Down to the mononucleosis walls, E.C. is defined by one thing: a rampant and unerring professionalism. His services are renowned the world over as words like punctual, succinct, and gruff are bandied about. His gaudy resume is three pages thick but such things don't matter in a time of recession. The callers have quelled and E.C has been forced to take low ball offers from a rag tag bunch that is fresh out of film school to put it mildly. He works with them for three weeks. The professional rapport grows into burgeoning friendship. This lends itself to good natured ribbing before one announces to a room full of emissaries "E.C. is visibly aroused."
E.C. is confounded. His only retort: "I can see why your girlfriend left you."
Welcome to the world of filmmaking. I've been stuck in this world for the past three weeks with scant time to monitor e-mail, survey pornography, or live the lift of a human being in even the mildest sense of the world. I don't know if I can write anymore. Could creativity be washed away because of too much contact with Detroit Grizzlies? Of course not/I hope not.
I recently produced a documentary film about Detroit. Once ironically referred to as "Paris of the West", Detroit has degraded itself into a cesspool of strife and abandoned buildings with junkies milling about their corridors, wondering whether to assist or stab the neighboring film crew.
From the first time I picked up a camera and pointed the lens towards my Dad's bald head I knew I wanted to be part of this field. The pursuit of making something beautiful, creating the universe as you saw it held an indelible mark and allure. Sitting on couches with fellow wise cracking film school students, we'd watch a film. We'd ooh and ahh at a good film. If the film was bad? We'd let loose. Fuck manners. A bad movie deserves nothing but scorn. We'd mock the craft, the creation. Not even title sequences were immune. "Trajan? What an original font!" Followed by giggles of course. It's easy to degrade from one's high horse but after being in the fire I don't think I'll ever poke fun at a movie again. (Lie). For one thing, it's hard. Labor aside, filmmaking exists in a frenetic world where 16 hour days are the norm. You're weak if you want a family. Even weaker if you want a break. Work well and try hard and you might find yourself in the fraternity, labeled as a filmmaker with the extra paunch around your gut to prove it. I commend anyone whose ever worked to put a piece of life into motion picture form. If it's good? Then I fucking salute you. "Where is the ice?" "Do you have the permit?" "Where do we park?" These questions are among the hundreds I received daily. To be able to wade through this muck and realize you're making a movie is one thing, to do the same task with a vision for quality is the work of saints.
Why are so many movies bad? Dude, there's no time to think about the movie. Over the past three weeks, nothing has warranted a quiet consideration of the film's quality. In this industry the sole objective will always remain: GETTING IT DONE.
Enough about film. It's pedantic and droll. I never want to be the consummate professional acting affronted at invisible hard-ons. Life's a game and film should be too.
I told myself this was my philosophy for making films. I used it as an excuse to play football.
Football was a big part of our shoot. I skipped out on interviews, opting to play catch in the street. I would play with anyone around. This pursuit of sports brought me into friendships with crack addicts, Crunkstop, and whoever happened to be walking by at the time. This past Friday, we were stationed at a halfway house in Virginia. The responsible producer would've and should've kept tabs and arraigned dinner for the ravenous crew. It's a solid task but it's hard to get up for anything that doesn't directly help the film. I surveyed the grounds. A meadow stretched before me. I could;ve sat and watched it for hours but distraction laid in the left of my vista. A basketball hoop. Gathering up the ball, I surveyed the grounds and found an inmate willing to play. We played One-on-One with him ultimately ousting me 21 to 16. Most of his points were scored on jump shots with a touch that could be described as feathery. I was struck by this. If I were locked inside twelve hours a day, my muscles would jangle into a coiled ball. Given my freedom and a sphere, I'd be surprised if my shot didn't soar over the basketball hoop, let alone the entire state.
I considered myself a Detroiter since birth. I was born in the suburbs. I'm white as they come (I like Hall & Oates). When I first stepped into the city's dregs on a location scout I was terrified. Who knew what awaited me in the pitted houses and storefronts. Flash forward a single month. I'll go into the same areas, utterly comfortable even though there ain't a Pier One around for miles. In an abandoned building or crack den my first thought will be: Who wants to play?
This is a random collective of yammerings. It has to be the way. It's been so big, so intense, so eye opening that I'd have to write another book just to capture it all. If I know you, you'll be hearing about this from me for a long, long time.
I'm back.
I recently moved to Vallejo, California. A place I knew nothing about.
