of herself to care for her. 

And yet, it still didn't seem real to me. We flew back to Vegas a couple days later and drove directly to the viewing. I remember my grandmother was wearing a wig to cover her patchy hair. She was plastered with tan make up. She looked more like a wax statue than the woman I remembered. Everything was so unreal, as if that wasn't her lying there. 

And then I saw my mother cry. Up to that moment, I don't think I had seen my mother cry at all, not that summer, not ever. It took placing a rose into my grandmother's casket for my mother to finally break down and for me to realize the finality of everything. I couldn't try and comfort myself with fantasies of her suddenly waking up or being back at my aunt's house, waiting to tell us that it was all a joke. It was the end. 

I never took a smile away from anybody's face.

From some reason, I've been obsessed with this song today. I'm a sucker for a good 80's anthem. They always makes me feel like a million bucks. 

Though if I remember correctly, the singer was an alcoholic and is now dead. That kind of puts a damper on things. Hmm. 

Another season passes by.

To preface, I hope this entry isn't perceived as me bitching about my childhood. If so, my apologies. The reason I say this is that I have no reason to complain about anything that happened while growing up. I've been blessed with two loving and supportive parents. I never faced any particular hardships growing up either. I just really want to talk about the period in my life (and most kids' lives, I'm sure) when they start to grow up. 

It seems to me that my years in 7th and 8th grade were a time in which I realized that the world didn't revolve around me, that narcissism and self-interest where no longer the havens of a maturing adolescent. It was when I started thinking of a world outside of myself. 

When I was a kid, I was fearless. Bulletproof. I didn't think anything could touch me. I recall one summer we were driving back from South Dakota and we stopped at some canyons in Utah. I nearly gave my mom a heart attack when I decided to walk along the very edge of the cliffs. I'd occasionally stop to peer into the canyon, the tips of my toes barely clinging to the earth. I'm sure I could have easily lost my balance and fell to a certain death, but it never occurred to me. I was invincible. 

I also had a tendency to drive my brother crazy because I expected him to cater to my every whim. If I wanted to wrestle, we were going to wrestle. If I wanted to go swimming, by golly it was going to happen. Our last summer in Arizona, my mom decided that being housewife was tiresome and got a job working at a clinic, meaning that my brother and I were left home unsupervised. I would antagonize him to no end, often leading to all day brawls. One time, I drove him so mad that he threatened to shoot himself in the hand with a bee bee gun. I called his bluff and sure enough, he spent the rest of the day going at the doctor's getting a bee bee dislodged from his palm. I was absolutely incorrigible.

Things started to change somewhat when I got to the 7th grade. For the first time, I started feeling lots of anxiety. At first, this anxiety was only problematic when I played baseball. Then it started becoming almost all encompassing. And I still don't know why. I suppose I could just chalk it up to getting older, to gaining a higher level of consciousness. Maybe it was the first time I really started asking questions about myself that I didn't know how to answer. For the first time, I really had to ponder on how I fit into my world, on what kind of person I was going to be. 

And I hated it. I still wanted to be the kid who thought he could do anything. And maybe I could have. I would just always find myself questioning everything, questioning my motives and worse of all, my abilities. I didn't know how to make sense of the world in front of me. 

Things were probably at their worst during the 8th grade. Kids in generally are especially cruel around 12 and 13, and I learned that the hard way. One day, I told one of my best friends that my mom suffered from Lupus, a disease that turns a person's immune system against themselves. I didn't think anything of it. Come the next day though, I had random people asking me how long my mom had been suffering from AIDS, if she was going to die soon. I was absolutely livid, so I confronted him about it. He offered no explanation. Apparently he had no motivation to do it at all. In fact, he was upset at me for getting angry with him. 

For the rest of that year, I didn't feel like I could trust anyone. My anxiety only got worse as the year progressed and I started feeling more alienated. I just wanted to be left alone. 

Thankfully the clouds cleared for the most part by the 9th grade. Day by day, I started to learn a bit more about myself, about my place in the world. The world finally started to make a bit more sense. 

To this day though, I still get snake bit by my anxiety. I still have a habit of questioning myself, and it can become absolutely paralyzing. There are still times when I feel like I did back in 8th grade, when I just want to escape. When I wish I had total control over my world. But if I learned anything from my adolescence, it's how unattainable that is. 

Take me out.

I'm not sure what my first exposure to baseball was as a kid. I started playing at a very young age, probably during the second grade, but I can't recall what inspired it. I assume my dad probably nudged me into it. But it didn't take me long to become a complete baseball junky. 

Around the summer of 1985, I realized that one of the local stations in Arizona (where I was living at the time) broadcast a slew of Los Angeles Dodger games. I spent a lot of summer nights sitting in front of the TV, watching Pedro Guererro, Mike Marshall and Steve Sax battle the likes of the Giants or the Cardinals. I started learning the game in an academic sense: what hit and run meant, when to bunt, etc. I stayed glued to the TV all through 85 and into 1986 watching all the baseball I could. 

In August of 86, my family moved from Arizona to Sacramento. Moving to a new town only increased my baseball obsession. I had no friends to play with at first, so I stuck to the people I was familiar with: my favorite ball players. I started collecting baseball cards around this time as well, and I'd spend much of my free time sorting though stacks of cards, memorizing the names, the teams, their stats, everything I could. 

Moving from Arizona to Northern California demanded a huge change in my team loyalties. I had been a Dodger fan for a few years, and I continued to be one for a couple years following the move, probably cause my favorite player at the time, Steve Sax, was a Sacramento native. But in 1987, it was near impossible to watch Dodger games in NorCal, bar for the few nationally televised contests. Instead, I started watching the Oakland A's. Back then, they were a young, up and coming team. Jose Canseco was the defending AL Rookie of the Year, and they opened the season with a rookie at first: Mark McGwire, who would soon replace Sax as my favorite player. 

I think my dad got a sense that both I and my brother were becoming baseball nuts, so he took us to our first game early that season. We made the short 90 minute trek to Oakland to watch the A's battle the Minnesota Twins. I remembering walking through the concourse to our seats, and as soon as I saw the field, I felt like I had seen heaven. Now to those who haven't been to a game in Oakland, the stadium there has more in common with a medieval dungeon than any form of paradise. But I didn't know any better. I was just completely awestruck by the magnitude of it. I think it was at that moment that I decided that I wanted to be a professional ball player.

I was also playing ball during our first spring in Sacramento. I don't recall much from that first year, apart from our team not being very good. Our coach tried to make a pitcher out of me, but I think that lasted all of two innings. The one thing I took away from that season was a new friend. All the friends I had made since moving to Sacramento were fairly disinterested in baseball, so it was great to finally meet someone who was as obsessed as I was with the sport. 

The spring and summer of 88 was probably when I reached the peak of my baseball obsession. My little league team that season won our division and made it to the Tournament of Champions, a first for our league. Up to that point in my playing career, I had always been a great practice player, but I would tend to play too tight, too cautious during the games. That started to change early in the season, when I belted a two run "homer" in the bottom of the ninth to kick off a comeback win. After that, I played with a fire that I hadn't previously. 

I spent practically all my spare time doing something, ANYTHING, baseball related. I'd harass my brother into playing stickball in our driveway every weekend. When he wouldn't, I'd put a board up against the garage and pitch for hours on end. Or, I'd grab my bat and practice my swing in the backyard, often using my reflection from our family room window to keep tabs on my form and mechanics. I was always imagining that I was doing great feats, whether it be hurling a no hitter or hitting a game winning home run. I was determined to make it to the Bigs. 

My baseball card collection was starting to get out of hand, taking up as much room in my closet as my wardrobe. The walls of my room were plastered with posters of my favorite players: McGwire, Canseco, Rickey Henderson. I lived and breathed baseball. 

That summer, the A's were dominating the American League, eventually making it to the World Series against my once favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. I had no conflict of loyalties in me at this point. I wanted my A's to annihilate them. At first, it looked like that was going to happen. The Dodgers seemed completely undermanned, especially with the NL MVP, Kirk Gibson out with injury. I thought the series was over when Jose Canseco hit a homer early in game one. I thought it was finished. But the Dodger's managed to rally back to within one. I felt great knowing that we had Dennis Eckersley coming in the ninth to wrap it up, giving us a 1-0 lead. Then Kirk Gibson hobbled to the plate and broke my heart with one swing. I was inconsolable after his game winning homer. I just knew then, at that very moment, the Dodgers were going to win the series. And they did. 

That fall, I moved on to the seventh grade, I started to notice that I was rather small for my age. I started to worry that I might not be able to keep up with the kids who were obviously much stronger and faster with me. I still managed to keep up in PE class, which is probably the only reason I wasn't beat up on a regular basis, but I was completely unsure if I could compete on a higher level. My desire to play hadn't died, but my confidence started to wane. It was with this mentality that I started what would turn out to be my last season of little league. 

Since I was to be 12 that year, I had to play in a more advanced league and at first, I struggled. I started playing tight again, too afraid to make a mistake. I was still a good practice player, but I couldn't turn it on when it mattered. I puttered about all season, never really able to turn it around. There was never a moment at the end of the season where I said to myself, "I've had enough." In fact, I would still throw around every chance I got. I would still practice my swing. 

But when it came time for sign ups the following spring, I didn't want to do it. My dad tried to get me to try out for the 8th grade team and I refused. My anxieties got the best of me. I didn't want to play with that constant worry that I'd mess up, that I'd cost my team the victory. I was sure I was too small to hang with the bigger kids. Never mind that several of my friends, who probably weren't much bigger than me, were still playing and doing well. For whatever reason, I didn't think I could do it. I never gave myself the opportunity to succeed.  

Even after I stopped playing, I still collected baseball cards for several years and still made the pilgrimage to Oakland 4 or 5 times a season. But that too started to ebb once I got into high school. By then, basketball was my primary sport and while I had no illusion that I would achieve any kind of success at it, I didn't feel the anxiety I did when I played baseball. I could just go out and play.

Through my college years, baseball was mostly an afterthought. I would go to the occasional game and play catch here and there, but baseball was never on the forefront of my mind. That started to change a couple years ago when my friend Evald invited me out to hit some balls with him. After a couple pitches, it felt as if I had never stopped playing. I was hitting the ball well. My arm still felt strong. I started to wonder why I had given up the game in the first place. We would regularly sneak onto whatever field we could and hit. Then, last spring, we started a team in a local recreation league. And it all came back, both the good and the bad. I was still a great practice player...but I was still tight and cautious come game time. Dealing with that anxiety is still a struggle, often week to week and game to game. I guess the kid in me is still alive. 

 

Hit the bottom and escape.

I'm going to keep this one short and just let the song do the talking. I prefer the earlier live versions for their greater sense of urgency and longing. Without further ado, Radiohead's "Arpeggi."

Thus, We Begin...

I'm not too familiar with classical music. I couldn't tell the difference between Handel and Bach if my life depended on it. So when watching Malick's "The New World" for the first time, I had no idea who wrote this wonderfully moving piece of music that was used at three very specific times during the film, and it was driving me nuts. I was becoming obsessed with this overture that was so simple, but when used in conjunction with Malick's imagery, nearly brought me to tears. 

Thanks to the wonder of IMDB, I found out that this piece of music was the Prelude to Wagner's opera "Das Rheingold." My friend Andy's dad described Wagner as, "real German music," and after listening to the opera, I would say he's absolutely correct. I don't know if I've ever heard music so bombastic, so epic, so humorless. I had no idea what the story was about (you can discover for yourself here), but I could immediately feel the mythic quality of the music, and it rocked me to my core.  

Here's a really bizarre animated adaptation of "Das Rheingold" for your viewing pleasure. 

Part One:

Part Two:

Part Three:

Perspectives Musicales

Before I start any project, I really have to find the soundtrack for it. This doesn't necessarily mean that I have to find the music that I intend on using in movie, but I have to listen to something that captures the feel of piece while I write the script. 

At the time I was starting to conjure up "Chupacabra," I was listening to a lot ambient music. Ambient is kind of a tricky genre, as it often sounds like some guy just alternating between three drones, which can quickly become tedious and nearly coma inducing. But on those occasions when it's done right, it's damn moving. 

Somehow, I came across the music of Tim Hecker, and his music really helped to shape the tone and atmosphere of what "Chupacabra" turned out to become. After I came up with this very basic premise of what the film might be about, I sat in front of my computer and watched my cursor blink, not really knowing where to go next. I put on Hecker's "Harmony in Ultraviolet," and the feel of the movie came into place almost instantly. I started to feel and see these moments of great beauty, but there would always be a rumble, some discord that would keep things off balance. Nothing is settled. Everything remains fractured.

Likewise, Arvo Part's music has helped shape the emotional tone of the script. Part's music, especially his orchestral work, tends to have this great sense of spiritual yearning, of reaching for something more. Juxtaposed with Hecker's music, Part's work provides this great tension between that which is unsettled and the yearning for something greater. It's that tension that I'm trying to instill into "Chupacabra."

Here's a couple vids. Please forgive the two minutes of randomness that precedes the Hecker video. The live performance is really great once you get to it. Enjoy:

Tim Hecker

 

Arvo Part

...and now it's time to continue on.

After a brief sabbatical in the lovely fields of Southeastern Wisconsin, I've returned to the heat and smog of Los Angeles. Now I'm wondering why I came back. Oh yeah...I finally got a new gig. Which, after 8 months of being unemployed, is nice. The company's called Machinima...go check out their work. 

So far that's how the story goes...

I'll be taking a short break from blogging over the weekend to visit my brother and his wife. To tide you over, here's a little something to make you feel good:

One of these days, I'm going to get organizized

There are two films that made such an impression on me while in high school that I decided to pursue film making as a career. One was "A Clockwork Orange." The other was Scorsese's "Taxi Driver."

Now, growing up, I never really watched "serious" movies. I was a huge Star Wars nerd in my youth, and for some reason, my parents let my brother and I watch some darker fare like "Excalibur" and "Time Bandits." But for the most part, we got a steady diet of 80s comedy. Films like "Strange Brew" and "Johnny Dangerously" were in constant rotation. As we got a bit older, my dad would start bringing home flicks like "Big Trouble in Little China" and "RoboCop." He took my brother and I to see "Total Recall" in the theatre. While quality entertainment (and indispensable in my mind), none of these films are what most serious cinephiles would call classics. 

So when I first saw "A Clockwork Orange" and "Taxi Driver" while in high school, they hit me like a ton of bricks. I had never seen films so primal, so raw. I was instantly obsessed with tracking down films of a similar ilk, voraciously watching IFC and Turner Classics, trying to catch up on the thousands of movies that I had missed. 

I recently watched "Taxi Driver" again, and I instantly saw some parallels between that film and what I want to do with "Chupacabra." Both films, in a broad sense, have characters who are delusional, who find meaning in the creation of their own reality. Though I have a feeling that the end of "Chupacabra" will be nowhere near as violent as the conclusion of "Taxi Driver." Check it out:

About three years ago, I did a short called "An Alright Start," and I honestly should have given Jean-Luc Godard a credit at the end of the film. That's how much of an influence "Contempt" has been on my own work. The film is such a raw, exposed nerve of emotions and resentments. The apartment scene in particular is terribly painful to watch as you witness the utter lack of empathy and the total breakdown of communication between Brigitte Bardot and Michel Piccoli. But the scene (or the movie) never becomes grotesque or maudlin or melodramatic. Much more is left unsaid than discussed. Very little is ever resolved. 

There is one shot in the apartment scene that I specifically ripped off in my short, which you can check it out here (clip 2). I also tried to appropriate the feel of that scene as much as I could. Hopefully I was successful. 

There's another thematic element that runs through "Contempt" that has been a large influence on "Chupacabra." Namely, it's the battle of the romantic versus the realistic. Michel Piccoli's character (Paul) incapsulates this dialectic perfectly. He freely admits to taking the screenwriting job for the money, then pines for the days of being poor and writing plays and pulp fiction. The use of Georges Delerue's sweeping score often plays counterpoint to the simmering resentments between Paul and Camille. But it's Godard's use of Homer's "The Odyssey" that has been especially influential on my current project. There is perhaps no greater juxtaposition of the mythic and the mundane than exists between the epic journeys of Odysseus and the pettiness of the modern world. 

Here's a interview with Godard shortly after the release of "Contempt." Enjoy:

Circumstances require me to keep this post on the shorter side, and for that I wish to apologize. I'll get in as much as I can. I've been a big fan of Terrence Malick's work since I first saw "Badlands" while in college. I recall seeing "The Thin Red Line" on opening day, and while waiting to get in, the audience from the previous screening was exiting, and I overhead this one guy, probably about 16 or 17, say, "if I wanted poetry, I would have read a book."

Even though the kid hated the flick, he got it right. Malick's work is visual poetry. I'm not going go into a long winded dissertation about his style. I'll just say that if you love film, and you haven't seen any of his work, do so immediately. 

The ending scene of his last film, "The New World," is easily my favorite of his oeuvre, and perhaps one of my favorite movie moments ever. In the many times I've seen it, I can't think of a time when it hasn't made me a blubbering mess. 

So here it is. Keep in mind, this is the end of the flick, so spoilers abound. Another quick note: the music used is the overture from Wagner's "Das Rheingold," I work I'll comment on in another post. That said, enjoy:

I'd be crazy not to follow where you lead

In my last post, I spoke of the impact "The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford" has had on me. During the early days of meditating on this idea, I had a lot of additional influences and inspirations working their way through my skull, and most of them found their way into the story. Here's a partial list:

The films of Terrence Malick

Jean-Luc Godard's "Contempt"

"Taxi Driver"

The music of Tim Hecker and Arvo Part

The opera "Das Rheingold" by Richard Wagner

Radiohead's "Arpeggi"

Baseball

My childhood, specifically the 7th and 8th grades

My family

Homer

Books about cult leaders and gurus. 

Later on, I'll go through and try to tie this rather random list together, if that's at all possible. 

For the classically inclined, here's Stars of the Lid's cover of Arvo Part's "Fratres (For String Quartet)."

And for those who are not, here's something on the lighter side: the sequel to the internet sensation "Cars."

The fear of things that don't exist.

I used to work with a guy who thought that supernatural forces, be they ghost or demons, would try to attack while he slept. He'd wake up, and "see" this shadowy presence lurking over him, pinning him to his bed. But he could only lie there in horror, unable to move. For centuries, people have had similar tales, and they often believed that an incubus or succubus hovered over them, trying to violate their souls. 

We now know that they most likely suffered from sleep paralysis, and what they saw were not demons, but hallucinations. But before modern science had an diagnosis for the horror they had to ordeal night after night, they came up with a tale to try to explain what they thought was unexplainable. They created a myth. 

Much like the legends of the succubus, or those of the Greco-Roman gods, El Chupacabra is  a myth. So I guess in a rather roundabout fashion, that takes us back to the quote I mentioned previously, "El Chupacabra symbolizes the fear of things that don't exist." Or put another way, the tale of El Chupacabra is an attempt to explain that which we can logically not. So I got to thinking again, how this title that I had fallen in love with quite randomly could lead to a story...

Well, what if there was a person who decided, consciously or otherwise, to turn himself, figuratively speaking, into a Chupacabra? What if someone created their own myth to explain things that they otherwise couldn't understand? There was the connection I was looking for. And with that, a story was born. 

Now, I feel like I'd be a bit of a chump if I rambled on about what this story's about in any specific terms...so I won't. I'll drop hints, talk about some of the inspirations and influences behind the story and maybe even post a couple script pages here and there. We'll see what happens. 

But I will talk about one specific influence right now because it deals very much with the idea of myth. Around the time I was brainstorming much of this stuff, I was totally enamored with Andrew Dominick's "The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford." And to those you haven't seen it, run and get a copy immediately. You won't be disappointed. Hell, I'll embed the trailer below if you'd like a taste. The film deals extensively with the themes of hero worship and the construction and destruction of myth...but enough of my rambling. Just do yourself a favor and watch it. 

Where do I start, where do I begin...

I'm not good with titles. At all. I'll probably name my first born after whatever is right in front of me, so don't be surprised if one of my kids is named Bed Pan Larsen. 

That said, I figured I should give a little back story as to why "Chupacabra" is entitled "Chupacabra." Back in October of '07 when Radiohead released their latest album, I became instantly obsessed with this one line from the track "Faust Arp." During the second verse, I thought I heard Thom Yorke sing about "Chupacabras." Turns out he was saying "duplicate and triplicate," but based on his tendency to mumble his lyrics, a mistake is bound to happen. Anyway, I didn't know much about Chupacabras apart from a vague notion that they were the Latino equivalent of Bigfoot. So I decided to do a little research, and ended up on El Chupacabra's  Wikipedia page. While reading the entry, one quote stuck out beyond all others: "El Chupacabras also symbolizes the fear of something that doesn't exist."

And then it was decided. I was going to write a script entitled "Chupacabra" despite the fact that I had no idea what the story was going to be about. I was just going to use that one quote as inspiration. Then everything started coming to me...

But I'll get into that next time. For now, a brief history of El Chupacabra to the strains of Kanye West's "Jesus Walks." 

Big Ideas (Don't get any) from 1030 on Vimeo.

yes we can.

This is it...

Hello there, one and all. Probably closer to one. I'm not sure what to say exactly in this inaugural post, though I suppose I should make it a bit of a prologue of things to come. And so I shall...

Firstly, let me introduce the premise of this enterprise. I'm going to attempt to blog, down to every excruciating detail, the development of my latest script/movie idea (currently titled "Chupacabra" but shit changes)from the first keystroke to production and release and so on. That's the hope. 

With that said, there will also be random posts about movies, books, TV, my dog, my unemployment, baseball, poop, Kierkegaard, etc. Essentially anything that pops in my head. Maybe it'll be interesting (doubtful), perhaps even insightful (highly dubious)...I suppose it'll be an adventure for all involved. 

With that said...away we go.