Killing Time a Little After Midnight

It’s early fall in LA, typically my favorite time of the year and I’m restless. I’m waiting on an episode of “Entourage” to finish downloading, not that I have any particular desire to watch it, but I fear, like skipping an issue of Variety I’ll somehow be out of the loop if I don’t watch 25 minutes of Vince fucking toothy starlets while Ari confirms every belief middle America has about Jews while the show loft softballs at easy industry targets. I guess that’s why they equate TV with comfort food. Speaking of which I’m eating Doritos because I skipped dinner. I must remind myself that I’m an adult from time to time.

Feel like my life is in transition at the moment. Just extricated myself from a sticky personal situation (being vague because God knows who reads this thing) which suffered from diminished returns as the months went on. Just another lesson on the road of life. Work continues to disappoint me, both financially and spiritually. I fear I’ve been at the same place for so long and have picked up so many bad habits along the way that I’m ill equipped to go anywhere else. Or perhaps I’m just scared to venture outside of the nest (as precariously perched as it may be). I find that, like in relationships, I tend to stay at jobs way too long out of fear of prematurely ending it. Just not good at cutting the cord.

Speaking of relationships, I found out tonight (albeit unconfirmed) that the woman I was in love with in college, someone I seriously considered proposing to at one point is engaged to the guy she started seeing after me (I’m being charitable in this classification, as there was a little overlap at the end there). And I feel… strangely ambivalent. Not quite happy for her but in years past this might be enough to send me on a full-tilt anxiety spiral of panic attacks and pie-eyed nostalgia. I never really doubted that I’d long ago moved on and I suppose this confirms it. Still, always a bit stunning when she who once were “the one” is officially betrothed to another. All the same, I made myself a drink (killing off the last nip of Jack Daniels I kept tucked away in a drawer for just such an occasion).

Tomorrow is sure to be fraught with worry as it’s the first day of a terrifyingly short window of time where I can plead my case against a bogus tax levy the bankrupt (both morally and financially) city of LA has brought against me. It seems because of an iffy tax filing a few years back they believe I own and operate a business requiring some form of business license (not to mention years worth of interest and penalties). This is truly too absurd for words and an insult considering how little I pull in from work. I have my accountant working on the situation but right now I feel like an anvil is hanging over my head. My accountant and parents have told me to remain calm but why shouldn’t they? That’s like the surgeon who tells you not to panic about the dark spot on your lungs. After all, it’s not their body.

A few months back I alluded to some big announcement in this space. Still nothing to report officially. I can offer a little bit of info without getting into specifics. My company has been in talks to produce a couple of low-budget films this fall with yours truly ear-marked for some form of a producer credit on one or both. Of course I’ve been down this path before and when push comes to shove there’s still no money in the bank for either of them. I continue to do work on both and have been paid by neither. Story of my life. I wish I could tell you I felt passionate about both of them but this is strictly a money grab situation and should that money not be forthcoming there’s really no reason to bother with either project or for that matter the company itself. I need a victory here or I need to move the fuck on.

Those who used to come here for movie reviews are advised to continue reading my Twitter regularly as I just lack the focus to write about films at length anymore (sorry). I like the limitations of Twitter and the instant gratification that comes from knowing I’ve got a readership who will have my ever tweet sent to their home page. I will say this though: Rachel Getting Married is the most unexpectedly wonderful film of the fall. I didn’t have any expectations for the film prior to its strong showing at Toronto but it’s no fluke that nearly everyone who saw the film at the festival has fallen in love with it (even my boss, who has questionable taste, raved about it). It’s not some cookie cutter romantic comedy nor is it a dreary drama in the Dogme vein (although the influences are there and easily identifiable). It’s the sort of film you just want to embrace while at the same time is too painfully observed to bear at times. Everyone knows a person like Anne Hathaway’s Kym. Some of us have them in their families, and the film has the bravery to acknowledge that while we may love these people, that doesn’t make them any less of a burden to carry. No film has made me feel more alive this year and for that I am truly grateful.

Quick TV obsession to report: whilst watching the first four episodes of “Chuck” on DVD this weekend I fell head over heals in lust with co-star Yvonne Strahovski who is easily one of the five sexiest women I’ve ever seen. And I’m not even a fan of blondes. No idea how this show managed to be on the air for a year without me cluing into her. Truly stunning and, in a wicked joke I’m eternally grateful for, the show has placed her in a situation where she spends a large part of *every* episode in pigtails and a Bavarian beer wench outfit. The show itself is sort of shrug-worthy. It has an engaging lead and Animal Mother himself Adam Baldwin. It looks nice and looks like it costs a fortune but it’s surprisingly draggy for a super-spy show. Still, Strahovski is perhaps the greatest incentive in the world to watch and until I get tired of gawking I will be adding the show to my DVR rotation (as if there isn’t enough on Monday nights these days.

And with that, my download of Entourage has completed. This was fun. I missed this. Maybe I’ll get back into this. No promises.

Why Andrew Doesn't Own a Gun

Some dick cheese side-swiped my car this morning before utterly destroying the car parked next to it. The theory is this failed abortion with a coat hanger still stuck in his forehead lost control of his car, skimmed alongside my driver's side before turning the second car into abstract art. This walking cum stain on the floor of a porno theater then took off leaving a trail of wreckage and two fucked cars in his wake. I can only hope that shortly after he hit my car he careened into a tanker truck transporting AIDS blood.

This all happened around 6:30 this morning. My house mates noticed police cars dealing with the totaled car next to me but failed to notice any damage on my car, which is a little under two years old and was fucking cherry. I didn't notice any damage myself when I got into the car to drive to work this morning but I certainly began to once I pulled away from the curb and I noticed my car was buckling out from underneath me and emitting a high-pitch squeal that sounded a little bit like Ned Beatty in Deliverance. I tried to drive to work on it assuming that the seemingly weeks of rain it had endured had made the breaks wet. No such luck. I drove it to my mechanic (fortunately a few blocks up the road), swerving out dangerously each time I hit a pimple in the road, where I was informed that my suspension and likely axles were damaged by what had clearly been a car accident (shows you the keen mechanical eye I've got).

So after causing me to bail on my second consecutive work day (the first because of the Ebola Virus or whatever the fuck has been making my joints sore, making me cough up small pieces of my lung, making me shiver uncontrollably and not to mention miss the rare party I actually had interest in attending) I spent the entire day waiting around in the waiting rooms of various mechanics, auto-bodies, and car rental places, on the phone with my insurance provider and hitching a ride in a tow truck. I'm left wondering when I'm going to get my car back while I'm stuck driving a hideous-looking boat from Enterprise. I loved that car and now it's been violated like a prom date.

In a perfect world I'd get twenty minutes alone with this cowardly sack of shit who ruined at least two people's day and cost likely tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage. In the words of Vincent Vega, it'd been worth him doing it just so I could've caught him doing it. People like this don't deserve to die but having their legs permanently immobilized doesn't strike me as at all distasteful or an over-reaction. Some people just need to be hobbled. I don't have much faith in the cracker-jack LA police department so once again, the innocent are fucked over.

Goddamnit, I hate days that make me want to be a Republican.

Retiring... Sort Of

In case anyone cares, last week I came to the difficult decision that I no longer had time in my life to continue writing weekly recaps of the television show "Lost" for Matt Zoller Seitz's website. I'd been on the fence about the assignment (which typically took anywhere from four to six agonizing hours every Wednesday night) but because of the strike-shortened season reducing the number of episodes to 8 (by contrast I did 22 of them last year) I figured I could make it work.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending how you look at it, the real world intervened. I'm going to be working on an independent film starting in early February in a position that requires a lot of responsibility and a lot of time. Complicating matters further, the entire film is being shot at night. This would force me to miss, at bare minimum 1/4 of the season due to work, making the whole endeavor kind of pointless. I don't feel good about bailing on Matt on such short notice but since I let him know last week I feel like I've moved out from underneath a dark cloud. The "Lost" gig was only made possibly due to a highly dysfunctional and not terribly productive work schedule. That it's finally beginning to resemble that of my contemporaries is a good thing even if it does mean I'll be out till 6am for a couple of week. Furthermore, the show moved to Thursday nights, the one night of the week where am I almost guaranteed to have plans. So hooray for personal freedom.

I have full confidence that Matt will be able to corral someone into taking over the position. God knows when I was holding court enough people came out of the woodworks convinced they knew more than I did. I wish whomever takes the job a ton of luck. It's a fun show to dissect but not an easy one. The fact that the network clearly plays favorites with who they do and do not send screeners to will only complicate the matter further. And for those who absolutely have to read my input, I'll no doubt chime in from time to time in the comments section over at the House. After all, just because I don't want the job anymore doesn't mean I think anyone can do it as well as I did.

Will Somebody Please Save These People From Themselves*

A couple pertinent strike-related news items came out today that I felt compelled to comment upon. Anything to put-off working on my Year End piece I suppose. They are as follows:

Letterman Makes Deal With Writers.

Followed later in the evening by the official press release.

In short, David Letterman’s production company, Worldwide Pants (which is not to be confused with CBS Television, the network), has agreed to the Writer’s Guild’s terms and has secured a waiver for both the “Late Show with David Letterman” and “The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.” The Writer’s Guild leaderships goes on to commend Letterman for agreeing to the “integrity and affordability” of their proposals stating that this is an important strategic move in brokering an industry-wide resolution.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This is why I feel, the Writer’s Guild will ultimately gain nothing from this alleged work-stoppage, with a special gift basket of nothing delivered at the doors of the “little guys” in the guild whom this strike is supposed to be about. In addition to the lack of clarity over their demands, the lack of solidarity and conviction by the Guild’s leadership has been undermining the work stoppage since day one. Either you’re flinging your wooden shoes into the machinery or you’re not. There are no half-measures with this one.

The issue was never whether the benevolent David Letterman, Writer’s Guild member, edgy cat and all-around burr in the side of corporate America would support the union’s demands. Letterman may be a successful entrepreneur and television mogul with an enterprise worth hundred of millions of dollars, but he’s also an entertainer. Furthermore he knows those Top 10 sketches and Paul Shaffer songs about hot dogs don’t write themselves. Furthermore, he's able to sniff out a competitive advantage when one's presented to him. The move was a no-brainer for him, as it would be for Leno or Conan. Or for that matter Jerry Bruckheimer ("C.S.I.")or Bad Robot ("Lost") or Dick Wolf ("Law & Order"). Because, you see, the WGA isn’t striking to bring about change from individual producers. The enemy here is The Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers. Collectively. Just as Writer's belong to an organization that collectively negotiates and protects their rights, whether it effects them or not, so to do the producers. But in the eyes of an individual producer such as Letterman (or any of the aforementioned production shingles), this waiver represents nothing more than a case by case contract renegotiation. A bump in after-air/alternate media residuals to keep the workforce happy. Since it’s their pie, they’re free to slice it up however they see fit. Essentially, the waivers push the writers' problems onto the show's producers, with the real people causing the harm and getting rich (the networks and the studios) remaining blissfully removed.

But how exactly is that helping the cause? Sure twenty writers (who, it’s been informally reported, make in excess of six figures a year) get to return to their jobs with new WGA-approved contracts. Letterman is viewed as a savior both to the WGA (already showing favor towards the man, paving the way for his show to be the first to hammer out an arrangement such as this in addition to this recently published release) as well as to his network. But here’s where the kick in the balls comes in: CBS gets to reap the benefits of that WGA approval while still continuing to be a part of the very system that’s (allegedly) keeping writers down. A textbook case of having your cake and eating it too.

So what exactly does Letterman get out of this deal? Well for starters he gets to return on January 2nd at full steam, with the writers Dave is comfortable with, able to perform an opening monologue (something union leadership has warned Leno and Conan not to do) as well as employ his usual routine of skits and audience Q&A’s while killing time before this month’s hot starlet and Oscar-grubbing star spend time on his couch. Oh yeah, that’s the other thing: no WGA picket-lines outside the Ed Sullivan. So, the few remaining actors with principles no longer have to fret over angering another union over crossing a line to shamelessly promote their new product. I’ll give you a for instance. Let’s say you’re Tom Hanks. Your new movie is horribly underperforming in a crowded winter marketplace and it’s time to slap a Band-Aid on the situation by hitting the late night, talk show circuit. Do you go on Jay where you’re might run into Aaron Sorkin or Akiva Goldsman carrying picket signs (oh, who am I kidding… the guys Aaron and Akiva paid to carry picket signs) or do you stick to Dave and Craig where you’ll be patted on the back for supporting “the good guys?”

So what’s the big deal you ask? Isn’t some progress better than none? No, not when it comes about like this. Because the WGA is cherry picking who it is they do and do not want to guide through this painful period in our national history which is sure to be remembered for a proliferation of hastily conceived reality shows, game shows, reruns from sister networks and more televised sports (I don’t think CBS has ever looked forward to March Madness more than it does this year). Worldwide Pants has agreed to a waiver. Does anyone doubt for a second, if given the opportunity that Leno or Conan or “The Daily Show” would not jump at the opportunity to sign one as well? Does anyone else find it suspect that the WGA is creating semantics arguements to justify that this is a deal with Worldwide Pants and not CBS, (the alledged reason that Jay and Conan are SOL is they are considered employes of NBC/Universal and not entities unto themselves)? But that’s not how the WGA is playing this one. They’re anticipating the return of those shows to be such abject failures that their desperation (especially in the face of Letterman operating at 100%) creates even more leverage. I’m not quite sure what Letterman did to be placed in such a lofty position of unfair creative advantage though. Or for that matter how it was deemed that it was acceptable for CBS to benefit but not NBC or Comedy Central.

The favoritism as lobbying for position continues elsewhere. It was recently reported that the Golden Globes were denied a waiver from the WGA and as a result may not be televised . Before everyone starts making obvious jokes about one less bloated award show or how “we’ll never know who gets drunk” it should be pointed out that the WGA granted waivers to both the Screen Actor’s Guild Awards (broadcast on TNT a subsidiary of Time Warner) as well as the Film Independent Spirit Awards (broadcast live on the Independent Film Channel and later on AMC, both subsidiaries of Cablevision). So what we’re to take away from this is some award shows are acceptable for movie stars to grace the red carpet unfettered by noisy picketers and heavy consciences but others are not. Namely the Hollywood Foreign Press, who serve (seemingly) no other purpose than to hand out trinkets in the weeks leading up to the Academy Awards. Again, I’m forced to ask, does anyone really believe that if push comes to shove that Daniel Snyder (owner of Dick Clark Productions which produces the show, the Washington Redskins and BFF of Tom Cruise) wouldn’t agree to a similar waiver that would allow the stars to shine at his awards show and for the whole event to broadcast at NBC? But what’s to be gained from that? The cancellation of the Globes is nothing more than a shot across the bow at the Academy Awards: You see what we did to them, well we’re coming for you next.

And since no one seems to be asking it, then I must: what is an industry pocked with a handful of waivers really going to matter when (because no one can honestly believe it’s a case of “if”) the work-stoppage is resolved? What happens if the WGA folds on their demands, or at the very least compromises on some of them? I mean, it’s not like you’re not giving some of the studios an advantage anyway by letting them make money off new original content while your brothers and sisters in arms continue to “starve” on the picket line, right? I eagerly await the announcement that since Reveille Productions sent a plate of muffins to WGA leadership, “The Office” and “Ugly Betty” can resume production. But I digress: back to the earlier issue. Wouldn’t these waivers be as worthless as the Confederate dollar in 1866? What would bind a production company to adhere to a contract out of step with the rest of the industry? And conversely, how would the rest of the rank and file react to some productions having more amenable bylaws than others simply by virtue of being on the waiver pecking list? I thought this strike was supposed to be for all future generations of writers. Strength through unity and all that jazz. How does this move reflect that candy-coated sentiment in the slightest?

And then there are the real losers of this latest development: WGA feature film writers, who don’t stand to benefit as heavily as their TV-brethren from weekly streaming content. Who could probably give fuck-all about Reality TV and animation. Who stand to benefit not at all from Waivergate (if this term catches on, I want to be on record as coining it) who, most importantly, stepped away from their Power Books and potentially lucrative paychecks to support their poor, exploited television writing cousins. Because it was the right thing to do. What could they possibly be thinking right now, as they continue to metaphorically (I can only hope not literally) go hungry while they’re future is sold out from underneath them by short-sighted management. For this they gave up months (and counting) of employment?

I’m over the strike frankly. I’m industry, but in an especially apt irony, I work in a sector of the industry that isn’t successful enough to be negatively affected by the strike so I’m more or less observing from a safe distance. I’ve kept my eye on the trades, regularly read Finke and Poland, have watched the battle lines being drawn, have seen the number of recordings on my Tivo dwindle. I’ve been hopeful for a speedy resolution but not a hasty one. I am not a WGA member (although I suppose on some level I can’t deny that I’d like to be one some day, if only for what is implied by said membership) so I can not pretend to be swayed by the same issues that have emptied the writer’s rooms out in front of the Warner’s Gate on Barham and the Paramount Gate on Melrose. But if it was decided that a strike was required to change the industry then I accepted my small sacrifice of less television and the realization that almost every big budget movie rushed into production for next summer will be even more shitty than usual. But, it could be rationalized, even as just a consumer, that these are small prices to pay for the greater good.

However I now feel betrayed. So I can only imagine how the membership at large is feeling right now, no matter how leadership spins this:

Guess what folks: you’ve jeopardized your livelihood, your careers and the security of yourself and your families so the men and women who feed lines to Rupert at the Hello Deli can get a slight increase in their residuals for online content. Wait a minute, Worldwide Pants doesn’t control that: CBS does, so I suppose it’s their prerogative whether or not they honor the waiver agreement. The important thing is two dozen of you are going back to work and we get to increase Les Moonves’ bottom line. Smells like victory to us.

Smells like something alright.


* Line courtesy of WGA member Peter Morgan

Ramble On

Was turned away from another big, holiday, awards contender screening tonight, my second in a week. Apparently claiming you write for The House Next Door doesn’t mean much in L.A. So, an opening in my evening means lots of free form blogging. If I’d just get on the twitter bandwagon already something like this would be unnecessary.

**

Turned 27 on Saturday which, as everyone knows, is the dead rockstar age. It’s telling that I received more congratulatory emails from the Pepsi Corporation, radio message boards and (TMI alert) porn sites I subscribed to in college than from actual friends. Still, I actually had a pretty good time playing cards with a big group of people till 1 in the morning. The beer was cold, the conversation was lively, they stuck candles in homemade congo bars and I ended up winning $25 with a 2-7 off-suit. I certainly hope I’m not looking back on the day 40 years from now as “one of the good ones” but all things considered it could have been a lot worse.

**

I fly back to Boston on Wednesday and I’m not looking forward to it. Because of all sorts of logistic hoops I need to jump through for this trip, I was unable to book a direct flight from LAX to Logan, which means I’ll be heading to Atlanta first then flying up the eastern seaboard arriving in Boston sometime in the late evening. All in all, it’s looking to be an almost 10-hour travel day and that’s assuming the ice storms that have been pummeling New England for the best week don’t mess things up any further. It’s times like this I wish I had an iPod, particularly one of those kickass touch-screen ones where you can watch episodes of “The Office” that the writers aren’t getting royalties for. As is, I’ll be listening to something like fifteen hours worth of stockpiled O&A on my XM, although with battery life being what it is I’ll be lucky to hear a 1/3 of that. I haven’t been back for a year and yet I feel like it’s been way too recent for my liking. I really should phase this part of my life out already. After the initial buzz of seeing my family wears off, it really does come down to me watching my ass expand while I channel surf and bitch about how cold it is for ten days. On the upside I can finally watch a Pats game at a decent hour. Something about watching a game at 10:30 in the morning just isn’t right.

**

One upside to going back to Boston: HBO on Demand. It’s like crack it is. And it’s absolutely the future of home entertainment. My impressive wall of dvd’s might make for a fun conversation piece but they’re about to go the way of the dodo. In the future, every movie you could possibly want to watch will be at your fingertips. Who’d ever bother with waiting on Netflix again? First point of business: the first episode of the fifth (and final) season of “The Wire” which is allegedly available early on Demand. I’d hoped to get the entire new season in advance as I’d done in the past in order to give a little closure to my anthology on the film’s credit sequences but my emails to my former editor went unreturned (no surprise there). Guess I’ll just have to be patient and download them as they air.

**

Big winter movies still to see: There Will be Blood, Charlie Wilson’s War, Sweeny Todd and most importantly Alien vs. Predator 2. I kiiid.

**

In anticipation of There Will be Blood I found myself rewatching Boogie Nights for the first time in ten years. Wow has that film aged badly. I’ve never been a big PT Anderson guy but Boogie Nights was the film of his I stomached the best, or at least I did when I was 17. Yet it really does lay out every horrific tendency as a filmmaker he possessed in the late 90’s. A “more is never enough” aesthetic that trickled down to everything from the soundtrack, which never met a cutesy 70’s staple it didn’t love and demand to be piped in over every scene (Anderson really is categorically terrified of letting scenes play out over silence), to the histrionic performances to the nascent adolescent dialogue to the dick-wagging (literally) steadicam shots which seem to exist only for their own amusement. Yeah it’s got style and energy, but so does City of God and who the hell wants to watch that again?

**

Speaking of dick-wagging steadicam shots, how awful is Atonement? In the interest of staying up to date both with cinema trends and the Golden Globes (when will I learn?) I checked out a matinee at the new Arclight Sherman Oaks this weekend. I skipped Joe Wright’s Pride & Prejudice despite near universal acclaim because, frankly, I don’t do “corset movies” but this was promising to be a bitter little pill of a film not at all like prestige Oscar-bait such as The English Patient. Turns it it’s something far worse: it’s Wright’s attempt to remake Cold Mountain only without the colorful supporting characters or even a loosely defined narrative to hang itself off of. First half of the film (ie: the half everyone seems to love) is laughably over-plotted, relying on the same risible contrivances that sunk the long forgotten Reservation Road earlier in the fall. Allegedly the film is sexually charged but I couldn’t get over the fact that costumes not withstanding McAvoy and Knightly look like the same person. But the film doesn’t become truly insufferable until it enters the last Great War which consists of nary a single scene but rather an hour plus of elliptical moments in time which are comprised mostly of McAvoy walking through fields and leafing through postcards. Gotcha ending is neither cathartic nor subversive; simply one of a hundred literary conceits found within the film that just plain don’t translate to the screen.

**

One upside of awards season? The now standard practice of making the screenplays of awards contenders free and available for download. Paramount Vantage, Focus Features and Fox Searchlight have all taken this approach which is what allowed me to read the script to Juno this afternoon while at work. All I can say is fuck the haters; this thing is too charming for words. Found myself both laughing aloud and tearing up. After today I’m convinced that anyone clinging to the “all the characters in the film speak the same way” modus of criticism are either tone deaf or just lazy and using a convenient party line to explain their inabilities to warm up to the film.

**

Speaking of scripts, I am Legend was a bit of a full circle experience for me this weekend as it was the first screenplay I ever read back in the mid 90’s. This was when the film was supposed to be a vehicle for Ahhhhnuld and hued a lot more closely to Matheson’s original story. Over the years, I’d built the script up in my head as one of the great unproduced projects of the modern blockbuster era but going into the film I knew it’d been given the entire Akiva Goldsman treatment. The final result is a film that’s as devoid of humanity as the streets of New York City portend to be. Most of the original story’s more wicked ideas have been tossed aside (although it’s only recently dawned on me that they made their way into the first two Blade films) in favor of a big budget 28 Days Later knock-off only without the ingenuity, terror or (most importantly) the waking sadness of a world once familiar reduced to a monument to its former vitality. Smith’s widely hailed performance (which has earned comparisons to Hanks in Castaway? Really?) is, to be polite, uneven. Sufficiently screwy and vulnerable in places, far to often the actor falls into “Big Willy Style” mode, riffing as though he were auditioning for the last sitcom on earth. Lawrence has a knack for small-scale action but the big FX sequences feel like outtakes from The Mummy films.

**

On a final note, I just received the new, uber-dorky Blade Runner 5-disk box set complete with origami unicorn and matchbox car in the shape of a spinner. If I were to point to something I own that could personify why I haven’t been laid in ages, I think this thing would have to be it. I doubt I’ll ever get through half of it, but the sheer volume of geektastic stuff thrown into this package zeroes right in on my completist tendencies. I love this thing so much I want to take it behind a middle school and get it pregnant.

Thoughts on the Independent Spirit Nominations

My God is it that time of year already?

This morning LA-based Film Independent (or FIND) announced its nominees for the 2007 Independent Spirit Awards at an LA-friendly 8 AM PST. You’ll notice either from the weather outside or your nearest calendar that we’re not even free of November yet and they’re already rolling out the award season. Everyone get out your party hats. One does have some time to get used to these particular nominees though: the winners aren’t announced for another two months. In keeping with their status as the Academy Awards’ obnoxious little brother, the Indie Spirit Awards are held on a beach in Santa Monica the day before the Oscars which take place in late February, long after you’ve forgotten most of the films that were even released in 2007.

So why make Zach Braff and Lisa Kudrow get in front of the press and announce these stupid things now? Politics of course.

First a little background: a few years back the Independent Spirit Awards were run by an organization called IFP (or Independent Feature Project) which was created to nurture independent filmmakers by offering up seminars, workshops, occasionally funding, and networking opportunities. Filmmakers are inherently secretive and standoffish but filmmaking is collaborative by necessity. IFP attempted to bridge this gulf of personality and served as a valuable resource to upstart filmmakers looking to get their first films off the ground.

But around 2003 a rift formed between the upper levels of IFP’s management regarding the direction of the non-profit organization. Specifically, ditching the whole non-profit thing. The organization had become schizophrenic in trying to serve as both a fund-raising organization and a de-facto film school and a fissure was created. As though it had lost a turf war and had 72 hours to get out of the state (what was Bush behind this one too?), Much of the IFP staff uprooted itself from California and focused on New York City as its base of operations with satellite offices in the hinterlands of Minnesota, Seattle, and Phoenix (as well as Chicago although that one’s less of a stretch). Left in its place was the Angelino-centric Film Independent (formerly IFP-West) which was created to run the Los Angeles Film Festival (formerly the IFP-LA Film Festival) and the Independent Spirit Awards. These were two high-profile cash cows that brought national exposure to the organization but they also became the be all-end all of Film Independent; each a giant tent pole at opposite ends of the year which FIND could hang itself on.

The festival and the awards brought in enormous attention and dollars but were hardly self-sustaining and they certainly weren’t profitable. So sponsors were brought in. Such “independent-friendly” companies as Target, Acura, Pop Secret and Biloage (it’s an herbal shampoo they’re now handing out at screenings in little tubes). The LA Film Festival, abandoned its aspirations of being a mid-year Sundance and sold out. Big time. I’m talking making Transformers’ world premiere the festival’s center piece gala.

There was also a larger emphasis on expanding membership beyond filmmakers to film fans and patrons at large. FIND still holds seminars and workshops but they’re mostly set dressing. For $95 a year anyone could become a member, regardless of their aspirations behind the camera and the direction of the group steered away from nuts and bolts and collaboration and more towards guest speakers and rubbing elbows with Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach. In addition to paving the way for a whole new generation of starfuckers, membership also fulfills the great, film fan fantasy of voting for the Academy Awards. Or at least the next best thing.

That’s right: the Independent Spirit Awards are decided by its membership. Ballots will be sent out in January to all 6000 FIND members, unless of course you choose to “go green” and cast your vote electronically to save paper. At its essence, the Independent Spirit Awards are nothing more than the People’s Choice Awards for people who frequent the Landmark and Laemmle’s theater chains.

As for old IFP, just because they relinquished control of the Independent Spirit Awards doesn’t mean they got the awards bug out of their system. The created their own, costal-specific awards, The Gotham Awards to hand out to deserving “independent” films. Admittedly they’ve endured some growing pains in trying to establish who it is they’re representing (two of last year’s nominees The Departed and Marie Antoinette cost a combined $130 million dollars) but they’ve also differentiated themselves by limiting the number of awards they give out as well as their emphasis on highlighting films without distribution. You might be asking yourself when this organization gives out their awards.

Tonight of course. Oh the pettiness of it all.

As for the nominations themselves, their mostly inoffensive especially once you consider FIND has imposed an arbitrary, 20-million dollar budgetary cap to nominees which precludes the involvement of such films as Atonement, No Country for Old Men, There Will Be Blood and Gone Baby Gone, all films which are probably considered by the public at large as “indies.” It’s also worth noting that with the exception of I’m Not There, FIND’s awards have mostly ignored the films that were Gotham nominees with Sean Penn’s Into the Wild being completely shut-out and Margot at the Wedding and The Namesake having to contend themselves with a single nomination apiece in the supporting acting categories. I suspect the Dylan film only made the cut because director Todd Haynes is practically the pope of the Indie Spirit Awards (his Far From Heaven swept in 2002 and they even nominated his unwatchable Velvet Goldmine). I’m surprised that Sundance winner Grace is Gone and sex-doll romance/fairy tale Lars and the Real Girl are absent as well even if I did find the latter overly precious. I’m personally pleased that the panel resisted the urge to shower Sidney Lumet’s derivative Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead with nominations but I’m puzzled that Laura Linney wasn’t nominated for The Savages. I’m happy for surprise nominees Fred Parnes & Andrew Wagner, who I got to know while I was in Austin this past fall, for their screenplays for Starting Out in the Evening. Now if only I’d seen their film…

So full disclosure, if you can’t tell from the above graphs, I’m a Film Independent member, mostly for the rare occasions my company attends a FIND event for networking as well as the 3 to 4 free screenings they hold a month. I voted last year and I no doubt will do so this year. Last year I was doubly involved as Steel City was actually nominated so I’m pretty intimately aware with the behind the scenes process. While the membership at large picks the winner, the nominees are decided by small panels who review individual submissions. This is how fringe titles that have never played outside of festivals like Sundance and Toronto can find their way into the running. Having directly benefited from this policy I appreciate the lip service being paid to legitimately independently financed and produced filmmaking if for no other reason than the collective “huh’s” that come from Awards “gurus” like Tom O’Neil and David Poland as they try and wrap their minds around why an organization would “waste” a nomination on the likes of an Anna Kendrick for Rocket Science (who I’ve had a crush on since I saw her in Camp 4 years back) or for that matter Raymond J. Barry for Steel City.

I’m glad smaller films will have a fleeting moment in the sun even if I’m dubious to what real impact it will have on them. I also know you can lead a sycophantic film society to water but you can’t make them vote. For an organization with the word “independent” in their name, there sure is a lot of group thinking to the voting process. As a rule of thumb, films with more nominations usually do better than films with one or two categories under their belts and films that have made more money at the box office always do better than films that haven’t. Last year given the choice between Ryan Gosling’s acclaimed addiction drama Half Nelson and Guillermo del Toro’s visually stunning Pan’s Labyrinth, voters gave it to the Academy friendly Little Miss Sunshine in a 4-award sweep.

Look, voters are lazy. Hell I vote and I’m lazy. Last year FIND struck a deal with Netflix that put dvd screeners on voters’ doorsteps and even I skipped roughly a quarter of the nominated films, and I’m way more vested in independent film than most. This year they have an arrangement with B-Side Entertainment to actually stream the nominated films via the internet which has both minuses (I’m not a huge fan of watching movies on my computer) as well as plusses (I can now fast forward to the “good parts” of Lust, Caution and Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead from the privacy of my room). Still I’d be lying if I said I thought I’d watch everything before all the votes are tallied.

In the meantime, I get to watch films. Lots of films. Some I’ve never seen due to lack of opportunity (for my part, I’m glad I’ll be able to watch Lake of Fire at my own leisure, with plenty of breaks built in) or because of poor word of mouth. Or to re-watch films I was underwhelmed by like I’m Not There or The Diving Bell and the Butterfly to see if I can get something out of them with repeat viewings. Or simply watching Juno over and over again until I know every line by heart. It may be a bloated, glad-handling, self-congratulatory group, but I’m a member and I’m glad to have the perks at the moment.

Fuck Myspace

No, I’m not joining Facebook. I’ve actually started weaning myself off Myspace as only a handful of people seem to bother updating regularly anymore (and it’s not like I’m one of them) but I logged in earlier just to see what everyone’s up to and I saw my ex changed her dating status from “single” to “in a relationship” over the Thanksgiving holiday (and what better time to make it “official,” right?). Truth be told I hadn’t thought of this person in probably a couple months (we barely speak anymore) but still, you never want to see your ex being involved (so much so they feel comfortable announcing it to the Myspace world) while you’re still hopelessly single. It’s really a pride issue more than anything; as with most things I’m fairly competitive when it comes to dating. Still: an important lesson. Myspace is fucking evil.

DJ Caruso is a Hack Part II

Well, it’s been a few weeks now and I’m no less resigned to the fact that New Line is on track to make a god awful adaptation of Brian K. Vaughn’s Y: The Last Man. There hasn’t been any casting rumors or script pages leaked to the net. There wasn’t one of those nifty press conferences like the ones at Comic-Con where all the actors get up on stage and talk about how excited they are to be working on the project (because deep down they really consider themselves “nerds”). I’m to assume the project is just quietly progressing behind the scenes and will just as quietly be moved into production with sickening, factory-like efficiency. This is just how things are done.

The last time I addressed this issue, the brunt of my annoyance was leveled at the man hired to direct the film, D.J. Caruso of Salton Sea and Disturbia fame. At the time, I hadn’t seen Disturbia, easily the biggest financial success of his relatively young career, and my comments directed towards the particular film spoke to the public’s response to the film and not my own. The film has since been released on DVD and I made Netflixing the film a top priority of mine (those who know me can attest, I tend to keep my rentals for months at a time so in the event something does come out that I want to see immediately I have to quickly shuffle everything around… Some day I’ll watch Ten Items or Less but that day isn’t going to be anytime soon). This, after all, is the film which got Caruso (and writer Carl Ellsworth) the Y:TLM job, so there must be something to it.

My misgivings about Caruso aside, I had modest hopes for the film which was marketed as a Rear Window knock-off for the Myspace demo. Reviews were kind if not quite glowing and the film was something of an anomaly these days in that it was a legitimate word of mouth hit. Its star, Shia LaBeouf, has earned comparisons to both Hanks and Hoffman (that would be Dustin, not Philip Seymour) both for his low to the ground affability and his unconventional leading man status. He’s non-threatening to women and a believable surrogate for most guys. I wanted to like the film because the premise is pretty much foolproof and after a summer of “toy movies” (which is to say films both inspired by and driven to sell toys), a stripped down, character-driven thriller struck me as an awesome idea in mid August.

But guess what: the film is shit. And worst of all its shit in all the ways that had me worried for the Y:TLM adaptation. Caruso is essentially Brett Ratner with a smaller train set at his disposal. The film is middling and pedestrian and slick-looking without any real sense of style or voice. I feel like the film should be playing in elevators at corporate buildings. This may be the first serial killer film in history that exists as cinematic wallpaper, comfortably conforming and never distracting from the good time the actors are having.

It’s also, to my shock, a toy film as much as the LaBeouf starring Transformers is. That film was of course based on a toy (and, because of Michael Bay’s sensibilities behind the camera, was lit and cut to emphasize all the GM automobiles on display) but this is ultimately something far more insidious; a 90-minute Best Buy circular pitched at teenagers, chock full of goodies just within the grasp of their disposable income, borrowing mom and dad’s credit card, lives. Xbox 360, iPods and iTunes are given repeated shout-outs and the film’s techno chic surveillance gadgets are placed squarely in the “next year’s model” vein. A sequence involving Sarah Roemer’s idealized girl next door character (who is so movie perfect she not only doesn’t mind palling around in Shia’s musky, shithole of a bedroom but is actually turned on by all the astute observations he’s made whilst peeping on her while she’s changing across the way) surveying David Morse’s would-be serial killer in a hardware store seems to be more about the crisp clarity of her camera phone then heightening tension.

Disturbia also finds itself in something of a predicament as short of placing Shia in a leg cast (and no doubt having to pay royalties to the Hitchcock estate) it struggles to find a reason to keep the character confined and the story claustrophobic in nature. Its solution: make apple-cheeked LaBeouf who behaves throughout much of the film as though he’s spent a good deal of time on the receiving end of his share of atomic wedgies and swirlies, a repeat-offender juvenile delinquent placed under house arrest.

Not a bad solution admittedly and one that’s gotten a lot of play in the media lately (Martha Stewart is both name checked as well as incorporated into a typically lousy extended riff) but the casting of Shia works against the plot point. It’s frankly never believable that he’d run afoul of the law enough to warrant such a specialized punishment. The film’s answer to this dilemma is to construct an embarrassingly mawkish back-story explaining the character’s “fall from grace” after he’s involved in a fatal car accident where his father is killed after (I shit you not) a sun-dimpled fly-fishing trip. Like, as in A River Runs Through It. Soon he’s a bundle of nerves who punches out his Spanish teacher in class for invoking his father’s memory and he’s standing in front of a judge for that and “all his previous offenses” which have conveniently been placed way off screen.

The dead-dad internal engine is more or less abandoned once it’s served its purpose but more distressing than how hackneyed it is, is how the film uses it as a cop-out: Shia’s Kale isn’t a bad kid, just a messed up one lashing out at the world. The character is no different than anyone of the millions of over-privileged, latchkey kids spending this summer surfing the net for porn and playing Gears of War, the only difference is now this one can’t go out on Friday nights to annoy me while I’m at the movies.

Disturbia ultimately isn’t smart enough to point the finger at the very people it’s pandering towards. The film stumbles blindly into the irony of our information-now, webcam, streaming audio, techno-junkie culture being a more discreet version of looking in your neighbors’ window with binoculars without ever making a concrete point. It’s as though it were merely dumping a serial killer next door thriller into a YouTube milieu.

And what an awful serial killer film it is. First of all, the plot proper doesn’t kick in for nearly forty-minutes which would be admirable if Shia’s character actually had a personality. Once the film has established the physical parameters of the character’s invisible prison it becomes one long “I’m bored” montage. The character is such a used Kleenex of lazy teenage tropes that we’re supposed to interpret mom cutting off his iTunes account as an unconscionable violation of his identity (dude, it’s the internet… it exists so you can download stuff for free. Be resourceful already). What is poor Shia to do all summer, with nothing but his cable TV, high speed internet, Microsoft gaming system, token non-white friend and cute jailbait next door to occupy his wandering attention?

At this point Kale’s attention is drawn to Morse’s Mr. Turner, living across the street, whom he suspects may be a serial killer because, um, he drives a black car with a dented bumper. No seriously. Oh sure, over time he begins to compile a mountain of incriminating yet allusively coincidental evidence but the film never sells what it is about Turner that’s so darn suspicious. Again, it’s here the films laziness works against its own best interests. In Rear Window Jimmy Stewart’s infirm photographer obsessively gazes at his neighbors because there is no Direct TV or videogames to distract him. Left to nothing but his own devices, small abnormalities and subtle changes in people’s behavior inform his personal soap opera. He has nothing but room for paranoid theories and leaps in logical deduction often against the better judgment of those around him.
Yet Kale lives in such a cluttered, overly fussy world of mind-numbing electronic distractions his seeming obsession with the world outside his window is rendered all the more facile. Who needs the straying husband and the cleaning lady across the way when you’ve got “Cheaters” with host Joey Greco on the television?

Because Morse has spent the better part of twenty years playing smoky-voiced, passive-aggressive heavies (even when he’s not really playing the villain) we expect a certain amount of nuance and misdirection from the performance even if the film’s trailers have gone out of their way to remove all doubt as to the question of his guilt. Whether its hitting on Kale’s over-extended mom (Carrie Anne Moss who seems to have entered this casting director’s black hole of “caustic MILF;” can’t wait for the eventual multi-episode stint on “Desperate Housewives”) like Chris Sarandon in Fright Night or forcing himself into Roemer’s car and then politely (no, really) asking her to please stop stalking him, Morse rides an uncomfortable line between creep and creepy that’s ultimately a lot more interesting than whatever busywork his younger costars are occupying themselves with. Almost in response to how frantic and cluttered the film itself is, Morse seems to be moving at his own laconic pace, showing his cards only when he’s good and ready.

Unfortunately he not only throws his hand down at the end of the second act, his character also dumps out the entire deck of Bicycle onto the table. After narrowly averting yet another one of pesky Kale’s attempts to dig up dirt on him (and in the process, bringing the police down upon his home), Turner goes on a kill-crazy rampage, bludgeoning Kale’s mom and hitting his best friend with a bat before coming for Kale himself. Sooner than you can say “Here’s Johnny,” Turner is busting down doors, monologuing about how Kale almost foiled his evil plan and skulking in the shadows waiting to pounce. At this point the film enters the lightning round where it proceeds to rip-off every single serial killer film of the past twenty years as Kale moves through Turner’s hidden torture chamber replete with dank lighting, slowly decomposing bodies, moats and icky-looking surgical tools. All that’s missing at this point is a small yapping dog and a bottle of lotion.

Disturbia was never in danger of being mistaken as a good film but watching the film descend to generic shocks and Terminator-like action, I was reminded of another under-criticized genre film which, after writing itself into a corner, threw its carefully considered claustrophobia out the window in favor of armed madmen hurtling down the stairs with a manic look in their eyes. That film was called Red Eye and it was written by Disturbia author Carl Ellsworth. Oh dear, we’ve got a pattern.

What ultimately frustrates me about Disturbia and now has me concerned for Y: The Last Man is how unwilling this film is to engage with any issue beneath the surface, clinging with all its might to the film’s high concept premise and its product placement set dressing. Y:TLM is such a thematically messy, dense, self-aware piece of storytelling yet all I can envision is Ryan Reynolds and a his pet monkey cracking wise and trying to get laid. I see nothing in this film, or for that matter any film Caruso has directed, that tells me he’s interested in anything more then kicking slick product down the assembly line and pandering to the Ritalin-immune, post-MTV generation.

Fucking doomed.

State of the Union

Keeping it short and sweet. This isn’t some groveling cry for help or any of that happy horse shit; it’s a laundry list of why I’ve got a hair across my ass these days:

Work has never been less fulfilling in my entire life. I’ve finally found a script I want to produce after four years on the job and I expect my boss to either a) pass on it or b) drag his feet and/or low-ball the writer till it slips between our fingers. If I can’t be involved with this film I don’t see how I can stay with the company.

My weird anxiety-related breathing thing has passed (x-rays prove my lungs are fine) but now I’m pretty much popping Xanax like they’re M&M’s. I realize I’d rather be numb than feel anything close to what I’m feeling right now. But that’s okay right, because nothing bad can come from a prescription drug habit, right? Thank God I lose my appetite when I’m depressed. The last thing I want to deal with right now is being fat.

Oh, the Sox totally suck balls. I knew they’d implode but I sort of thought it would be the pitching doing them in, per, I dunno MY ENTIRE HISTORY WITH THE TEAM. Instead, I’m listening to Dice-K and Beckett throw 3-hitter gems while a bunch of overpaid crybabies can’t hit the fucking ball with a runner on 3rd with 1 out. Manny’s contract can’t run-out soon enough. I actually found myself getting excited the other day over the thought of the Sox paying Scott Boras’ 30-million a year ransom for A-Rod next year; how fucked is that?

The script that I’m 50+ pages into writing, the one that was supposed to reveal how much range I had as a writer because it’s such a dramatic departure from the self-indulgent dogshit I usually write… yeah well it stalled. I’m literally terrified to write anything else. Haven’t written more than a paragraph in weeks.

I realized the other day that the highlight of my day is when I go to bed. Really. I used to look down my nose at my sister when she was in highschool and would spend all day hiding from the world in her bed. But I really do get it now: sleep is easier than life. Everything just goes away and when you wake up you have about 45-seconds where you forget just how awful the day before was and you feel like anything is possible. Actually that's the highpoint of my day and if they made it into a drug I’d spend my live savings on it till I more or less had the trajectory of John Belushi.

Nothing to watch on TV (obviously) but what’s really killing me is having to listen to people I respect and want to spend more time with tell me how Transformers “is just a fun summer movie.” Why has everyone’s standards become so low? Am I the only one who demands more than flashing lights and loud noises?

Something has to give. Something has to change. Soon.