» Fringe Blog – Writing on Film, Culture, and Things on the Fringe

Fringecast 24

jelewis8 — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 07:18:12 +0000

S’marvelous. S’wonderful. S’Fringecast.
That is right, gentle and wrinkled people of warm and cold climes. Fringecast has returned. Amazingly, we’ve noticed nearly a 100% drop in listenership (is that a word?) since we stopped airing Fringecast nearly a year ago. Seriously, where’s the love? Did you abandon us?
Sadly, that drop corresponds to just about the exact moment I took a full time job of servitude in the breast implant industry.
Thankfully, I have returned to the unfettered realm of freelance, and so we bring first to the docket a meandering and slightly edited discussion of all things trivial and nonessential, including our group haircut experience, Tim’s Bank of America fiasco (wherein he writes them an angry letter and nothing comes of it) and a frank and earnest discussion of breast implants. We also offer an improv segment from Tim and Joe.
Apparently, improv is the same thing as Fringecast.
The iTunes feed will get you what you’re looking for if you can’t download the episode directly in mp3 format. The Fringecast XML feed is available through a feed reader. All shows are archived by date, and can be accessed here.

Don’t Be Railroaded

jelewis8 — Tue, 26 Jun 2007 16:00:19 +0000

It’s hard to believe people still use railroads, much less get injured by them. I mean, it’s 2007. Where are our rocket packs and bubble domes and atomized reconstructive transportation beaming technology? I thought railroads went out of fashion when Atlas Shrugged dropped off the New York Times’ Best Seller list, but apparently it’s still a very common form of industrial and commercial freight transportation. One wouldn’t think railroad injury to be a common occurrence, but a number of people are affected by it every day. Several half dozen, I think. How many times do you really have to tell someone not to lie on the tracks?
Nevertheless, these guys (Yaeger, Jungbauer & Barczak) have taken it upon themselves to personally pursue a vendetta against evil railroad companies. It stretches back years to less happy times, when railroad companies ruled the roost and the Average American Joe Schmoe had no recourse when railroaded by The Man. If you want to hitch your wagon to this legal train, it’s one railroad encounter you’ll be happy to be part of. They’ll fight railroad companies who have forgotten what it’s like to be a member of the community, and you’ll be on the receiving end of a fat settlement.
Now who doesn’t love America? Because you’re next. Because Yaeger, Jungbauer & Barczak are heroes.

Casino Royale

jelewis8 — Thu, 07 Dec 2006 00:57:23 +0000

The obvious thing about the new Bond is he’s new. Daniel Craig is the wounded and damaged Bond just beginning his service to the Queen, amassing both his kills required for double-O status in a brutal and icing performance that will have viewers wondering just who this fellow is who relies not on quips and gadgets to win the day but brute strength and ape-like adherence to his mission and loyalty to the Crown.
In this sense, Casino Royale plays like a much more serious spy flick than we’ve been treated to in the last few installments, which had pretty much devolved to John Cleese levels of cheese. Given Bond’s new look and new plot, which has been adapted somewhat liberally by Neil Purvis, Robert Wade, and Paul Haggis (who apparently is responsible for every script currently in development, given his recent cash cow status as Hollywood’s “It” man), it’s not surprising that there would be some detractors. Thankfully, yours truly is not one of them.
Most sentiments boiled down to a dislike of the concept of a blonde Bond, though nowhere in the series is any particular hair colour necessary. As far as I know, only two kills is necessary to receive MI6 approval, and killer hair isn’t one of them. Craig plays Bond with cool detachment, making mistakes almost as often as he succeeds, and its this vulnerability and fallibility that gives us sympathy for his task.
After an unfortunate wide-open kill is caught on surveillance, M (Judi Dench) assigns Bond to a high stakes game of…poker. Yes, that’s right. No laser weapons from space, no hidden submarines or media moguls to fight. It’s down to aces as Bond must play against Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen), a terrorist financier who stands to win $150 million at the fabulous Casino Royale in Montenegro (much of the film was shot in Czech Republic and rogue signage can be seen in a few of the shots). Should Bond lose, Le Chiffre would be able to bankroll a terrorist organization who wishes to, what else, wreak terror upon an unsuspecting populace. To assist Bond in beating the statistics genius Le Chiffre, Bond is joined by the treasury agent who controls Bond’s cash flow Vesper Lynd (Eva Green) and her friend Mathis (Giancarlo Giannini).
Naturally, Bond performs unbelievable feats in which his intellect, shooting skills, and pure brute strength are called upon, travelling to exotic locales like Venice and Madagascar, meeting and sleeping with beautiful women, and of course, killing bad guys. But it’s a different Bond we see here, not the suave and urbane Bond given to us by Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan, but a killer, a lonely and sometimes naive bloke who nevertheless wants some measure of humanity, even if his job leads him to acts that are unspeakably cruel. We know he’s different when a bartender asks him whether he’d like his martini shaken or stirred and he replies with some petulance, “Do I look like I give a damn?”
The script engages in less verbal foreplay than has been the norm in recent Bond flicks, instead going for the throat with physical stunts and action sequences. But what’s more remarkable is the truth of the character who has been reimagined. Bond is not immortal, but a character with deep flaws and deep loyalties, whose decisions aren’t always the best, and whose tough shell exterior hides someone who might, just might, have a heart. If he’s not what you expect in a double-O agent, it’s time to rethink things.
The film has its flaws, mostly in terms of length and a few moments of sappy unbelievability, but overall, it’s a fine reimagining of the construct of Bond as we know it. It’s the best thing to happen to the franchise.
Fringe Rating: out of 5

The Big Turkey

jelewis8 — Thu, 23 Nov 2006 17:22:30 +0000

It’s been one of those holidays. It started two months ago, when I planned out a strategic, secretive visit to New York to visit my girlfriend Emily–a secret which was to have been a surprise, but due to my historically bad executive qualities, became quite a well-known thing in the Emily circle of knowledge. I “Plame” leaks within the relationship.
I flew out of LA Tuesday afternoon, and was due to arrive that evening at 11:58. I post dated some text messages so she would get them whilst I was in the air, but stupid advertising let that cat out of the bag. But she’d had her suspicions the day before, when I cagily answered her query about my Thanksgiving plans with a vague, “Oh, I’ll find some one to hang out with.”
The sad thing is, if I didn’t have anywhere to go, that would have been my real answer. Apparently, Emily has yet to understand that when it comes to me and planning, I’m as slack as they come.
I had flowers delivered to her building (under a pen name, no less!) and upon my arrival after a rather frightening subway ride into Manhattan, whereby I was sure I would be taken to the World Trade Center stop, which would have been a good twenty minutes away from where I wanted to be, but I digress…
I picked up the flowers and gave her a call–by this time it was 2am and she was aware of my plans, and had been for several solid hours. I met her at her door and wished her happy birthday, which was really what this was all about. Not Thanksgiving–sorry to shatter your illusions.
Needless to say, I was disappointed my surprise was less a surprise than a big giant failure, but the important thing is she’s stuck with me for a week, which is what long distance relationships are all about.
As for Thanksgiving, I trust this will find you spending it with loved ones and friends. And if you’re not, and you’re reading this, then clearly you are in need of some extra Thanksgiving wishes, so to you I send double Turkey portions of happiness, in case you’re low. All the best this day to you and yours.
Since I am with my girlfriend and I have a life with her that I don’t when I’m blogging, posting will be sporadic the rest of this week. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Because I do. It’s all love on this side of the table.
Seriously. Stop reading this blog right now. Go eat some turkey.

Those Big Jerks

jelewis8 — Mon, 17 Jul 2006 15:30:50 +0000

Apparently, there’s a war on. And this is a new thing in the sense that different people who have never before been killed…are being killed. This has brought loads of condemnation upon the killers, though I must note, a lot fewer people have been killed in this particular war-in-progress than the last major conflict started by some of the same people who started and fought in it. Anyway, this war is different from the other war currently happening in another location very close to the new war that’s occurring, though it’s a war of different reasons.
See, what happened was, there was an exchange of rocketry and various other projectiles, which are now so passe as to be nearly uneventful, at least as explained by the news media, faithful purveyors of the understated blood red headline (eg. Gaza Rocket Attacks Kill Two, Palestinians Still Not Mollified). Headlines like these are designed to mask both the perpetrators of the rocket attacks and simultaneously to imply that Israel is both to blame and is responsible for making the Palestinians happy (or whoever is at the other end of the Middle East Ire Stick–they all pretty much have it in for the Jews). Sidenotes like that are a bit off-topic, but they do illustrate the nature of war in today’s instant news-on-demand world.
So anyway, after a tiny tiny exchange of rocketry, two Israeli soldiers were kidnapped, a few others were killed, and now Israel is shelling the hell out of Lebanon. Did I mention it’s Israel’s fault for letting their soldiers to be kidnapped? For that matter, it certainly wouldn’t have happened if Israel didn’t have an army in the first place. So clearly we know who’s responsible for this one.
You have the usual tired grumblings from Old Europe, which is so out of touch with anything resembling even an Abstract, Surreal, or even Dadaist, much less a realistic portraiture state of the world, it begins to look and sound like a new and heretofore unseen art movement. You have Jacques Chirac point out what does seem to be the statement to end all statements when he says “One may well ask if there isn’t today a kind of wish to destroy Lebanon — its infrastructure, its roads, its communications, its energy, its airport.” Hmmm, one may well ask if there is such a wish. One may also well ask if France has an answer. Unfortunately, no, but Chirac does wax poetic and sobbingly Lennonesque when he asks “And for what?”
But that’s not the most amusing statement. Spanish Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero says of the conflict, “It will only lead to an escalation of the violence.” The violence will only lead to an escalation in the violence. I would like to nominate Zapatero as the person most likely to cease living because of death of some sort at some point in the future. Though at least he’s not living in France, where in October of 2003, lack of air conditioning killed more people than have died in this war so far. In fact, Old Europe’s statistical probability of killing someone just by signing a new constitution is heavier than the number of swing-and-misses experienced by the various Arab hitters who have stepped up to the plate from time to time thinking they had a pair. Not to say Arabs aren’t brave, or testicle-less. A minority of those that do have testicles have proudly ensured that each of their progeny believes Israel’s existence is a blight upon Allah’s wrinkly face, and with a pat on the back, strap that last velcro dynamite holder onto their kid’s chest with the instruction “Aim for the women and children.”
So it’s Hezbollah who kidnapped the soldiers. They’re always doing something crazy–they’re the Evil Knieval’s of the Middle East. Why should Israel bomb innocent non-Hezbollah citizenry in Beirut when they had nothing to do with the policies enacted by the outlaw terrorist organization?
Well, there’s that ugly word policy. And the outlaw terrorist organization? Elected by the free and democratic Lebanese people. Progress is usually defined by forward motion, not two steps forward, three steps back. But hey, blame the Jews. After all, they started it when they began to exist as a people.
Big jerks.

The Fourth of Beerdependence

jelewis8 — Fri, 07 Jul 2006 01:25:11 +0000

The 4th was pretty much what I expected, that is to say it was unexpectedly peaceful and low-key, despite the feelings holidays like the 4th engender in me. I’m still the kind of person who likes to wake up early on holidays just because they are rare enough to be worth less sleep. I hadn’t slept much in the previous twenty-four hours, but I wasn’t about to let that ruin my Independence Day, what with all the partying and drinking and getting rowdy that I’m obligated to do as a card carrying American on this holiest of declarative holidays.
We had started planning for a cookout the night before, purchasing enough meat to feed the country of Luxembourg, and calling six to eight of our closest friends for what we envisioned would be a small gathering, with intimate conversation being carried far into the night.
It became clear that this would not be the case as we began adding up the numbers. Apparently eight plus ten doesn’t equal twelve, as I had originally calculated, but still, eighteen isn’t a bad number to top off at. After all, it is the age of legality here in this great country of ours, not to mention the favourite number of Napoleon Bonaparte, who nearly conquered a few unnamed lands (American not included, thank you very much). However, I became slightly concerned when I started receiving calls from strange voices I did not recognize, asking me where the brew was.
I’m the kind of person who would rather save face and look foolish than ask what someone’s name is once they’ve told me once. I’m slightly Japanese in that respect. Anyway, I got a name that had an “Ah” sound, like Rob, or Scott, or John, or Bonny Prince Charley, and they sounded harmless, so I told them where we were and hoped for the best.
Meanwhile, people started to show up around 5:15 and from that point on, my memory just shows one text file filled up with lots of ones and zeroes. I’m pretty sure I stayed in the kitchen the entire time, cooking and heating things and organizing foods and drinking Guinness (thanks Jeff!) and directing traffic and attempting to feed myself with the occasional snacking bite, but it’s all quite a blur.
One thing I am sure of, is we had an unofficial headcount of 27, which was double our intended target party size. Thankfully, people had brought side dishes, and the entire affair was successfully lubricated with a steady supply of beer (thanks Jeff!), white wine, and soda, which I somehow missed out on until the very end. I missed my chance to consume my requisite two burger minimum, but did partake in a beer-soaked brat that surely would have had the German mercenaries who fought for the British defecting to our side had they but been given the chance.
Later, we all went up to the rooftop to enjoy some rather distant fireworks, which was a paltry end to a great party–some might even consider it the greatest party this city has ever seen or known about. I prefer to think of it in simpler terms: sweet. So we celebrated our independence in true American fashion; blunderingly organized, overindulgent, and to excess. It was a winning combination, which is why we are still the greatest country on earth.
Except for Luxembourg. Those guys rock. And I never found out who the mystery guest was. I’m betting it was Tom Cruise in disguise.

Waking Up To Grey

jelewis8 — Thu, 04 May 2006 01:57:17 +0000

I did the usually foolhardy thing and stayed up last night until around 4am watching movies. Recently we joined Blockbuster for their free two week mail-in DVD program, which is essentially the evil twin of Netflix, even though Netflix is already the evil twin of self-control; you never seem to reach the end of your queue, and you feel strangely compelled to watch as many DVDs as the postal service efficiency will allow you. Then somehow, with the free two week Blockbuster deal, we were provided with two coupons for a free rental each. John returned with not two, but three DVDs, so at this point we have nine movies. After last night’s amazing coup of good sense and a good night’s rest, we are down to just four films left to consume.
Last night began with Four Brothers, which was basically an excuse to give a bunch of racially diverse men guns and have at it on the streets of Detroit, which is apparently completely devoid of actual cops (or every day average citizens). Everyone in it is either a gangster, a former gangster, or an athlete. I’m not complaining though. It was a movie filled with lots of gunplay and violence, padded by that annoying thing called plot. Not even a good plot–the conclusion was about as predictable as a plate of spaghetti.
Next on the bounce was Eli Roth’s Hostel, which was National Lampoon’s Eurotrip without the Pope jokes. It divurges from the lame teen comedy a bit when the two main characters are kidnapped and slowly tortured to death by people who pay for the privilege of erasing another human being in various grisly ways, but it’s got no more gore than Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It’s certainly not as interesting, though there are a few neat moments. Moral noted: don’t go to Slovakia. Or if you must, don’t go with the intention of sleeping around with every firm-breasted Eurobabe in between getting crunked in rave dives that specialize in blasting spatially distorted bass sound waves through your inner ear.
Then came Downfall, which was a pretty decent depiction of the last days of the war in the bunker with Hitler and his cronies. Bruno Ganz was captivating and utterly convincing as the old softie Adolph, while Alexandra Maria Lara does a wonderful job of playing Hitler’s secretary Traudl Junge with pathos and empathy. The entire film has a sense of realism that matches Saving Private Ryan and Das Boot, showing with good depth the situation both in the bunker with Hitler and in the streets bombarded by Russian artillery. Characters are well drawn and the imagery is amazingly detailed and sensory.
We seem to have hit June Gloom early this year, as evidenced by the four days straight of grey clouds and somewhat floopy weather. This makes for good coffee shop time, but lousy for the sinuses. Breathing lately has been closer to snorting pool water, just not as much fun. Oddly enough, it’s worse during the day than at night, which goes counter to the usual medical maxims. Grey sky in morning, asthmatics take warning, grey sky at night, nasal delight. Slightly bastardized, but it’s the heart that counts. Smog may also play into it as well, though part of me refuses to acknowledge that smog even exists, much less clogs our breathing pathways and settles in like a bronchial squatter. Even when I see smog cloaking the downtown cityscape like an vampyric vapour (spoken in an Anthony Hopkins gutteral growl), I think of it as a blanket of protection against the sun’s evil rays. Blessed are the polluters, for they shall inherit the Pale Yellow Lung.
Though for all I know lungs are supposed to have a pale yellow hue. Might explain the phlegm I’ve…
Hey hey!! /Krusty_the_Clown Greeting

Regional Division of Hell

jelewis8 — Fri, 09 Sep 2005 00:33:26 +0000

I spent part of the morning at one of the regional branch offices of Hell, which of course was incorporated sometime back in the early 80′s. Well, technically, it was a separate company owned by Hell. No, not the airport. Yes, I’m referring to the DMV, or Devil’s Motor Vendor, voted 2nd Most Likely Place to Get Mugged Whilst Standing In Line (the first was a back alley called Shank Ya Avenue in Compton, for comparison). Actually, the branch I visited is in Culver City, which is like the Des Moines of Los Angeles proper. Except more Hispanics. Still, as safety goes, Culver City rates much lower on the murder/burglary/mugging scale than, say, Hollywood. On the other hand, rapes are apparently more popular here than elsewhere, so it depends on your perspective (and your gender).
It is astonishing to me that despite being in a city of 10.2 million people, every single person in the DMV looks exactly alike. I’m not talking about race or class here. It’s the cell phones. Everyone has one. Or two. I saw one businessman with an earpiece attached to a Sidekick (which has cellular capabilities). Then his other phone rang. Another thing: people seem to think that having a cellular phone is a free pass for ringtones with subwoofer-shattering volumes. This isn’t the Hollywood Bowl orchestra–it’s your phone. Despite what you may think, it is not the pinnacle of cool to have L’il Kim suddenly assaulting your ears from four seats away.
There’s all these subtle insults at the DMV. The ticket system is designed to reduce you to a compliant, docile creature, whilst the atmosphere chokes you with an intensity of white space. It’s a place you would send your hated in-laws if you could, a building without charm or grace, just straight white lines and a monotonous automated computer reading out ticket numbers. The process guarantees you will be a long term resident if you do not comply. Even anarchists follow the DMV rules. The lines dictate you do so. And that grim voice gives you hope, like a prisoner approaching parole, that perhaps, it is all soon to be over. And the ticket system is master over all. If you don’t have a ticket, you can’t move. Without a ticket, you are nobody, and that’s less than the no-name nobody who holds F072 in his hands. You have a ticket; you may not have a name, but at least you have a number, and that means that one shining day, your number will be called. You pity any fool who tries to buck this system. The system revels in conformity, delights in obedience…no, that would be giving it human qualities, and this is a place with less heart than a glass of water.
Ticket systems are usually designed around a combination of a letter and then some numbers. For instance, I was F072. Doubtless fulfilling one of the more obscure Murphy’s laws, your ticket is never on the “fast track”. The B tickets were flying by. G tickets were a little less common, but had a steady flow. And F? Of course, F was called a scant three times during the hour I was imprisoned. I suppose that makes me “special”. Not unique, but at the DMV, special is still a treat, except in its scarcity.
Once I finally got to the counter, my experience improved dramatically. I was treated with courtesy, shuffled through like any normal good citizen, and passed my test without studying, though I missed four questions. Why do I need to know what the speed limit is for vehicles carrying hazardous materials? Still, I have proved my driving worth to the State of California, and eagerly await my plastic laminated identification in the mail. And at least I don’t have to go stand in line at the post office to get it–that’s another essay altogether.

Mr. Slick’s

jelewis8 — Wed, 31 Aug 2005 09:57:07 +0000

Is there any reason you can think of to name your automobile repair shop Mr. Slick’s? Neither can I.
And yet a place right here in Culver City exists with that very name. And apparently is doing quite well, based on the number of referrals to the place I’ve heard since arriving. I myself have not been, having no desire to willingly hand over any portion of my bank account or credit card number to any business or individual who goes by the eponymous Mr. Slick, as upright and trustworthy as he may be. But the reason I know about it, other than hearing Mr. Slick’s praises sung from the lips of slack-jawed customers from near and far, is from my roommate John, whose 1997 Ford Taurus experienced what could be termed an “engine compression failure”–in Nick Hornby’s inimitable style, “half a broken heart”. It seems traveling up and down eight and ten degree vertical planes dragging over four hundred pounds beyond its max capacity will tend to rupture the various compartments and seals that make up the complex engine of the automobile. Sustained travel in this manner is incalculably bad (actually, it’s not incalculable–$1800 and change, according to Mr. Slick).
Still, the question still floating in the ether is similar to the query of “Why does Charlize Theron continue to get acting jobs?” Well, slightly different, I’ll allow. It is this: If you are a smart person (and I assume there are smart people here), why would you willingly choose to submit your sick vehicle to a place whose name conjures up images of poncy-eyed shoe salesmen from the 1940′s who wear Fop as if it’s a second skin? Is it morbid curiosity? Self-destructive impulse? Sleaze factor? Is it a rubbernecking phenomenon, or better yet, is it like watching a nature documentary on TV, only instead of the fruit-eating habits of the ring-tailed lemur, it’s the money-sieving ability of the local automobile scam artist?
Of course, this could all be considered slander, as Mr. Slick’s has never, to my knowledge, been guilty of anything untoward, least of all bilking hapless customers out of their hard-earned simoleons. Though technically, I’ve never accused Mr. Slick of anything other than having an unsavoury sounding name. And I think I’m well within my right to criticize such a poorly chosen name, ‘specially for an auto body shop. Imagine if you will a greasy-handed wrench jockey, a half a day’s worth of chewed gum schlocking around his mouth (which sounds like a wet dog jumping into a pool of custard), hair slicked back–the John Gotti of the auto repair world–and his grin, a gold tooth glinting out from around slightly pointed teeth, that only reminds you later of that fairy tale involving a cute debutante and her encounter with a forest lycanth. Do I paint a picture that’s at least mildly disturbing?
This was my very first picture when John announced he had taken his car to Mr. Slick. At first I thought it was a joke, because no savvy businessman would name his business after such a slimy name. And I have political precedent to back up my claim. Remember a guy named “Tricky Dick”? Or does the name “Slick Willy” ring any bells? Not for nothing were these men given monikers that reflected their particular nature. Not very flattering, are they? There’s just something repulsive about the adjectives, as if some viscous, slimy fluid were permanently part and parcel with their person, and if one were to touch them, they would be reduced to the self-same goop that besotted these political paramecium–or, they would be engulfed, nevermore to emerge.
Except perhaps as lesser politicians or auto body specialists…

Memorial Day Adventures

jelewis8 — Thu, 02 Jun 2005 05:31:18 +0000

If necessity is the mother of invention, who, may I ask, is the father? He’s got a lot of ‘splainin’ to do.
My Memorial Day weekend was a typical raucous affair, with the usual piling on of events in the normal, explosive method. I flew to Fort Worth, Texas to spend time with my two brothers. It’s a tradition to visit my older brother and his wife. In previous years, it has been my dad and I, but this year, my younger brother Noel made the seven hour drive from Fort Riley, Kansas.
The big plans included relaxing, trying to outdo each other in movie quotes and other male bonding techniques, and most consumptively (is that a word?), shooting a zombie movie. You know, just like that, like all other zombie movies, right?
We succeeded admirably at the first, never once stressing out or exerting ourselves, other than through the occasional rock throwing contest. The second was a bit of a draw, as we were all at the top of our games, having apparently ingested the entire Leonard Maltin Movie Quotes volumes 1 through 4 the previous week. We were loaded, though the bulk of our conversations seemed to revolve around Star War.
Speaking of which, I sacrificed myself for the greater good and watched Revenge of the Sith a second time with my brothers, which further solidified my belief in the idea of life after death, where one version of hell is watching the prequel trilogy on repeat for eternity. In a THX certified, digital sound and and picture theatre, allowing every cell in your eardrums and eyes to know that what you’re watching is pure grade digital suck. Oh yeah, and the seats are those pain-in-the-butt, uncomfortable jobs that leave your neck cramped after 5 minutes. And everyone around you is wearing Jedi robes or flashing light sabres, and it’s all you can do not to SCREAM as you try to paw your way out of the inky blackness of the horrible, horrible nightmare…
Picture of an eternity of pain, or life as we currently know it? You decide.
The third, which I mentioned as almost a footnote, was the most time-consuming activity, took the most toll on my psychic being, and was, by far, the most fun. I’ve never attempted to film a logistically challenging movie, but if this were in the running, it was quite an introduction. Fourteen zombies in full dress makeup, two character actors, and a third minor character, shooting with a target of ten to fifteen minutes running time, with a rapidly waning clock and inclement weather shadowing the entire process.
It confirmed my suspicions that I am either a sadomasochist or just enthusiastic about the craft, if not the art, of filmmmaking. What a rush. I had some rudimentary storyboards covering most of the non-dialogue action, plus shot lists and a schedule which was composed on the edge of a knife. There was some question whether we would even manage the relatively simple task of filming all the dialogue scenes in under two hours. I’ve found I nearly always overestimate on budgetary and time needs, for whatever reason. This was no exception.
Over a three day, twelve hour period, we shot roughly 78 minutes worth of video, some of which was test footage, but most of which is at least semi-usable material for the final film. And to top it off, we completed all the first team footage (second team footage can be filmed at leisure, on greenscreen) in plenty of time, despite a few hitches on the final day. I’ll save most of the dramatics for the eventual DVD release, but suffice it to say, it was a valuable and exciting experience which I got to share with my two brothers, and that’s not an experience that can be taken away.
Call it success!
At any rate, I am back in the saddle, working hard on our latest contract and trying to remain creative in my free time. It’s a task I feel more than up to the challenge for, and I look forward to relaying all my summer adventures as I attempt to put together what could be a very funny and somewhat scary zombie film.
Glad to be back.