Eisenstein in Guanajuato (2015)

In 1931, after an aborted attempt at making a film in Hollywood, acclaimed Soviet director Sergei Eisenstein received funding from author Upton Sinclair to go to Mexico and make a film there with his regular collaborators, co-director Grigori Alexandrov and cinematographer Eduard Tisse. That resulting film, Que Viva Mexico, was never completed (a version was edited together in 1979 by Alexandrov, to give an approximation of Eisenstein's vision). At the time, Eisenstein was riding high on the worldwide success of his trio of revolutionary films Strike, Battleship Potemkin, and October, and the trip across the European and American continents provided an opportunity to meet with luminaries in all fields across multiple countries.

However, his stay in Mexico proved to be a transformative experience for Eisenstein, as he immersed himself in the culture thousands of miles from Soviet Russia and Stalin. It is this experience that Peter Greenaway explores in his avant garde biopic, Eisenstein in Guanajuato (2015). Greenaway focuses not on the making of Que Viva Mexico, which quickly becomes almost a footnote to Eisenstein's trip. Rather, he examines Eisenstein the man (played by Finnish actor Elmer Back in a splendid performance), whom we initially see as a flamboyant, bombastic man in total charge of his public image. As production on his film continues to drag out, Eisenstein becomes intoxicated on the local culture and his admiration for the country's own recent revolution, but is also revealed to have extreme self-doubt about his body and his sexuality. It is through his relationship with his Mexican guide, the intellectual and academic Palomino Canedo (Luis Alberti), that Eisenstein goes through this personal transformation coming to terms with himself.

I had not heard of this film until doing some recent digging on the web about Eisenstein, and decided to watch it after just having viewed the entirety of Eisenstein's filmography. I wanted to see it while his films were fresh in my mind. Greenaway's avant garde approach is very well-suited to the subject of the revolutionary filmmaker, and conveys the swirling events that Eisenstein experiences as a stranger in a strange land.

It's interesting how this brief period of Eisenstein's life continues to hold such a fascination. Several years ago, film scholar Mark Cousins made a documentary video essay about his own stay in Mexico City, called What is This Film Called Love (2011), in which he walked around the city with a photograph of Eisenstein, attempting to experience something of Mexico as Eisenstein experienced it.

WWII Archival Footage of Bletchley Park Uncovered

CNN is reporting that previously unseen "secret" footage dating from World War II and filmed at the codebreaking facility Bletchley Park, has been unearthed and published online:
https://www.cnn.com/2020/04/03/uk/bletchley-park-footage-scli-intl-gbr/index.html

"The 11-minute video is thought to be a compilation of footage shot at the Whaddon Hall facility used by communication staff from the UK's Special Intelligence Service (SIS) -- also known as MI6 -- from 1939 to 1945, according to a press release from the Bletchley Park Trust published Friday."

Archival discoveries like this are always fascinating, especially when it provides us with glimpses of such rare subjects.

You can view the footage on the Bletchley Park YouTube channel here:

Adaptation (2002)

I remember back in the early 2000s, in the wake of the success of Being John Malkovich, there was a great deal of interest in the work of Charlie Kaufman. I haven't heard much about him lately, and couldn't tell you the last film that he wrote. I had seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in theaters, but had missed Adaptation, which I recall was released with a great deal of anticipation after all the interest in Being John Malkovich (just looking up his filmography, I realize I do not recall the film Human Nature, which he wrote in between Malkovich and Adaptation).

When I saw Adaptation was available on the Criterion Channel, I decided to finally give it a watch. After 18 years(!) it was about time that I caught up with this film. It's a quasi-autobiographical story of screenwriter Charlie Kaufman (played by Nicolas Cage) struggling to write an adaptation of a book, "The Orchid Thief" by Susan Orlean (Meryl Streep). In between flashbacks of Susan's experiences with the subject of her book, John Laroche (Chris Cooper), Kaufman works under great stress, anxiety and self-doubt as he tries to unlock the key to bringing the book to the screen. Meanwhile, his twin brother (also played by Cage) has decided to dip his toe into the screenwriting pool as well, and Charlie watches with a mixture of frustration and amazement as his brother, after attending a single screenwriting seminar, churns out a highly marketable screenplay for his first effort, which immediately gets optioned for a big movie deal.

Adaptation left me with a lot of think about. It's one of the most vivid depictions of the self-doubt and questions that so often arise during the creative process.

The Crimson Kimono (1959)

Watched this Sam Fuller film on the Criterion Channel last night. A white cop and his Japanese-American partner, best friends from their time in the army during the Korean War, find their friendship tested when they both fall in love with the same woman while investigating the murder of a stripper. Great production design by Robert Boyle and cinematography by Sam Leavitt showing off the nocturnal LA locations.

I'd been wanting to see this film for years since it played at the Orpheum Cinema here in Baltimore back in the '90s. I missed it then but the description of it in the local paper made me want to see it. It lived up to expectations. I remember it was shown on a double bill with Edgar Ulmer's Ruthless (1948), which I see is available on YouTube. Maybe I'll have to watch that one next...

"Unknown Number" on YouTube

Looking for something to watch? My new short film Unknown Number is now available to stream for free on YouTube:

The Thief of Bagdad (1940)

I watched this one last night for the first time in years. It was a childhood favorite, though to be honest, I preferred the Douglas Fairbanks version (which was my gateway into silent movies). This Alexander Korda production is a blockbuster that still impresses today for its scale, state-of-the-art special effects, and intoxicating sense of wonder.

This is one of those magic films where all of the elements come together and work in great unison. Despite having three credited directors (and other three uncredited), like Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz, the overarching vision of the producer creates a cohesive experience out of the many individual parts. There is the cast: John Justin as Ahmad, June Duprez as the Princess, Sabu as Abu, and of course, the great Conrad Veidt as Jaffar. Justin and Duprez are appealing romantic leads, but it is really Sabu and Veidt who make the biggest impressions. Veidt does so much acting with his eyes in this film, and it's a testament to his ability to really embody a performance that he does it so well. If you've seen him in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and especially The Hands of Orlac, it's apparent that he was one of the greatest physical actors of all time, right up there with Lon Chaney, I'd go so far to say.

Special mention should also be made of Rex Ingram's unforgettable performance as the genie, a truly larger-than-life character that Ingram brings to life in ways that are both astonishing and frightening. The scenes in which he interacts with Sabu are a marvel of special effects, combining large-scale models and early bluescreen technology to completely defy your belief of what was possible to do in 1940. The scenes are still impressive today -- one can only imagine how they must have stunned audiences 80 years ago.

The fantasy world would not be complete without the sets to bring it all to life. Vincent Korda and an uncredited William Cameron Menzies (who'd worked on the earlier Fairbanks version) designed a sprawling, lavish Technicolor fantasy version of old Bagdad that seems to go on forever past the edges of the screen. There is also some interesting location photography taken in the Grand Canyon, of all places, that contributes a genuinely epic sense of scale to those scenes (due to mounting wartime conditions in Britain, Korda had to move the production to Hollywood in the middle of the shoot, and took advantage of the geography of the Southwest United States). 

A final note should be made of Miklos Rozsa's sweeping symphonic score, which would clearly later influence the work of John Williams on films like Star Wars. It's a prime example of that grand Hollywood tradition of scoring that includes Max Steiner's soundtrack for King Kong and Erich Wolfgang Korngold's score for The Adventures of Robin Hood.

All of the pieces come together to form an unforgettable experience that has enchanted generations of moviegoers. I've often said that Alexander Korda knew better than almost anyone else what really made a good movie. If you look at his filmography, he produced one crowd-pleasing, timeless classic after another. The Private Life of Henry VIII, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Elephant Boy, Jungle Book, The Four Feathers, To Be Or Not To Be, The Third Man...the list goes on. The Thief of Bagdad takes it place firmly alongside these other Korda classics.

It was 125 Years Ago...

The Lumiere Brothers debuted their first film, Workers Leaving the Lumiere Factory, on March 22, 1895, in a private screening for a small group. Workers Leaving the Lumiere Factory would go on to become the first Lumiere film on their program of subjects shown before a paying audience at the Grand Cafe on the Boulevard des Capucines, later that year on December 28, 1895.

Although not the first film, nor the first film publicly exhibited, nor even the first film publicly exhibited on a screen, Workers Leaving the Lumiere Factory has become seen as the symbolic moment that "the movies" -- as we think of them today -- were born.

In his book Flickers, Gilbert Adair writes of Workers Leaving the Lumiere Factory:
"La Sortie des usines Lumiere is, after all, a work of art. It demonstrates, no less than the Lascaux cave drawings of which it may be said to be the exact filmic equivalent, the axiomatic truth that art is, ultimately, whatever lasts."

Networking

I went to a local filmmakers lounge event last night and showed Unknown Number to the group. It was a great event -- a nice size, good atmosphere, and a welcoming place to show the movie, get some feedback, and network with other filmmakers.

I'm very pleased with the response I've been getting to Unknown Number so far. I've submitted it to a festival that I'm waiting to hear back from. Whether I decide to submit it to further film festivals will depend on how it fares in this one. The cost is just too high for me to submit widely if the responses just aren't there. But we'll see.

I really enjoy the experience of meeting and chatting with other filmmakers, actors, or just anyone who wants to be involved in the experience of making a movie. I immediately get that sense of being among kindred spirits. It's very encouraging to experience that when it sometimes feels like I'm off in my own little corner of the world doing my own thing in solitude. It's nice to know there are other folks out there working toward the same goals, aspirations, and dreams, and to have a chance to connect with them.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019)

I watched Tarantino's latest film, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, again last night. It was the third time I'd seen it, and enjoyed it as much as ever. Two of my favorite moments are the montage sequences of Hollywood at night. The first occurs after the day that DiCaprio's character has been shooting his TV episode and Pitt's character has a run-in with the hippies at Spahn Ranch. Pitt picks DiCaprio up at the studio and drives him home, and we see Hollywood at dusk as the sun is going down and the town is lighting up, accompanied by the Jose Feliciano's rendition of "California Dreamin'". The other scene occurs when DiCaprio and Pitt arrive home from Italy and prepare to go out for one last night on the town before DiCaprio settles down to married life with his new Italian wife. We see Hollywood coming to life, with the neon signs of the movie theaters (specifically the Cinerama Dome) and restaurants lighting up.

It's just so evocative of the attitude and spirit of the movie, and conveys so much of the magic of Hollywood that Tarantino captures in this movie.

Cuban Rebel Girls (1959)

I watched this low-budget independent production, Cuban Rebel Girls (1959), on Tubi tonight. I'd read about this one in Allen Baron's book, since he was involved in it as an actor and general assistant. His stories about the circumstances involved in the production certainly piqued my interest.

This is the final film of Errol Flynn, effectively playing himself as a Hollywood star who goes to Cuba to write about the revolution. It's based on a story by Flynn, which he apparently conceived of as a vehicle for his girlfriend, Beverly Aadland, who co-stars with him. The pro-Castro story follows two American women, sympathetic to Castro's revolution, who travel to Cuba and become involved with a group of rebels, raising money to buy guns to be used in the revolution.

Cuban Rebel Girls was produced and directed by Barry Mahon, and photographed by Merrill Brody (who would go on to shoot Baron's Blast of Silence). The movie is a fascinating study in guerilla-style low-budget filmmaking, being shot on location in Cuba. Much of the film is shot silent and accompanied by voice-over narration, a good technique to save money and time shooting sync-sound sequences.

Magic Hour & Filmmaker Dreams

I was driving through the countryside this evening at "magic hour" -- that time when the sun has set below the horizon but the sky is still illuminated by the lingering light. This special time of day is a favorite of directors and cinematographers.

It reminded me of a couple things:

I had recently watched Visions of Light, the 1992 documentary about the art of cinematography. Nestor Almendros was talking about shooting Days of Heaven, and how much of the distinctive look of that film was achieved by filming during "magic hour". He made the point that, despite its name, it's really more like a 20 minute time window that you have to capture your shot.

It also reminded me of a dream I had about filmmaking. This was a few years ago. I dreamed I was in Brooklyn, at the edge of the water where you can get a really spectacular view of the sunset. It was "magic hour", and was an stunningly beautiful sight. However, I had left the camera and tripod in the car, and I couldn't remember where I had parked. I had to frantically search for the car to get the camera before the light was gone.

That reminds me of another filmmaking dream I had. This was about ten years ago when I was directing the first episode of a straight-to-DVD series. We had a six day schedule to shoot the entire film. After we wrapped, I began to have a recurring dream that I was going over the script for the film and kept finding some scene that I'd forgotten to schedule and shoot.

Director's Favorite Films

I enjoy occasionally perusing lists of the favorite films of certain directors. The Sight & Sound poll results are a good source of such lists.

I came across a couple of such lists from No Film School. One is the 100 favorite films of Akira Kurosawa:
https://nofilmschool.com/2017/06/kurosawa-master-list-akiras-100-favorite-films-all-time

The other is a list of Kubrick's 93 favorite films:
https://nofilmschool.com/Stanely-kubricks-favorite-movies

It's interesting to see the mix of expected titles, and the surprises. I like to see what the individual choices say about each filmmaker.

Black & White vs Color

I watched an interview with Peter Bogdanovich tonight, in which he shared an anecdote I've heard before. When he was preparing to shoot The Last Picture Show in black and white, Orson Welles told him that black and white was the actor's friend, that all performances were better in black and white, and challenged Bogdanovich to name him one great performance that had been filmed in color. He couldn't.

Bogdanovich speculated that black & white strips away all the distractions -- you don't notice the color of the actor's eyes, for example, and thus can focus entirely on their performance.

Bogdanovich would go on to film Paper Moon in black and white (which he felt was appropriate given the 1930s Depression-era setting), and had intended to shoot Nickelodeon that way, too, but the producer insisted on color. Bogdanovich told his cinematographer to light for black and white anyway, though, because he always intended to return to the film at some point and re-release it minus the color. He said that it made sense to shoot it in black and white since it's a film about the silent era, and made the comment that in color, it looked like a movie made in 1975.

He did later release a black and white version of the film, but I haven't seen it. It's one of my favorite Bogdanovich pictures, and one of my favorite films-about-film, so I really should try and track it down, for comparison to the color version if nothing else.

"The Interview"

I watched a cute short film tonight on one of the free Roku apps, called The Interview (no relation to my own short film of the same title). A woman goes for an interview with the daughter of the man she is dating, who grills her with a series of questions to assess her qualifications to join the family. It was a good example of an amusing idea well-executed in a short timeframe and on a low budget. I wasn't able to find any information on the director but it appears that the producer has done quite a few videos that are available on YouTube.

Kurosawa, Spielberg, and Lucas

I watched a video yesterday of Akira Kurosawa receiving a special Oscar at the 1990 Academy Awards. It was presented by Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, who were introduced by Jack Valenti as the "new kids on the block". That struck me as a little disingenuous, given that they'd already been working in Hollywood for a couple of decades at that point and were hardly "kids". But in any case, it was good to see the two filmmakers pay tribute to the master who'd had such a profound influence on both of them.

I found Kurosawa's speech especially moving. He said that he did not feel that he had earned this Oscar yet, because he feels he does not yet understand cinema, and has not yet discovered the essence of cinema. But now that he has the Oscar, he promises that he will keep working at it and do his best to earn the award. It's a good reminder that even someone as accomplished as Kurosawa, undoubtedly one of the very finest film artists the medium has ever produced, continued to grapple with these questions about the art of cinema and pushing himself to reach new heights.

You can watch his full speech on YouTube:

Netflix Viewing: "Brain on Fire" and "To the Bone"

I caught up with two movies on Netflix last night. The first one sounded intriguing -- Brain on Fire (2016) was a true-life drama about a young woman who develops an unknown condition that leads to hallucinations, seizures, and eventually puts her into a near-catatonic state that results in her hospitalization. I saw that it starred Chloe Grace Moretz, whom I had only previously seen in Martin Scorsese's Hugo as the granddaughter of Georges Melies. Also in the cast were Jenny Slate, Thomas Mann, Tyler Perry and Carrie Ann Moss.

Afterward, I watched To the Bone (2017), about a young woman recovering from anorexia. She's an aspiring artist and had gained some attention for her self-portraits on her blog, but is now placed into a recovery center for people struggling with eating disorders. Lily Collins stars along with Keanu Reeves, Carrie Preston, Lili Taylor, Alex Sharp and Liana Liberato.

One thing that struck me about both films is the degree to which either one would have felt right at home as a TV movie of the week on network television in years past. I admire the craftsmanship and economy of storytelling in these productions. They can also serve as a good actors' showcase. Moretz in Brain on Fire and Collins in To the Bone both did excellent work, largely carrying the film through their respective performances.

TV movies and their various iterations get a bad rap in some quarters for their predictability or formulaic qualities, but I find them inspiring from the perspective of the opportunity they offer to practice the craft of directing.

I think what draws me to the idea of directing professionally for TV/streaming/web is that the process of it reminds me of what I've read about the Hollywood studio system of the '30s and '40s. I now watch a lot of TV shows in the evenings, old programs like "Hogan's Heroes" and "Perry Mason" as well as newer ones, both on TV and on Netflix, and find myself drawn to the way they're staged, shot, edited. It's funny, because I never paid that much attention to them before, but as of late, I've really taken notice.

DIY Dolly

In his memoir, Allen Baron mentions that in filming Blast of Silence, they used a dolly consisting of wheels that attached to the base of the tripod. I used this same type of dolly when I shot Unknown Number. The trick, of course, is stabilizing the movement when you have the wheels but no track to run them on. Well, Baron and his crew came up with a good solution to that: throwing a 100-pound sack of sand across the base of the dolly to help keep it steady!

Wish I'd thought of that...

Peter Bogdanovich on Film Technology

Peter Bogdanovich was interviewed on Reddit a few years ago. He was asked about his thoughts on the digital revolution in filmmaking, and the fact that it's possible to shoot a film on a smartphone for very little money. He viewed this as a plus, and brought up a good point that doesn't get talked about that often in relation to these developments:

"Because I think amateur filmmakers, or wannabe filmmakers, will discover from using that equipment that it isn't as easy to make a movie as sometimes people think it is.
And it might actually invigorate the art of the movies, because younger people who want to make movies can get the materials, the technical materials necessary to make the movies, much more easily." (source: https://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/comments/38kdsr/i_am_peter_bogdanovich_an_actor_film_historian/)

The ease of access to technology and the low cost of production have laid bare the realities of moviemaking for even the most entry-level amateur. For those willing to put in the work and who have the dedication and discipline to see the project through, it is indeed easier than ever before at a purely technical level to get the movie made. However, these same advantages have made it more difficult for wannabes to make excuses about why they aren't making anything.

It strikes me that at the beginning of the digital revolution, there was this idea that anyone could make a movie and indeed it seemed like everyone with even a passing interest in it was giving it a try. Now, to some extent, it might be that -- as with anything -- digital filmmaking has simply become more professionalized in a way that it wasn't 20 years ago, back when digital was viewed largely as the purview of the amateur or DIY hobbyist. Now that Hollywood has gone digital, and the professional level equipment has become so much more costly and sophisticated, it could be that it has opened up a lot of the same insecurities and disparities that existed before with film.

But I tend to agree with Bogdanovich -- that when wannabes who think that it will be "easy" to make a movie get their hands on digital tools that they think will make the movie for them, they're going to be in for a surprise that it's still not that easy.

Releases and Permits

I've been reading Allen Baron's memoir about the making of Blast of Silence. He mentioned how they shot the film around NYC entirely without permits. One of the locations was a barge that was tied up in the harbor. Baron, playing the hitman, climbed up on the barge and was filmed walking around on it. The watchman spotted him and told them to stop filming. He continued to film on the barge for a few more minutes while the crew distracted the watchman.

When the film was picked up for distribution by Universal, the owner of the barge evidently saw the film and successfully sued the studio for a small sum because he hadn't given permission for the barge to be used.

I remember reading an interview with Kevin Brownlow somewhere. He said that when United Artists picked up his film It Happened Here for distribution, they asked him to get talent releases for all of the people involved. Since there was a cast of hundreds, most of whom were non-professional volunteers, it took something like two years to fully track down every last one of them and get them to sign off.

Observations on Film Art

I've been watching a good series of videos on the Criterion Channel called "Observations on Film Art". These video essays by David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson that take a formal analysis of various films. I watched one this morning about the use of three-point lighting in Ernst Lubitsch's To Be or Not to Be (1942), followed by one on classical Hollywood editing in Harold Lloyd's Girl Shy (1924).

These are fascinating for budding filmmakers to understand how some of these films are put together and how they work. It's like a master class in the construction of different film elements. These videos really make you appreciate how the techniques are used, and the effects that they create.

I keep thinking what an incredible time it must be to be a budding filmmaker. There is so much material out there to learn from. I was watching the 1992 documentary Visions of Light the other night, about the art of cinematography, and thinking back to how inspiring I found that film when I saw it as a kid in the '90s. There are so many great videos out there now on YouTube and streaming sites like Criterion that a young filmmaker could learn from. It really is like having a whole, virtual film school at your fingertips.

The great thing, to me, about this "Observations on Film Art" series is that it is of value to both scholars and filmmakers. If you're interested in learning about the theoretical and conceptual aspects of making a film, the videos do a good job of illustrating that angle. And as a filmmaker, you can learn how the films are put together and achieve the effects that they have on audiences. Learning this way provides a more comprehensive experience for both -- learning not just how something was done, but why.

The Art of Subtitling

I watched an interesting featurette on The Criterion Channel yesterday about the history of subtitling foreign films for English-language audiences. It included some excerpts of films like Grand Illusion and Open City in their original US release prints, which illustrated how limited the early subtitle translations were compared to their latter-day restorations. The point was made that, even though far more dialogue is translated today than in the '40s, say, it is still unwieldy and counterproductive to try and translate all of the dialogue spoken in a film, because it would become overwhelming to read that many subtitles in such short order. It made me think about how much dialogue we hear in films that is not absolutely essential to conveying information that we need to know, but adds a layer of texture to the experience. As Bruce Goldstein pointed out, the subtitler's job is to capture the essence of what is being said, rather than trying to translate each and every spoken word.

I was glad to see Herman G. Weinberg mentioned in the video, as a pioneer of the subtitling process back in the '30s. It was Weinberg who was responsible for helping to bring many foreign-language classics to US audiences for the first time. I've long been interested in Weinberg's work in cinema. He was really a jack-of-all-trades, working as a music arranger for silent film scores and as a manager of the Little Theater in Baltimore, an early arthouse theater. He also made the avant garde short film, Autumn Fire, while he was living in Baltimore in 1931.

Film music

I attended a concert yesterday by the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. They performed a selection of music from the film scores of Charlie Chaplin, including suites from The Kid and City Lights. Having seen the movies so many times, the music and images are burned in to my mind. Just hearing the music could make me laugh or cry, thinking about the scenes that it accompanies. This was especially true for The Kid, with that beautiful, powerful music during the scene when Jackie Coogan is taken away in the orphanage truck.

It was a delightful concert. They also performed selections of classical music that either influenced Chaplin, or which show his influence in the art of film scoring, such as the themes from Schindler's List and Cinema Paradiso.

Son of Kong (1933) on Svengoolie

I'm watching Svengoolie on MeTV tonight, and he's showing Son of Kong, the sequel to King Kong released later the same year as the original (1933). I've always marveled at how quickly this film must have been rushed through production in order to get it out so quickly. It's a far cry from the brilliance of the first film, to be sure. But it's another reminder of how much I love these monster movies, especially with the characters that Willis O'Brien imbued with so much personality. Robert Armstrong was really a great lead in the Kong films and in the later Mighty Joe Young, bringing just the right mix of attitude and humor to the mix.

For as quickly as this must have been produced, the stop-motion animation is still quite good, even if it is a bit less memorable than that in the original Kong. And of course, it's also lacking Fay Wray. But otherwise, it's a fun excursion back to the magical world of Skull Island.

Big Studio Backing

At the gym last night, I was watching the making-of doc about the production of Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing (1989). In it, he mentions that the film was originally with Paramount, but that the studio got nervous as the production date got closer, and pulled the plug. Fortunately, Universal picked up the project and carried on getting it made.

It hit me how much things have changed in the film industry that a unique, provocative, and personal film like Do the Right Thing could get big studio backing.

It reminds me of a good article published in Flavorwire a few years ago, "How the Death of Mid-Budget Cinema Left a Generation of Iconic Filmmakers MIA":
https://www.flavorwire.com/492985/how-the-death-of-mid-budget-cinema-left-a-generation-of-iconic-filmmakers-mia

The article cites directors like David Lynch and John Waters as examples of the really distinctive, personal filmmakers who are finding it increasingly difficult to get their projects off the ground given the shifting expectations of mid-budget cinema.

Thankfully, things have improved somewhat since that article was published in 2014, largely due to new opportunities afforded by streaming platforms like Netflix and independent studios like A24.

Indie Filmmaker in Hollywood

I've been reading the Allen Barron memoir Blast of Silence. I knew he'd directed many episodes of TV shows from the '60s-'80s, and decided to look some of them up to see which of his episodes I could find online. I saw that Roku was offering three seasons of "Charlie's Angels", which included at least a couple directed by Barron.

I watched one last night called "Angels at Sea", from 1977.  The plot found the Angels on a cruise ship being menaced by a madman. The climax finds them having to diffuse a series of bombs that have been planted around the ship. It was fun seeing an example of Barron's Hollywood directing work. It made me think about the career trajectory of filmmakers who direct an independent movie and then go on to work in the Hollywood film industry making commercial, mainstream films or TV shows.

For someone who loves directing and the process of making movies, it seems like it would be a great way to spend your career, because of the sheer amount of experience you could get with a steady stream of work. Some filmmakers take the approach that they only want to direct projects over which they have complete creative control, that they've developed from scratch, etc. But it seems to me that commercial work in directing film and television would provide a lifetime of learning about the medium, similar to the working methods of studio contract directors of Hollywood's golden age. I remember in Martin Scorsese's Personal Journey through American Movies, he mentions that Michael Curtiz directed something like 60 films in the 1930s alone, and points out what an incredible opportunity this must have been for him to perfect his craft.

Obsessing over gear

Victor Kemper in Light and Shadow -- Greatest Cinematographers of the World, Interviewed.

I watched a good documentary on YouTube while at the gym last night, Light and Shadow -- Greatest Cinematographers of the World, Interviewed. It features short interviews with many of the top cinematographers discussing their art and craft. It makes a nice supplemental companion piece to Visions of Light.

One comment, made by Victor Kemper, particularly stood out to me:

"I feel very strongly about this for kids who are just trying to get in to the industry.  If you think for one moment that Hollywood gives a damn about what camera you used on a job, they don't even know, and I bet you couldn't even find three people who would even ask. So nobody should be worried about what camera they're using. The tool is there -- if you know how to use it, and you've got the talent, and you've got the drive, you can shoot a damn good movie."

I'm always struck by how the further up the chain you go, the less people seem to care about issues of gear and equipment. I certainly agree with the view that he expresses here, as someone who has always been dogged by criticism over not using the latest and greatest cameras and gear for my own shoots, for the simple fact that I am unable to afford them.

At the same time, I can't help wondering if this is a little bit of wishful thinking. Although we hear lots of stories about movies shot on iPhones or what have you, there's still the reality that Netflix, for example, has certain requirements about what cameras can be used to shoot original productions for their streaming service. So they most definitely care.

And of course, there's the reality that were you to try and shoot a Hollywood movie with a consumer level camcorder (like the one I used on Unknown Number), it would never fly.

Still, though, it's interesting that I've heard this sentiment expressed by professionals before. I find that among amateurs or non-professionals I encounter, they are often a lot more hung up on the gear being used, rather than the ideas you're working toward expressing. I've never understood this mindset. If you get so hung up on the equipment you're using that you freeze up and never produce anything, then what good is it doing you?

The issue of cameras and gear becomes a convenient excuse for why someone isn't producing anything, and can also be used as a way of marking by degrees the "serious" non-professional from the amateur hobbyist. At the end of the day, none of these distinctions should matter. But now that the means of production are now theoretically available to anyone, I suppose it's inevitable that new barriers to entry should be put up.

I'm reminded of something I noticed about 10 or 12 years ago, right after YouTube had really started to become big. Now that anyone could put their films out there for a worldwide audience to see, it took some of the power away from small film festivals that had previously been the only way for filmmakers to have their work shown. I remember reading an interview with a programmer from a local, DIY film festival who was bemoaning the fact that it was getting more difficult to find filmmakers interested in even showing their work at the festival, because they were now able to post their films to YouTube. I don't think it's surprising that film festivals came back with a vengeance around this time, because -- as with the fixation on gear -- it provides a further barrier to entry in an age when those barriers are continually being demolished by new possibilities.

The odds of indie success

I just started reading a memoir by Allen Baron, director of the 1961 independent cult classic Blast of Silence. It's a gritty, low-budget, independent film, shot in New York, about a hitman who comes from Ohio to carry out the killing of a mob boss. Baron wrote, directed, and starred in it. It was his first movie, following some work he did on a film made in Cuba in the late '50s.

Blast of Silence turned out to be Baron's ticket to Hollywood success. He got his big break when the film was acquired by Universal Studios for distribution, launching him in to a directing career in Hollywood, where he worked mostly on TV shows, directing dozens of episodes from the '60s to the '80s.

I've been interested in Baron's story ever since seeing Blast of Silence, a movie that I love and that has fueled my own desire to keep making low-budget, DIY movies. I was excited to see that he'd published a memoir detailing his life and career. I just started reading it but am already learning a lot about independent filmmaking in the 1950s.

Baron wrote an interesting article for Filmmaker Magazine a few years ago, around the time his memoir was published, detailing the differences between making an independent feature film in 1959 vs. today:
https://filmmakermagazine.com/77144-blast-of-silence-independent-filmmaking-then-and-now/#.Xjso7mhKiUk

Aside from all of the technical issues that would be much cheaper and simpler to handle today, he also discusses the difference in the odds of finding success with your film once it is completed:

"Attempting to make an independent film today as opposed to 1959 would present a far different set of problems. For one thing, in 1959 I doubt if more than a half-dozen independent movies were attempted to be made. Today, because of the use of a digital camera, literally thousands of independent movies are being made. While I’m sure that among the many thousands there are probably some very excellent movies, the crowded field makes it very difficult for distributors to make a selection. Today, anybody can go into a store, purchase a digital video camera and start shooting a movie. This was absolutely impossible in 1959 because of the use of film and expensive equipment that was necessary to shoot a movie. An additional point that emphasizes the difference between then and now is the fact that in 1959 I doubt if there were more than half a dozen film festivals in the world. Today there are literally hundreds." (Allen Baron, "Blast of Silence: Independent Filmmaking, Then and Now", Filmmaker Magazine).

This is the dilemma of reaching for success in indie film today. Yes, it's much easier than ever to actually get a film made. People are making movies on their smartphones. I shot a short documentary on my Android phone that has played on the big screen and looked great up there.

But what do you do when there are so many films being made out there, all competing for attention at the countless film festivals around the world? (And I think Mr. Baron is being conservative when he says there are "hundreds" of festivals out there. Judging by what I see on websites like Film Freeway, that number now has to be in the thousands, at least).

I find myself taking the attitude that just putting your film out on YouTube, Vimeo, etc. and doing whatever you can to get it in front of people is perhaps the most productive strategy we can take today, depending on what your goals are. I've been thinking about this with Unknown Number, because my ultimate hope for it is that it will serve as a calling card short. Would I love for the right person in Hollywood to see it? You bet! But I'm happy to have anyone watch it and enjoy it. And as far as I can tell, that can only really happen if I just put it out there to be seen.

This gets back to the point I made in a previous post, that it seems like if you really want to have film festival success above all else, you have to really want to have film festival success above all else. You have to do whatever it takes to get your film in shape that it will get on the radar of festival screening committees, panels, judges, etc. With the thousands of submissions that these festivals likely receive, it's a long shot just to get in. Personally, my take on it is that since it's such a long shot anyway, you might as well make the film you want to make and stick true to your vision for it, rather than trying to shape it into something else just because it might, supposedly, increase its chances of getting into a festival.

As Allen Baron points out, back in 1959, the odds were a lot better that your film -- if you overcame all of the obstacles and challenges in getting it made, that is -- would rise to the surface and get on the radar of film festivals and distributors. Since that seems not to be the case anymore today, you might as well focus on making the film you want to make, any way that you can.

Good advice from Mardik Martin

I always liked this quote from Mardik Martin, screenwriter of Mean Streets and Raging Bull, among many others:

"If you're a shrinking violet who sits in the corner, no one's going to give a shit about you. You've got to present yourself."

Prepping for festival submissions

I'm looking into a couple of film festivals to submit Unknown Number to, now that I've more or less signed off on the final cut of the film. I received some constructive feedback on the film so far from people I trust, which is always appreciated. It does bring up a point, though: "festival" films can be very much their own genre, and if you really want to get in to a festival more than anything else, you have to be willing to accept and implement every bit of advice you receive (even if it's contradictory).

The Big Easy (1986) & Sundance

I can't recall what prompted it, but last night I was thinking about Jim McBride's 1983 remake of Breathless, which I'd recently seen for the first time on one of the free Roku channels (I think it was Tubi) and enjoyed quite a bit. I saw that The Big Easy was available on there, and decided to give it a watch. Dennis Quaid plays a corrupt cop in New Orleans who is being investigated by an agent with the DA's office (played by Ellen Barkin). The film appeared to be shot entirely on location, capturing the atmosphere of the city quite nicely with an energy and vitality characteristic of McBride's filmmaking style. John Goodman, Ned Beatty and Grace Zabriskie all put in good supporting performances.

I read that Robert Redford recalled The Big Easy to be the first film to be sold at the Sundance Film Festival. Apparently, it was thanks to Redford's insistence that the head of Columbia Pictures saw the film at the festival, which resulted in it getting picked up for distribution by the studio.

Uncut Gems (2019)

After hearing so much about Adam Sandler's performance in it, I finally went to see Uncut Gems today. For some reason, I'd had the idea that this was a Netflix original production and had thought I might be able to watch it on that service, but I was wrong.

Sandler plays a jeweler with a gambling addiction. Just as he manages to pull himself out of one bad situation, he gets pulled right back in to another. This is a very high-energy, intense movie. There's one scene, early on, when Sandler is in his shop surrounded by chaos that almost brings to mind the madcap energy of the stateroom scene from the Marx Brothers' A Night at the Opera. We follow Sandler through one scrape after another, as his debts mount and tension builds, until he comes up with one final scheme that might save the day.

I saw that Martin Scorsese was one of the executive producers. That makes sense. This felt like the kind of film Scorsese might have made back in the '70s.

Ray Harryhausen and Godzilla

I was watching a short documentary on Ray Harryhausen last night and it mentioned an interesting point that I'd never thought about before: that Harryhausen apparently didn't think much of the Godzilla series because it relied too much on men in rubber suits gracelessly crushing model cities.

Thinking about it, this might be why I never had as much affection for the Godzilla movies as I did for the creations of Harryhausen. Perhaps they just lack the handcrafted artistry and intricate design that I admire about Harryhausen's films. I was always struck by the design and personalities of Harryhausen's characters, which are certainly memorable and stick in your imagination years after seeing the films.

Looking back on it, a lot of my earliest efforts at making amateur movies were in the sci-fi/fantasy vein. I even tried making a couple of stop-motion animated films using model dinosaurs. I don't know why I abandoned it after some point, other than possibly feeling like I'd outgrown the genre, and certainly the issue of resources quickly became an issue in terms of being able to do anything like this on a zero-budget. I think even as a kid I recognized how hopelessly out of proportion my ambitions were in relation to what I could realistically achieve when it came to attempting this kind of movie, which is probably why I moved on from it early on.

I remember seeing a documentary about Baltimore horror filmmaker Don Dohler. He said that he always wanted to make romantic comedies, but that he recognized very quickly that they were almost impossible to do on a low budget. Audiences expect glamorous Hollywood stars, locations, etc. when it comes to romantic comedy. He said that horror films were the types of movies that could best be done on a low budget with local actors.

It makes sense. You have to adjust your expectations to what an audience will accept if you want to have any hope of connecting with them.

Fantasy & Monster Movies

It's funny, I'm not sure just why this should be the case, but recently I've found myself drawn back to a genre of film that I haven't really watched that much since I was a kid -- fantasy and monster movies. I don't know if it's just a general affection or nostalgia for many of these films that's coming back to me or what, but I've had more of a desire to see these again after a long time.

I came across one called Captain Sindbad, from 1963. Guy Williams from Disney's Zorro stars, and it's directed by Byron Haskin. I have vague memories of watching this one on TV with my grandfather. It was on one of the cable TV stations, TNT, I believe -- it must have been around 1992 or 93. This isn't even one of the better examples of the genre -- not in the same league as the Ray Harryhausen movies, but still plenty of color, lavish sets, and fun special effects. I just remember loving those kinds of fantasy films so much then that I'd enjoy any of them I could find.

Watching these again, I think I may have grossly underestimated how influential they were on my dream of making movies of my own.

Making a Low-Budget, DIY Film Part 6: Final Cut

I put the finishing touches on Unknown Number tonight. I've spent the past week and a half editing the film, doing color correction, final sound mixing, etc. I wanted to get a cut together for submission to a film festival, and in the process of revising what I'd already worked on, I realized I was much closer to being finished than I realized. Barring any significant issues that I become aware of after sharing the video with a few close, trusted friends, I'm prepared to say that this one is "in the can".

I'm very pleased with how this one turned out. One thing I became aware of in the post-production process was some of the little technical aspects that I could have smoothed out if I'd been able to work with professional-level gear. I'm not at all discouraged by it, though, and consider the results exceptionally good for a micro-budget short filmed with a consumer-level camcorder.

These are the things you have to do to make a DIY movie.

The funny thing is that for all of the post-production work involved in this one, the actual completion of the process feels almost anti-climactic, like it came together much easier than I'd originally anticipated. I should mention that I did more extensive post-production color correction on this one than I've done for any of my previous films.

I won't get into too many details about that process. It's tedious but necessary work to get the image to where you want it.

Assuming I don't make any further revisions, my next step will be to think about unveiling the film. I will certainly make it available online to view soon, but I may need to hold it back for just a while if I end up submitting to other festivals. I tend to avoid festivals for the most part these days, because the chances of getting are so slim, the costs to submit are so high, and frankly, more people will see your film on YouTube than they ever will at a festival. Still, it can be a nice way of bringing a little extra attention to your film before putting it out there.

Making a Low-Budget, DIY Film Part 5: Directing Yourself

I often act in my own movies. This choice was not born purely out of necessity. When I first started making movies as a kid back in the mid-90s, I harbored a desire to act as well as writing and directing. Looking back on it, it's a good thing that I was drawn to acting as well, because for the types of movies I wanted to make, I needed actors, and among my friends, there really wasn't anyone else I could call in to help out (other than my siblings). So, I took on roles in my own little movies just so I could get them made.

Someone once asked me whether it was difficult to direct myself. At the time, I had just completed an independent, zero-budget feature-length comedy, The Professional, in which I starred. His question took me aback somewhat, because I'd never really given it any thought.

But, it's something I've become increasingly aware of as I've pushed myself to do better work each time with my new films. And Unknown Number really brought that home to me. Case in point: in the film, I wear a gray suit. When I arrived on set, I had to begin setting up equipment, moving stuff around, etc. And it occurred to me that I had to be extra careful not to get anything on the suit. Now obviously, if I weren't also acting in the film, this would not have been a consideration, as the actor could have just waited on set for everything to be ready, or held off on arriving at all until it was time to shoot.

As the director, however, I have to be the first one there, and I'm a firm believer that, even when -- especially when? -- working with your family and friends, you must never ask anyone to do anything that you aren't doing yourself. So if we have to move shelves or boxes around, or assemble tripods or lights, I am the first to do that. All of these tasks, which would normally be handled by a crew on a bigger-budget production, fall on me, and present additional tasks that I have to deal with above and beyond acting.

There's another, purely practical matter, about directing yourself. When you're in front of the camera, you really have to rely on your cinematographer to make sure everything still looks good in the frame. Sure, you can take a look at it before getting in to the shot. And if you're using a camcorder like mine, you can even ask the cameraman to flip the little LCD screen around so you can see what it looks like (although this is not the most reliable choice, since it's a small screen and you're likely already positioned at a bit of a distance from it).

You really can't be 100% sure until you play the footage back, and even then, the small viewing screen can be deceptive. There might be minor details that aren't easily visible at that size which only be apparent when you look at the footage in the editing room.

Obviously, some of these issues are larger than the question of acting in your own film, but they become amplified when you are worried about giving a performance in front of the camera as well as handling all of the behind-the-camera considerations.

And then there's the elephant in the room:

If you're going to act in your own micro-budget DIY movie, you have to actually be able to act. I will leave it to others to decide how successful I am in that area, but I will say that I am satisfied -- as the director -- with my own performance in front of the camera, and ultimately, that's all you have to go on. I can say, with almost full certainty, that if I were just beginning to make films now, it's doubtful whether I would think about acting (or at least, starring) in them myself. But it's a role I've sort of "grown up" with, concurrent with my own directing efforts, and so I've grown accustomed to taking on the acting duties when the situation calls for it.

Back when I was making The Professional, and was asked about whether it was difficult taking direction from myself, I had made a conscious choice to star in my films, as I was primarily making comedies at that time. Comedy is, by far, the hardest type of role to take on. If an actor does not have a knack for timing, or verbal delivery, or performing bits of comic business, the entire thing falls apart. I make no claims for myself as a comic performer, but I will say that in terms of directing myself, I found that I was able to perform the kind of comedy that I envisioned for these films, so at least in that sense, my acting in them was not a detriment.

I think I have less of an affinity for dramatic roles, but I still love getting in front of the camera and acting. I'd love to act in other peoples' films, and have enjoyed that experience on more than one occasion.

I do not especially recommend acting in your own DIY movies unless you really enjoy it and find that you are able to deliver performances that you, as a director, are happy with. As I mentioned, I started doing so from the very beginning partly out of necessity but just as much because I had a desire to act, and in that sense, DIY filmmaking provided me with a way of doing that.

Making a Low-Budget, DIY Film Part 4: Stop-and-Go

When it comes time to actually make a movie, that's when the reality starts to set in. You've written your script, even looked at the resources that you have access to, and mentally prepared yourself for taking that first step back in to the creative process.

Then it comes time to get together all of the people and stuff needed to make the movie. And this is where it can become heartbreaking.

In making Unknown Number, I'd decided that I wanted to kick things up a notch, to make the production a little more polished and professional than my previous DIY efforts. This may sound a little contradictory, since the whole point of micro-budget DIY filmmaking is just to make the movie with whatever you have access to and get it done any way you have to.

Well, yes. But you have to remember, this is my 28th short film since 2006 (which doesn't even count the dozens and dozens of short films and features I made prior to film school, going all the way back to 1993). Each time you make the effort of embarking on a movie, it's only natural that you should want to make it better, in some way, than what you did the last time.

And one of the ways in which I hoped to do that on Unknown Number was to hire a videographer. My thinking was that by hiring someone who had access to professional level equipment, and who could handle the tasks of shooting and lighting the film (as well as all post-production services), I would be able to take the production up a few notches as I'd hoped.

I want to stop here for a moment to make something very clear: I am in no way disparaging the work done by my collaborators on previous efforts. On my previous films (and, it would turn out, on Unknown Number too) I have used my own cameras to shoot the movie. Often, I handle the duties of cinematographer myself. In some cases, this has not posed any particular challenge. For example, on my last film, The Survivor, I directed and shot the film since I was not acting in it, and given the relative simplicity of the shots, it was not especially difficult. In contrast, when I made the film before that one, Mercenary, I faced a unique set of challenges. In that one, I play the lead role, and I was directing and shooting it as well as an entirely one-man operation. For that film, I was able to set the camera up on the tripod in the hotel room to get the shots that I needed of me on the phone, sitting on the bed, etc. Where it became especially difficult was when I was filming myself walking around the streets, and had to mount the camcorder on the end of a "selfie stick" designed for lightweight smartphones. I made it work, but it was a tremendous compromise in terms of what I was able to achieve with it.

Those are exactly the kinds of compromises I was hoping to move away from with Unknown Number. And to do that, my first step was to look into hiring a cinematographer. I was put in touch with someone who had been recommended to me, but never heard anything back in response to my inquiry. This was very disappointing, and I'm not sure what happened. But it did momentarily give me pause as to whether or not I would continue with the film. This was one of the first strikes I encountered in that department.

Once I had accepted that I was going to have to return to using my own equipment, I spoke with my wife, who has shot a number of my films, as well as taking charge of the responsibilities of the art department in various capacities. She agreed to shoot the film, but I also did not want to ask too much and overload her with production design responsibilities as well.

Once again, I found myself seriously debating whether or not to even continue with the film. This is both one of the luxuries, but also one of the curses, of making a DIY movie. Because it is very easy, tempting even, just to pull the plug on it when you begin to encounter these kinds of compromises and challenges. As I mentioned earlier, there is always a part of me that wants to do better than I did last time.

After further deliberation, I reached out to my father, who had also shot many of my earlier films. He's a photography enthusiast, and I thought he might have access to a DSLR camera that I'd be able to borrow for the shoot. He didn't, but he agreed to shoot it for me using my camcorder. This would also allow my wife to take on the production design responsibilities without any other considerations.

There was one other issue: I had reached out to a friend and voice-actor with whom I've worked a number of times in the past ten years, about recording a voice-over for a character who is heard only through the phone. He was interested, but wasn't available for some time. The challenges I described above happened largely in that interim. At the last minute before our recording session, I decided to pull the plug on Unknown Number.

At this point, you might be wondering why I bother with this at all if it results in all of this back-and-forth. Well, like I said in a previous post, when you feel the time is right to make a movie, you get into action to make it happen. All of the compromises and challenges on top of that are things that need to be dealt with, but there also comes a point where you have to ask yourself whether it is worth trying to continue at all if there are too many compromises to be made.

You see, I've made this choice in the past, to plow ahead with making a movie even when the project becomes greatly compromised by the circumstances surrounding the production. Sometimes, when you go this route, you can step back and look at the results and realize that it didn't turn out half-bad. But after the last couple of films I'd made, I really did not want to repeat the process of making something on such a limited amount of resources. I wanted to do better.

So, at this point, Unknown Number was dead in the water. I wasn't thrilled with the decision, to be sure, but at the time I made it, I thought it was the right one. However, as the next several days passed, I found myself thinking about the project, and whether it was really the best choice just to let it die this way. I just couldn't shake the feeling that it might have been a mistake, after all, to pull the plug that way, rather than moving ahead.

I wish I could say that I had some big revelation, some big "a ha" moment in which everything crystallized, in which I picked up the camera and decided to go back out there and make the movie!

Well, it's not exactly like that. Rather, I came to the realization for myself that if I let Unknown Number go unmade, I would eventually come to regret the decision. Even if it was the easiest solution in the short term, I knew that, long-term, I'd be sorry I didn't do it when I had the chance.

This is something else that I can't stress enough about making a DIY movie: timing is everything. Everything. This is probably true even in Hollywood (think about how many times we read about films simmering for years on the back burner, or stuck in the purgatory of development hell). When you're making a movie entirely on your own like this, with any expenses self-financed entirely out of your own pocket, your personal life circumstances are inextricably linked to being able to make the movie. And when you have the opportunity, when all of the other elements are there that you need in order to do it, that's when you have to strike. Because there's no guarantee that everything will come together like that again.

So, after some hemming and hawing, I decided to move forward with Unknown Number again. This time, there could be no turning back...

Making a Low-Budget, DIY Film Part 3: But seriously, why now?

I really can't say why I decided to make Unknown Number at this particular moment. Sure, I could go on about getting access to a location, having all the pieces come together, etc. etc. etc. But none of that matters if it isn't the right time to make the movie.

Obviously, when you're self-financing a DIY short film out of your own pocket that will be shown on YouTube, you're not doing the project for the money. So you don't sign up to do a film like this because you have any expectations of trying to make any money. Hardly.

Why then?

Well, the only answer I can begin to provide is that, when you want to make movies, you want to make movies, and you will do what you have to do to make that happen. And a big part of that is striking when an opportunity presents itself.

I still haven't answered the question, have I?

Ok. Maybe I don't have an answer.

I'll mention a few things:

This is the first fiction film I've made since 2017. My last one was The Survivor, a dystopian historical fiction about a man struggling to survive in the wilderness after a catastrophic war had decimated the country. Sounds pretty elaborate? Well, not really. It was basically made with a single actor, and myself on camera and directing, using voice over narration to suggest the large-scale events off-screen.

This is a technique I've used numerous times before, and it's served me well in being able to tell stories on a micro-budget. But even this approach has its limitations, and I felt that I was pushing those limitations with that project and the one I made immediately before it, Mercenary (which I released on YouTube at the end of 2016).

Part of what made Unknown Number an appealing project is that it could be done with just a single actor (and I knew I'd step in to play that role). But at the same time, because it was to be shot in a controlled environment (the office), I knew that it would give me more freedom in trying out some new technical ideas and pushing myself to do better work than I'd done last time. In many ways, the project presented some of the same pitfalls and limitations I'd encountered with both Mercenary and The Survivor, but I wanted to push beyond those limitations and create something that would surpass what I'd done before. If you're not growing, it can be discouraging to feel like you're repeating yourself or treading water.

When I had the idea to go back to the well and film the script for Unknown Number, it had been nearly three years since I'd shot The Survivor. In the interim, I'd been working a lot in the documentary form, making short film history videos for YouTube as well as the documentary subject Cinevangelist: A Life in Revival Film, a portrait of Baltimore film historian George Figgs. Cinevangelist occupied a lot of my time over the past two-plus years, as I did an extensive roll-out and eventually self-distributed it via Vimeo on Demand (more on that in a later post).

After spending almost three years in the documentary realm, I suppose I yearned to return to making the kind of fiction film that was what primarily drew me to making films in the first place. Unknown Number presented that opportunity. And I hoped that after three years, I would have had time to re-charge and perhaps think differently about how to do things, which would then, hopefully, result in creating something above and beyond what I'd done before.

These are your hopes, anyway, when you go into a project like this. Obviously, you can't know exactly how things will go, or how things will turn out. But the more you do it -- the more you give yourself the experience of making the movies -- the better of an idea you'll have about these things.

I'll be honest -- going through the process of making a movie this way often brings up a lot of doubts and reservations for me. I don't know many people who, at a young age, dream of making micro-budget DIY movies into their '30s. I suspect many of us who do this started out with the goal of having access to the same kinds of resources as the filmmakers whose work inspired us. How many filmmakers describe watching Citizen Kane as the catalyst that ignited their desire to make films of their own? I know that was certainly the case for me, and hearing the stories about how Welles got access to the vast resources of RKO studios right out of the gate is the stuff of legend.

Of course, aspiring filmmakers only hear those exceptional success stories. And you quickly learn that very, very few filmmakers ever have that kind of opportunity -- even ones who may have been working in the industry for years, let alone on their very first film. Then it comes down to the question: do you really want to make movies?

If the answer to that question is honestly a "yes", then you will find a way. If you cling to the idea that you have to be like Orson Welles making Citizen Kane or Steven Spielberg making Jaws, you'll likely be disappointed and will walk away from it when those opportunities fail to materialize. You have to adjust in order to keep on going. And you keep giving yourself that experience so you can get better at it.

Maybe that's all the reason you need.

Making a Low-Budget, DIY Film Part 2: Identifying What You've Got

With the script for Unknown Number finished, it now got stuffed in to the digital drawer for the next six years. What made me pull it out again and decide to produce it?

As is usually the case with this kind of thing, it's difficult to pinpoint exactly what made me pull the script out again and decide that this was the time to film it. Sometimes something just sparks your imagination and you think of an old script but have new ideas about what you could do with it.

To return to something I said in my previous post, what I find often sparks this renewed interest in an idea is when resources become available that make it possible to film it. In this case, it was the realization that I could get access to an office location very much like the one needed for the script.

This gets back to my point that when you're working with no budget on an entirely DIY production, you really have to start with the resources that you have access to and go from there. For example, in this script, the office we'd originally written for included an elevator, and the opening and closing shots would involve the main character in the elevator as the doors open or close.

This new office that I got access to had no elevator. In the end, this is a minor detail that was easily worked around by simply adapting the action of the opening and closing scenes of the script. If I had insisted on only making the movie on condition that I'd been able to find an office with exactly the kind of layout we needed, then the script would still be fitting unfilmed.

At the end of the day, these kinds of minor re-adjustments to your script can be made without compromising the overall vision of the project. And, as I mentioned before, by having to work around these limitations, they can often lead to new inspiration.

Securing the location was the major hurdle I had to clear in order to begin thinking seriously about producing Unknown Number. And I emphasize producing. When you're a DIY filmmaker, you're not only a director, but often also a producer (and about a dozen other roles). In my case, I'm also an actor (something I'll get into more detail about in a later post). As a producer, you have to wear a different hat, and go in to the process with a clear-eyed view of what you can do, rather than what you'd like to do. We've all heard the stories about directors fighting for their vision against the penny-pinching cost-saving demands of the front office. When you're a DIY filmmaker, you have to have these arguments with yourself. How much (or little) can I spend without completely compromising the quality and purpose of my project?

These are questions that you have to reconcile for yourself as a filmmaker. Making DIY, micro-budget movies forces you to think creatively and realistically about these decisions. After securing my location, for instance, I grappled with the issue of hiring crew, and the challenges that that presented (another subject for a future post).

Leaving all of these practical matters aside, there is still the question of "why now?" What made me want to return to this idea and produce this script at this point in time?

That's harder to answer, but I will attempt to do so in my next post.

Making a Low-Budget, DIY Film Part 1: The Script

Production diary, January 24, 2020:

I recently completed the production of a short film, Unknown Number. I've made quite a few micro/no-budget, DIY short films over the past decade (this one being my 28th since 2006). I'll write more at a later point about how I started making films, some of the technology I've used and how it's changed, and other general observations on making these movies.

But for now, I thought it might be interesting to record the process here that I went through in making Unknown Number, while it's still fresh in my mind. I love reading about others' experiences in making truly personal, DIY cinema, so I hope this might be of some use to others starting out on making their own films.

The idea for this film started back in 2013, and was based on an actual Internet scam that I had learned about. I often draw on ideas like this in making short thrillers. I spoke with my friend Bill, with whom I've worked on a number of short film projects over the years (sometimes acting together, sometimes writing scripts together, and sometimes directing films based on his original scripts).

Anyway, Bill and I started discussing the idea for this film and were excited by the possibilities it afforded for making a low-budget short film. Bill and I wrote the script together over a period of a few days. I presented the initial idea and outline to Bill, and then he went to work putting his distinctive spin on the dialogue and developing key scenes. The premise of this film is that a businessman receives a phone call from an extortionist -- a threat which may or may not be genuine -- and we watch him as he struggles throughout the rest of his day in deciding whether or not to give in to the extortionist's demands.

I don't want to give away any more than that right now, but that gives you an idea of the set-up of this script.

At this point, I can't recall exactly how many days Bill and I spent working on the script, but it took shape quickly and was completed in short order. At the time we wrote it, the setting of the office was conceived of in terms of the actual office that I worked in at the time, and I envisioned the film with that location in mind.

I did not have immediate plans to produce this script, though, and after a certain period of time, it became unfeasible for me to consider making it under the circumstances that I'd originally planned for. For reasons not worth getting into here, I eventually began working remotely and no longer had access to the office I'd originally thought about using for the film. I will get into these details of the production, and how it finally came to happen, in a later post.

To return to the script for a moment, I have to mention that what I always enjoy about working with Bill is that he and I are very much on the same wavelength. As I mentioned, we've worked together quite a few times over the years on various projects, and I've always been a fan of Bill's solo projects, both as a writer and filmmaker himself. So when I pitched the basic idea of Unknown Number, I knew he'd "get" what I was going for with this project, and I was glad when he agreed to work on it.

I mention this partly because if you're making films, or involved in any creative endeavor, one of the most rewarding things you can ask for is having a like-minded friend and collaborator to discuss ideas with, bounce thoughts around and get feedback that you trust.

Personally, when I'm making a film, I tend to view the script as a skeleton for the project. This is not to de-value the script in any way. But what I've found is that, when you're on the set, often times ideas present themselves that offer a better way of doing things than you'd originally planned for. I always remember when I was making a short film back in 2008, The Interview. I had written the script for this one, but Bill was acting in it with me, and when it came time to filming the climactic scene, he had an idea for omitting a bit of dialogue that I'd written, which would have the effect of making the very last scene even more effective, because of how it built up a moment of suspense.

This was an excellent idea and I was happy to make this change on the set, because it felt right and made the film even stronger. So, it's good to be open to listening to these ideas and to be able to consider them in relation to the overall vision of what you're trying to accomplish. That's one of the advantages of low-budget, DIY filmmaking, because you can make those changes without throwing off your budget or schedule.

I made some of those kinds of changes to the script for Unknown Number, both in the weeks leading up the production, and also on the set. When I went to scout out the location, I recognized some elements that it offered which would work even better in the film than what we'd originally written. And, as you can imagine, with it being over six years since the script had been written, there were certain aspects of it that I thought about differently, so I remained open to adapting it to fit new ideas and approaches to telling the story.

I suppose that's enough about the script for now. In my next post, I'll talk a bit about how this production got re-started, and how I went about beginning the pre-production process.

One last thing: if you're embarking on a micro-budget short, be open to adapting your vision to the resources you have at your disposal. It's fine to write a script with unlimited imagination and without any concern for whether or not it's even feasible to consider producing. But on the other hand, if you put all that time into writing a script that you cannot realistically foresee being able to film, you're pretty much ensuring that you'll end up without a film to show for it. My suggestion would be to think about what resources you have access to, and work from there. Working around limitations can lead to inspiration.

That's a good lead-in for my next post... Stay tuned!

Here are links to:
Part 2: Identifying What You've Got
Part 3: But Seriously, Why Now?
Part 4: Stop-and-Go
Part 5: Directing Yourself
Part 6: Final Cut

Blue Parrot (1953)

I caught this Brit flick at the gym the other night. An American detective works with Scotland Yard to investigate a murder at a Soho nightclub. You know what I love about these British crime dramas? They have the Noir elements of American films that I love so much, combined with that British sense of style. You get the shiny cards, slick wet nocturnal streets, and the detective in an impeccable trench coat.

I love those dark elements and I love the British sensibility in these. Plus, at just over an hour, it was the perfect length for the gym and the perfect movie for a rainy night.

Strange Marriage (1932)

Right from the start, STRANGE MARRIAGE is surprisingly frank in its plot, beginning with a scene where a young prostitute who has been arrested on a street corner is defending herself to the night court judge, explaining that she was waiting for a date. A wealthy young idler who has wandered into the courtroom gallantly comes to her rescue by posing as the man she was supposedly waiting for, thus confirming her story. The judge is not convinced until the two agree to get married right then and there in his court.

The marriage falls apart when the girl learns that the man will not receive his inheritance unless the marriage is annulled. He, in turn, is led to believe she was only after his money. However, the girl learns that she is pregnant with their child, and struggles to raise the child on her own, until the situation is finally cleared up and the couple is reunited.

This one was especially interesting for a performance by Jason Robards Sr., a fine actor who was never really used to full advantage in the movies. Evelyn Knapp and Walter Byron are charming leads, and the great silent comedienne Marie Prevost has a nice role as Knapp's tough-talking best friend. The production was filmed at Universal Studios by an independent company, and the look of the film is marked by the characteristic sparseness of Universal's productions. I'd recently watched another independent production, FUGITIVE ROAD (1934), starring Erich von Stroheim, that had been filmed on the Universal lot by arrangement with the studio. They must have leased out space to bring in extra money during those lean years of the Depression.

Hardcore (1979) & Auto Focus (2002)

I watched both of these Paul Schrader films on the Criterion Channel last night. They made for an interesting double feature.

HARDCORE was my favorite of the two. It's the kind of film Schrader does so well, a character study of a deeply religious, conservative businessman (George C. Scott) from Grand Rapids whose daughter disappears from a church trip while in Los Angeles. After she is discovered to be acting in adult films, Scott descends into the lower depths of the porn industry to bring her back.

I missed AUTO FOCUS when it came out in 2002. This one explores the dark side of light TV comic Bob Crane, best remembered for his starring role on "Hogan's Heroes". After Crane (played by Greg Kinnear) meets video salesman John Carpenter (played by Willem Dafoe), his life takes a dark turn into recording his sexual fantasies on tape and struggling to re-brand himself so that he can continue working in Hollywood.

I frequently catch re-runs of "Hogan's Heroes" on MeTV, and am struck by what an affable leading man Crane was in that show. It's surprising that he wasn't able to build more of a career after that, but if the events in AUTO FOCUS are any indication, it seems he gave into self-destructive tendencies that prematurely ended his career, as well as his life.

"Oscar Micheaux: The Great and Only" by Patrick McGilligan

I recently finished reading "Oscar Micheaux: The Great and Only" by Patrick McGilligan, a thoroughly-researched biography of the pioneering independent African-American filmmaker that provides a rich account of his fascinating life and his many films, relatively few of which survive. The details of Micheaux's production and distribution strategies provide great insight in to the nature of "race" film and independent film models as they existed in the 1920s-40s. Perhaps the most interesting portions of the book, however, are those sections dealing with Micheaux's early years as a homesteader in South Dakota and his early work as a novelist, which paved the way for the subjects he would return to again and again in his films.

McGilligan also provides whatever details still survive about some phantom Micheaux films -- projects that were referred to in the press but are not known to survive or were even to have been produced or completed at all. Among the most intriguing of the lost Micheaux films are his first, THE HOMESTEADER (1918), based on his first novel, and his final film, THE BETRAYAL (1948), which ran over three hours and from the description sounds like a fascinating capstone to Micheaux's long career that brought together many of his favorite themes.

McGilligan paints a rich portrait of one of the most significant, but also enigmatic, figures in film history. The book is a much-needed examination of Micheaux's life and career. Through it all, Micheaux emerges as a larger-and-than life figure who tirelessly pursued and realized his artistic ambitions against significant challenges.

The Emperor Waltz (1948)

Bright Technicolor musical comedy set in 1905 Austria. Bing Crosby is a brash American traveling salesman determined to sell the Emperor Franz Joseph on his new gramophone, and with the emperor's endorsement, corner the market in Austria. His priorities change when he strikes up a romance with the Countess Johanna (Joan Fontaine), but the expected complications ensue when their class differences threaten to keep them apart.

The Brackett & Wilder script, bolstered by gorgeous Technicolor cinematography, lavish settings (including some scenic location work with Alberta, Canada standing in for the Alps), and a fine cast -- topped by Crosby and Fontaine as the appealing leads, supported by Richard Haydn, Roland Culver, Lucile Watson and Sig Ruman -- make this one a delight.

In his interview with Cameron Crowe, director Billy Wilder said he didn't think too highly of this film. It may not have been one of its director's favorites, but see it for yourself!

Re-visiting the Astaire and Rogers Musicals

FLYING DOWN TO RIO (1933) -- Fred and Ginger have supporting roles in this South American-flavored love story. The leads are Gene Raymond and Dolores Del Rio, but it's Astaire & Rogers who made a big impression, especially with the extended "Carioca" number. It's an enjoyable romantic-musical comedy but mostly of note today for introducing Astaire and Rogers to the screen as a team.

THE GAY DIVORCEE (1934) -- One of the team's funniest pictures, especially the "Let's Knock Knees" number with Edward Everett Horton. Contains some of their best numbers, including "Night and Day" and "The Continental". I enjoyed this one primarily for the great comedy.

ROBERTA (1935) -- Coming after THE GAY DIVORCEE, this one feels like a step backward, putting Astaire and Rogers into supporting roles under stars Randolph Scott and Irene Dunne. But their scenes together are fun, as always, and the movie comes to life when they are on-screen. Unlike the later misfire CAREFREE, this one is just a rather dull film lacking the energy of the best Astaire & Rogers pictures. Musical highlights are "I Won't Dance" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes".

TOP HAT (1935) -- Perhaps Fred and Ginger's most elegant film. The plot is a solid farce of mistaken relationships, making it one of the team's most fun pictures as well, topped by a first-rate Irving Berlin score.

FOLLOW THE FLEET (1936) -- Possibly the lightest and most entertaining entry in the Astaire & Rogers cycle, with a nice ensemble cast (Fred and Ginger, along with Randolph Scott and Harriet Hilliard) who gel nicely together. The shipboard scenes are a lot of fun, and offer a nice backdrop for some dance numbers. The highlight for me is "Let's Face the Music and Dance", performed on a stunning Art Deco stage.

SWING TIME (1936) -- Some really beautiful numbers here that showcase the team here to their full potential. Astaire's "Bojangles of Harlem" number is particularly impressive for the synchronized dancing against the backdrop of dancing shadows, and the "A Fine Romance" number get my vote as the most beautiful that the team ever did, performed on a snowy soundstage -- Hollywood artifice at its most appealing. Often cited as the team's best film, but I found myself missing the colorful supporting cast of some of the other films who were always such a welcome presence.

SHALL WE DANCE (1937) -- Another one I enjoyed primarily for the comedy, another romantic farce with an amusing premise of a bit of gossip getting blown up into a full-fledged scandal. The syncopated shipboard machinery of the "Slap That Bass" number is great example of the really innovative numbers that I love about these films. Several great George & Ira Gershwin tunes appear here including "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off", "They Can't Take That Away From Me", and the title song.

CAREFREE (1938) -- The weakest of the team's vehicles. It has a strong feel of the "Screwball" comedy style about it, which makes for some fun, zany scenes, but it lacks the tender, subtle moments of their best films, and contains no especially memorable dance numbers.

THE STORY OF VERNON AND IRENE CASTLE (1939) -- This biopic of the husband-and-wife dance team is a sprawling but charming affair. Somewhat an atypical film in the Astaire and Rogers cycle, much more dramatic than usual for them, but still a fine showcase for their talents, and featuring a virtual songbook of late 19th- and early 20th-century tunes.

THE BARKLEYS OF BROADWAY (1949) -- Fred & Ginger's final film as a team, about a husband and wife musical comedy team whose relationship (both personal and professional) is threatened when the wife decides to pursue a dramatic acting career. An MGM production, it's bigger and more elaborate than their earlier RKO pictures, and their only film together to be shot in Technicolor, but Astaire and Rogers never get overwhelmed by the production value, and it's great to see them reprise "They Can't Take that Away From Me". A fitting capper to one of the finest pairings in all of cinema.

Pygmalion (1937)

1937 Dutch film version of the George Bernard Shaw play, starring Lily Bouwmeester as Eliza and Johan De Meester as Higgins.

Made a year before the classic Leslie Howard-Wendy Hiller version. The humor translates surprisingly well, although the dialogue necessarily loses some of its nuance when translated in subtitles. Interesting to see a different ending to the story rather than the one that Shaw wrote for the 1938 film.

Lord of the Manor (1933)

This fun British "Quota Quickie" is a comedy of manners set in an English manor home. When the lord of the manor is forced to move some of the workers in to his spare rooms, romance blooms between two of the young aristocrats and their new housemates.

Henry Wilcoxon -- a year before his breakout role in DeMille's CLEOPATRA -- has an early role here as the young working class man who falls in love with aristocrat Betty Stockfeld. Frederick Kerr, best remembered by movie buffs as Baron Frankenstein in the 1931 Universal horror classic, gives a fine comic starring turn in the title role, wonderfully paired with Kate Cutler as his wife. Also in the cast are Frank Bertram, Joan Marion, Deering Wells, and April Dawn. Written by John Hastings Turner.

T-Men (1947)

Looking for an early morning movie I came across this one on the Criterion Channel. Seemed like a good pick for an early Saturday morning...

Always enjoy these Anthony Mann noir/procedurals. This time Dennis O'Keefe is a treasury agent pursuing a group of counterfeiters. Worth watching for John Alton's incredible cinematography alone.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith (1941)

Watched this one last night and realized I hadn't seen it before. I guess it was one of those Hitchcock films I always intended to get around to but actually hadn't seen yet. He supposedly made it as a favor to Carole Lombard -- although further details indicate it was a project he personally initiated on his own -- but either way, Lombard is absolutely radiant in it, and her typically brilliant comedy timing and energy gels fine with Hitchcock's direction. This was just her second-to-last film before her untimely death.

In the DVD supplements, director Richard Franklin calls this Hitchcock's only "essentially American picture" -- which is true in the sense that he's working entirely within a distinctly Hollywood genre (Screwball comedy), and engaging in pure farce rather than his usual droll sense of humor.

Despite its title, this film bears no relation to the 2005 film with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie as a married couple who reveal that they are both assassins assigned to take the other one out. It's fun to imagine what Hitchcock could have done with that script...

Spellbound (1945)

Gregory Peck stars in this Alfred Hitchcock thriller as the newly-arrived director of a mental institute, but it soon becomes clear to the head psychiatrist (Ingrid Bergman) that he isn't who he claims to be...

I can't honestly say it's one of my favorite of The Master's films, but it's definitely worth checking out for Hitchcock & suspense fans, especially for its justly-famous dream sequence designed by Salvador Dali, topped off with a lush score by Miklos Rozsa, gorgeous B&W cinematography from George Barnes, and a pair of great stars -- who never looked more glamorous than they did when working with Hitchcock -- at the top of their game.