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

The Audition

jelewis8 — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 06:22:11 +0000

Ah, the casting process. It’s kind of like waiting around in Hell’s foyer for an appointment with either Satan or one of his running mates. It’s warm, not hot, and you wait for longer than you anticipate. You think, well, it’s Satan, at the very least he’ll be punctual.
Not so. Lucifer is neither punctual nor tardy–he’s whatever you least need or like at the time.
But back to Hell’s foyer. It’s interminable waiting for your little actor friends to come to their audition time. Apparently, it’s Los Angeles, which means you show up whenever the hell you want. Granted, we’re not paying anyone, so I suppose it’s their right and privilege.
No hard feelings though. Our first two actresses didn’t show, and I’d had two others cancel on me before we’d even woken up, and with my fantastico scheduling skills, the result was a more than two hour wait before our first actress arrived at noon on the dot.
She rocked.
I was ready to end auditions right then and there, but then I recalled that the script contains two female roles. The search continued. Our next actress showed up fifteen minutes early, which was a nice change, and she performed admirably, enough to keep her in the running for Best Supporting Actress.
I won’t say much about the next actress. Let us leave it at this: I did not ask her about her availability.
Our next actress blew in fifteen minutes late, due to traffic issues, but it was fine for two reasons: I am infinitely patient when it comes to acquiring free work, and the actress really rocked. I mean, rocked the casbaugh, rocked. We’re talking the script suddenly became real, something you always hope for but never quite get when you work with amateurs. It was refreshing to see it happen, with the added bonus of seeing Tim’s reactions to her playing the scene as written. It was like watching a wounded hippo trying to escape an African riverboat’s propeller by doing underwater crunches whilst being mated by an amorous, mechanical shark.
No, that didn’t make sense, don’t try and decode it.
I said DON’T!
One more actress to go. Fresh from a facial, she puts on a good faith effort, but it’s hard to top something as stunning as what I’ve just seen. I’ve made my decision, pending a review of the audition tape.
And it feels like one more step taken care of in the long chain from pre-production to final film. What awaits? Besides twisted, indecipherable metaphors, of course…
Only tomorrow will tell.

Categories: audition, casting, actress, actresses, script, Satan, Hell

A Truth Universally Acknowledged

jelewis8 — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 06:31:59 +0000

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that on the day before a trip out of town, all hell will break loose and nothing you plan will come to fruition. I’m heading out of town for a week tomorrow morning, and natch, I have obligations and necessary contortions I must force my life into to accomplish all that I need before leaving. It never works out the way you envision, and today was more convoluted than usual. In spite of my intentions to the contrary, I found myself in want, not of a wife, but of more time.
It figures this would happen a day after turning twenty-six. I feel the weight of responsibility bearing down on me like a pack of piranhas. Not particularly heavy, maybe, but who cares when your various members are being chewed to pieces by the Amazonian water terrors. I used to have nightmares about piranhas, about swimming in muddy shallows in the middle of the South American jungle, about feeling the first tender nibble, and then the awful, awful pain as the entire flock of them launches en masse upon my calves and then my torso as I buckle with the extreme agony of being eaten alive.
That’s sort of what I felt like today, only metaphorically it was somewhat more nebulous and miasmic. By the way, I learned the word ‘miasma’ from a video game, and it has become my favourite go-to word for anything pertaining to clouds, confusion, or sheep. Try it out sometime. A swirling miasma of sheep. It grows on you, believe me.
So I have all these best laid plans, which started ganging aglee-ing by around 11:00am, when a trip to Best Buy to purchase microphone cables ended in a classic case of resident floor staff member with a look of either intense gastro-intestinal difficulty or confusion.
ME: Do you sell XLR cables here?
HIM: SKR?
ME: No, XLR. Like for microphones.
HIM: Hmmm, I have no idea. Ask that guy over there. His name is Allen.
ME: You’re very helpful.
So I go over to Allen. He gives me an appropriately baleful stare (down, as it happens, since he’s about six feet taller than me), then nods as if I’m harmless.
ME: Do you sell XLR cables?
HIM: FLR?
ME: X-L-R. You might know them as DMX 4.5, or…
HIM: Oh. XLR. For microphones.
ME: Yeah. For microphones.
HIM: I have no ide–wait. No. We don’t.
ME: Really? That’s strange. Seems like you would have something like that, seeing as how you have everything from washers and dryers to the latest XBox iteration. This is an audio component. Pretty standard cable. And you’re an electronics store, specializing in audio/video components and equipment.
HIM: I like XBox.
Okay, so some of that may have been dramatized for effect. But it sort of defined the rest of the day for me, which seemed to move in a slow motion tumbling motion. Everything seemed coated with a numbing pudding glaze, giving the day a sense of unaccomplishment, like everything I did was offset by the fact that it was very little in terms of actual productivity. I had a job interview which ended up lasting an hour and a half, even though I only talked to the interviewer for five minutes of that time. The rest was filling out paperwork. I took an English exam. We shook hands, and I didn’t get the vibe from him that we really connected, not in the way that I want to connect to a potential employer. I’d really like to get the eye contact that says “I’d buy you a drink right now if I wasn’t on the clock…and currently in AA on Step 4.” That’s the kind of soul connection I want. But that may be asking too much. Perhaps I should just go for them not battling an unexpected facial tic when I tell them how much I expect in a salary.
So life in LA after a year, right? It’s been a year, I should have stories, right?
The problem is, I’ve told pretty much all the good stuff, embellished by degrees and nuance heretofore unseen except with electron microscopes. Sure, there are moments of space, which I have kept to myself for either personal reasons or the fact that telling it would bore even the most boring bore that ever bored the crap out of everyone else by telling a boring story–even him–which leaves the blog entries from the last year. You can troll back through and find the gold among the fools, if you care to look. I know I promised a year in review, but this is pretty much it. I survived. I made it. I have a blog to prove it.
And that’s the modern myth.
Sorry, no Fringecast today. That was one of the ganged aglee’d thing that didn’t happen because the fates conspired with Betty Crocker to make that godawful pudding crap that was stuck to everything. We did have topics, and even a funky interview set up with a funky cool internet geek chick. But that just means next time will be ball-busting good. Or bad. Whatever 80′s term that indicates deferred Awesomeness.
I will be gone for the next week. Posting will suck at best. As in, it won’t happen. Go visit some of the sweet sites on the sidebar, or catch up on the Fringecast archives (also on the sidebar). Or go out and have a life for a week. Cuz you know you’ll be back. So will I.
Thanks for visiting. See you next week.

I Dream Of Beheading

jelewis8 — Tue, 28 Mar 2006 16:21:43 +0000

Note to self: Drink less Coke at 11:30 at night. Not the caffeine factor. It’s been playing hell with my dreams. Last night, I dreamt, in Technicolor, that I was camping with some friends and then a crazy islander ran up with a look in his eye that meant business, and proceeded to cut off my head with two sharp knives. There are four oddities associated with this event:
1) It happened in slow motion
2) I didn’t feel any pain from the severing
3) I was still able to think and see as my head rolled off
4) My last thought was to avoid splashing blood on my pristine white shirt. I did so by directing the arterial spray outward.
Alas, I never found out the fate of the white shirt. I woke up just as I saw the islander smile in satisfaction and run off into the jungle. I own that particular shirt that I was wearing. You’d avoid spilling your own blood on it if you could help it. It’s that comfortable. As for the islander, I seem to recall that he had suffered from abuses earlier in the dream at the hands of a miserable cur of a pirate captain, and he and I bore a slight resemblance to each other. The hazards of unconsciously creating a doppelgangbanger…
In case you haven’t seen it, check out my mashup trailer for V For Vin Diesel, which, if made, would probably be the single most testosterone-laden movie EVAR. The process of making it wasn’t too bad. Several hours in the editing cockpit, which included downloading trailers from other Vin Diesel flicks and cutting out the best parts, reassembling and adjusting dialogue, adding sound effects and finally picking music. All in the name of science. Or something. It was a fun project. Now if only I could get paid for it!
Wrote some more in Book 2 after taking all of last week off to pursue paying work opportunities. That’s the trick these days; making time to do what you must, but making sure there’s time left to do what you want. Sometimes there simply isn’t the means. It’s like putting Vin Diesel on one end of a see-saw and a tiny tot on the other. So I plug away. I am happy to note that I’m a quarter way through writing Book 2, though suffering from a frightening case of “How am I going to end this” shakes. I’ve got several scenarios in mind, none of them entirely satisfying. I have been trying to draw the threads more tightly, whilst guiding the comfortable world I constructed carefully toward dystopia, whilst selling my own theological, cultural, and philosophical market shares, all without becoming diluted or straying down the path of selfish pap and self-indulgent conclusions. I am trying to challenge myself with the point of the story as well as readers, and I certainly don’t want to sell anything short with the ending.
But that’s vague enough to be disinteresting, right? Sell today. Buy tomorrow. And by that I mean I’ll see you later.

The Lost Weekend

jelewis8 — Sat, 04 Mar 2006 01:07:25 +0000

In the words of St. Ignatius Loyola, “Dude.”
It’s Friday, which means it’s the weekend, and somehow, I have very little to say. I had a consulting job today with the firm I did freelance work with last month. I was expecting a two, two and a half hour job. It turned into six. Not bad, and I’ll be going back for a couple hours next week sometime. It’s all paid, which is nice, but it plays hell with my “regular” schedule, which consists of irregular writing and work time somehow stuffed into about ten hours.
I’m into Season 2 of Lost now, which is like watching Coyote Ugly set on Gilligan’s Island, without the stupid chuckles. Michelle Rodriguez is the stupid neanderthal-thing with breasts and it goes without saying that the show would be better off without her. Reports of her diva-like behaviour on set are interesting. Imagine the scene:
DIRECTOR: Alright, set up for two, let’s get ready people!
MICHELLE: Where’s my forehead enhancing cream?
PA: We used it to grease the dolly tracks.
MICHELLE: You die first.
[She proceeds to eat everyone on the cast and crew.]
Still, I loved the Season opener, and the stories have grown progressively darker. One of the best activities during a Lost episode is to guess parts of the plot, little details that the writers set up in the beginning and use as plot devices to drive thematic material. Our little trio (Joe, John, and I) of Lost enthusiasts have gotten pretty good at guessing at outcomes, and with our combined powers, expect to solve the mystery of the island by the end of this season. No website spoilers for us, thank you. We’re using our miiinnnndddd.
I think I had an idea for this post, but it sank into the quagmire of an early weekend. I’ll see you all Monday.

Hell’s Customer Support Line

jelewis8 — Fri, 10 Feb 2006 02:40:47 +0000

I am aggressively pursuing buying a home. In the current market, and given my current location, this means roughly $666,000, give or take a few thousand. Incidentally, that figure also doubles as the phone number for Hell’s customer support center. If Hell had a customer support, that is. I sincerely doubt it’s any good.
HARRY: Hey, it’s really hot, and I have these worms of fiery death biting me and crawling in and out of various bodily orifices. Is there…is there anything you can do for me here?
WORMSCREW, SUPPORT STAFF 666: Let’s see. Harry T. Peters. You were basically good when you were still alive, if I’m reading your file right.
HARRY: Yeah, yeah! Totally good. Straight as an arrow.
WORMSCREW: Okay. Oh wait. Hmmm.
HARRY: What?
WORMSCREW: What’s this mail fraud note? You went through people’s garbage and used their social security numbers to get free credit cards?
HARRY: What? That? No, that’s a mistake. Gotta be. Look man, I’m really dying here. You gotta do something about these harpies…
WORMSCREW: Oh, and this says you loved yourself more than your fellow man. That’s your problem.
HARRY: Look, all I’m asking is for a little relief. Is there anything I can do about it? I’m serious, these scorpion stings are breaking out into flaming pustules of leprosy. I think I can see the inside of my torso.
WORMSCREW: Well, that sounds distinctly like you denied Christ. And you were a vegetarian.
HARRY: Well I’ll be damned.
WORMSCREW: That about sums it up.
Still, it’s better than AOL. I once called AOL. Not because I was a customer, but because I got one of those free discs and I wanted to find out if I could get removed from their mailing list. I told them I didn’t want any more frisbees. They weren’t amused. But I stopped getting those cd’s.
I’m at day 28 of my freelance indentured servitude. It was originally a month-long tenure, but I was sick for two days, throwing my guts up into my toilet, which was a fun experience, and set me back by two days. Freelancers don’t get no sick days, like my daddy used to say. And it’s true. So I have to make up for ‘em. Which means I’m on til Monday. I’ve been offered a chance to go fulltime with the company, but I haven’t received an official offer yet. I’m praying about it and considering what might convince me to go with them. I might do it if the money’s right, because they also offer health benefits, which is a big bonus for me. But a lot will depend too on whether what they offer matches or exceeds what I currently make freelancing.
The nice thing about freelance work is you make your own schedule. The downside is your paycheck makes its own schedule, usually about the time you’re running out of your last paycheck. Which means you’re constantly on the downward slope, and getting ahead in the money game is about as difficult as going uphill on a bobsled (obligatory Olympic reference quota now a quarter way satisfied). Ultimately my decision will be as mercenary as I can manage. Natch, I will inform you when it happens.
The blog-a-versary celebration was filled with vodka and Veronica Mars. Much fun was had, and the martini gave me a nice buzz, due to the extra vodka I used for the affair. I think I could love vodka martinis for only the simple reason that they afford me the opportunity to ingest gigantic green olives the size of bubonic boils. You don’t know what a pleasure that can be, if you are in the right mood. Of course I love them for other reasons. That’s just reason #128.
How’d you celebrate?

Doom

jelewis8 — Wed, 26 Oct 2005 09:07:56 +0000

Doom. Well, it didn’t suck, per se.
Perhaps I should start over. Doom. It features a cast of about seven people who are just itching to get their guts spilled by some clever animated creature from Mars or Hell or wherever these movie monsters typically arrive from. It’s not unlike the John Carpenter movie Ghosts of Mars in which strange ghosts from an abandoned Mars civilization somehow infect the living with zombie-ism; the plots aren’t similar, just their relative stupidity and attraction to guys like me who try to see the beauty in all things, not just panoramas from the lens of Akira Kurosawa.
There’s very little to criticize here, due to the nature of the type of film it is. Films derived from video games automatically get a general “pass go” by critics because they’re already assumed to be bad. From there it’s just a sliding scale of atrociousness. As levels go, Doom ranks a little below the “Average Bad” rating, but only because it is actually, when you break it down, rather boring and staid.
When bad things happen at a remote scientific research station on Mars (Isn’t Mars, and anything on it, by definition, remote? -Ed.) Sarge (The Rock) is called to assess and correct the situation. He and his elite Rapid Response Tactical Squad, hardened space Marines who probably did not graduate high school, are called in to neutralize the enemy, retrieve the Union Aerospace Corporation’s precious archeological data, and close off the space portal connecting Earth and Mars.
They arrive to find a space station nearly deserted, with several top level scientists missing and the lovely Samantha Grimm (Rosamund Pike), sister to one of the Marines nicknamed the Reaper (Karl Urban), up to her eyeballs in disaster recovery plans.
Naturally, the bad things that go bump in the night quickly make a Reuben from the saurkraut Marines, leaving the two Grimms and Sarge to mop things up. Things take an interesting and unexpected turn in the last twenty minutes, but it’s not quite enough to change the fact that…it’s Doom. Let’s face it, the video games didn’t feature much in the way of story; this movie seems to be an homage of that fact, as its plot is about as thin as a cocaine-snorting Kate Moss.
And frankly, it doesn’t do enough with what it does offer. Excepting the opening five minute scene, we don’t see a baddie until an hour into the film, and then it’s lit like a black hole. The action is fairly tame, mostly unengaging, and in one particular stretch near the end of the second act, boring enough for me to take a look around the theatre for a few minutes, wondering when there’d be less chat and more splat.
The final act does give enough gore and mayhem to somewhat rectify the lame portion of the film, including a sweet five-minute romp from the first person perspective, a direct videogame-to-movie reference that had the audience chuckling and even elicited a few claps. This was definitely the highlight.
Just as all good things come to an end, so do mediocre things. Thank God for that. And thank God for DVD. This will make an fun, fast forward through the boring stuff rental.
Fringe Rating: out of 5

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.

Warren Beatty, etc.

jelewis8 — Mon, 28 Feb 2005 03:02:59 +0000

Who knew Annette Bening married the crypt keeper?
If Jamie Foxx doesn’t win something, I’m absolutely certain he will disintegrate in a giant puff of smoke.
What the hell did Renee Zellweger do to her hair?

Welcome to the Oscars

jelewis8 — Mon, 28 Feb 2005 02:58:03 +0000

Well, we’re about four minutes from four hours of the hell that is Hollywood’s self-congratulatory awards ceremony. I love it!
Lots of tuxedo-clads and fashion dresses that accent body parts. Hilary Swank is up now with Billy Bush, and I believe she’s going to tell about her upcoming starring role in the new Mr. Ed movie.

Constantine

jelewis8 — Tue, 22 Feb 2005 02:37:25 +0000

I watched Constantine over the weekend, and was amused for two hours. A gravelly, chainsmoking anti-hero, Constantine is a reworked American version of the original British Vendetta/DC Comics’ Hellblazer series by Alan Moore, whose previous beloved works, From Hell and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen have received less than extraordinary screen translations. Constantine has a few things going for it.
1). Keanu Reeves. Say what you want about the Lebanese actor’s onscreen chops, he’s a fun guy to watch. This one’s no exception, as he plays the supernatural detective with a “What the hell is your problem?” attitude that seems so very endearing for some reason.
2). A decent script. It isn’t perfect, but it shares a similar love for the material as the Spiderman scripts, whilst not needing to get hung up on every single detail from the original comics. It’s dark and witty, but plays the basic plot straight.
3). Director Francis Lawrence. Constantine is Lawrence’s feature debut, and he’s got some sequences that are pretty interesting. Overall, the look of the film is comic book-ey, with the right amount of fun to give it a face. In a world where Daredevil is the rule
The story is a bit convoluted, and sometimes sacrifices depth for skin-deep plot tanglings. Los Angeles is the city of smog and epicenter for a conflict between the physical and the spiritual plane. John Constantine (Keanu Reeves) is a man damned. He grew up seeing the spiritual dimension of angels and demons. He couldn’t cope, so he committed suicide, and for two minutes, resided in Hell. He was revived, and his suicide, a mortal sin, damned him from Heaven and God’s presence forever. Ever since then, he’s lived the life of a loner, an outsider who dispatches demons who seek to disrupt the “Balance”, a standing bet between God and the Devil, with all the souls of mankind at stake. Supernatural beings aren’t allowed to physically tip the balance in favour of God or the Devil, but can only influence humans to stray or be saved. The ones that do find themselves at the short end of John Constantine’s fuse. His acts of spiritual retribution aren’t selfless, though. He figures if he can send enough demons back to hell, God might take him back.
He has a number of supernatural tools at his disposal (holy shotgun, anyone?), is fully qualified to perform exorcisms (including one within the first fifteen minutes that is pure cinematic B-grade fun), and has human contacts who help him track down the supernatural n’er-do-wells, including Beeman (Max Baker), Father Hennessey (Pruitt Taylor Vince), and Constantine’s own apprentice Chas Chandler (Shia LeBeouf).
Enter Angela Dodson (Rachel Weisz), a police detective who thinks that her twin sister Isabel’s (also Rachel Weisz) suicide was actually a murder. She employs Constantine to help her track down the killer, but their relationship is rocky. He wants nothing to do with her at first, but soon realizes the forces of darkness are in search of something…or someone. She asks to understand, eventually demanding to be given the gift of spiritual sight that Constantine possesses. Apparently, the only requirement is a bathtub baptism.
Immersing Rachel Weisz totally in water allows her to see the spirit world, and also totally allows you to see through her shirt. Still, there’s not much titillation here, which may disappoint fanboys who define “sex-starved” by looking up video screen captures of various actresses’ cleavage. This is definitely an effects-driven flick, with lots of visions of hell, demons flying around, halfbreeds morphing from human form to demon and back, angels with very large wingspans, and even Satan himself, played with delicious Felliniesque and sulfuric panache by Peter Stormare. Throw in the androgynous Tilda Swinton as the angel Gabriel, and a big bad voodoo daddy priest named Midnight (Djimon Hounsou) and you have quite a little updated Miracle Play.
The plot is a wandering thicket of ideas. There’s some nonsense about the son of Satan wanting to reign on earth, and using Angela as a conduit from hell. There’s loads of alternative theology (whether Protestant or Catholic, you’re likely to find fault with some of the film’s more lively ideas), though the simple moral of the story, that selfless sacrifice is an act of love and the height of human idealism, is one that most people could share.
Constantine never challenges much, despite its rather winded theology and sometimes run-of-the mill effects. Whilst it runs a little long and seems at times pointlessly complex, it is too fun not to enjoy, at least for one viewing. Give the actors and director credit for taking what could have been a sub-standard comic book adaptation and making a classy, if one-viewing, hit.
The power of Christ compels me to give Constantine out of 5.