movie miracle

Since I haven't been posting much recently, I thought I would update you all on why. I am getting ready for a shoot! A friend is directing, my husband is producing, and I am doing art direction so it is something of a family affair.

Sure, we are still short some crew and extras, and the list of details to take care of seems to grow longer instead of shorter, but when we had our tech visit to the locations on Sunday the panicky feeling subsided and I was able to get a sense of the magic to come.

It's true--auteur filmmaking is absurd. It is a monumental effort and expense for something that will be seen by few people and that usually ends up costing you (instead of making you) money. But when it all comes together (and it usually does) it can be exhilarating and tremendously rewarding.

The hair-pulling frenzy of pre-production is a reminder that every movie is a miracle, even a bad one. Just to succeed in coordinating the amount of talent and resources required to follow one unified goal through to the end is an astounding feat, let alone producing a finished product that is actually good. The variables are infinite and the obstacles seem insurmountable.

Why do we do this again? No time to think about that--all we can do at this point is put one foot in front of the other and try to enjoy the experience.

guilty pleasures

The Film Society of Lincoln Center's magazine Film Comment has a section entitled "Guilty Pleasures" in which they invite actors and directors to share their favourite bad movies. I thought I would try my hand, since normally I stick to pretty high-brow fare on this blog. Here are my top "so bad they're good" picks:

Road House (1989)

Patrick Swayze plays a bouncer hired to keep out the riff-raff at a roadhouse bar called the Double Deuce (scuzzy dive, awesome name). "When the dancing is over, things get dirty." Pure, unadulterated 80's kitsch.

They Live (1988)

John Carpenter (Halloween) is the master of cranking out low-budget camp and has a huge cult following. In this choice nugget, "A drifter discovers a pair of sunglasses that allow him to wake up to the fact that aliens have taken over the Earth." Whenever the drifter (played by WWF wrestler "Rowdy" Roddy Piper) punches someone, he uses what seems to be  the sound of a car door slamming. So bad, it's hilarious.

Short Circuit (1986) Also see: *Batteries Not Included (1987) and Heartbeeps (1981)

Long before Wall-E, there was a host of "Boy and His Robot" movies made in the 1980s, in which robots display more caring emotion than their human counterparts and thus win the love and friendship of the young protagonists. Heavy on the guilt and less on the pleasure for me, these are probably among the worst movies I've ever seen. But, as a child of the 80's, I have a bit of a soft spot for them.

There's No Business Like Show Business (1954)

This one I'm not so guilty about--it stars Marylin Monroe and Ethel Merman and is a good old-fashioned lavish 1950s spectacle about (you guessed it) show business. If you're feeling low, I highly recommend it for a dose of eye-and-ear-pleasing musical technicolor therapy.

Pillow Talk (1959)

I'm not guilty about this one either, although it may be the epitome of fluff. Animosity builds between Manhattanites Doris Day and Rock Hudson, whose shared phone line puts them at odds. Having only heard his voice, Day doesn't recognize Hudson when he tries to woo her while posing as a Texas hayseed. Musical hi-jinx ensues.... The makers of romantic comedy today couldn't hold a candle to these guys.

What Happens in Vegas (2008)

My case in point. I don't really remembers what happens in this movie, just that it was really bad but I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. (I guess I had low expectations.)

National Lampoon's European Vacation (1985) and Christmas Vacation (1989)

The latter is a holiday classic and the former is just plain corny fun; Chevy Chase and Beverly D'Angelo are side-splitting as Clark and Ellen Griswold. I haven't seen their third film, Vegas Vacation yet but will keep an eye on the satellite for it.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)

I'm talking about the original, not the TV series remake with Sarah Michelle Gellar. I was a pre-teen when this movie came out and I remember watching it with my friends at at least one slumber/birthday party. Kristy Swanson's Buffy was my ultimate female role model--sexy, tough, and kind of an outcast. I haven't watched it in years and don't intend to, lest seeing it as an adult detract from my idealized memory of it.

As you can tell, most of these picks date from the days before my good taste prevented me from watching them. What are some of your guilty pleasures?

bummed out*

Tonight's première of the RIDM documentary festival reminded me of what a rich city Montreal is when it comes to cinema. In his hilarious introductory speech, board president and indie producer Mila Aung-Thwin joked about how they will not be announcing a merger with Montreal's other film festivals, since certain journalists have been complaining that there are TOO MANY in this town. Too many film festivals? Sheesh! I think that too many festivals is a great thing for cinephiles (although it's not as great for filmmakers, since they usually don't make any money from having their films shown at them).

Anyway, that is a discussion for another day. Today I'm going to talk about....asses. Yes, that's right. Bums. Or, as world-renowned choreographer Philippe Decouflé refers to them in Frederick Wiseman's new doc Crazy Horse, "les cocos". Of the film's 2h15min run-time, there is probably an hour and a half of close-ups on women's bare tushes--floating in the air, being waggling at us, stroked by other dancers and at one point, multiplied by mirrors to look like waves atop the ocean (eye candy in its purest form, even for me, a straight woman). The remainder of the film shows us the excruciating tantrums at production meetings, the brutal evaluating of dancers' bodies at auditions and all the less glamorous aspects of what it takes to put on the world's "chicest" strip show, revered by intellectuals and oglers alike.

After the screening, someone actually yelled out "Sexist!! BOO!!" and I was disappointed because this person had completely missed the point. Although it may look like soft porn, you need to read between the lines. Underneath the disguise this is actually a film about the collaborative creative process: the inspiration, the obsession, the egos, the hopes and dreams and most of all, the hard, hard work. These people are not just in it for the money, they don't do it to exploit women--they do it because they view the striptease as High Art. And I agree. The infinite variations they've come up with on a woman taking 5 minutes to remove her G-string are indeed a sublime accomplishment.

While watching the film, I had a realization about cinema in general: the point of cinema is not to just to get to the point. The point of cinema is to draw out a moment for as long as possible, to create a reverie during which we forget where we are, who we are, and even what we're looking at. In this, what he calls his "most abstract film yet", Wiseman has done just that.

Crazy Horse plays once more at RIDM on Saturday the 12th at 5:30pm, and opens at Cinema du Parc on November 25th. 

*Thanks to friend, filmmaker and pun-master extraordinaire Ameesha for that one!

vampire love

I don't know what it is about the vampire myth that is so enduring. Much has been written on the seemingly endless cycle of repetition and variation on this theme, so I won't spend a lot of time speculating; however, I'd like to compare and contrast two examples of it that I happened to see on the same night this weekend: HBO's dramedy True Blood, and the 2008 Swedish film Let the Right One In. It's like comparing apples and oranges, but I still think it's an interesting cultural exercise.

I haven't always been a True Blood fan but in Season 3 (when Sookie was nursing viking bloodsucker Eric back to health from magic-induced amnesia) things got pretty hot and heavy and I admit I was hooked (apparently I wasn't the only one--the Season 3 finale drew 11.4 million viewers). There is something inexplicably sexy about the idea of making it with a vampire and the show has coasted on this for quite some time, rehashing one of the most deeply-rooted American archetypes: the good girl who loves bad boys.

For me, the other most appealing aspect of True Blood is its small-town Louisiana setting; as the brilliantly-constructed opening credits sequence establishes, the swampy ground of Bon Temp is rife with voodoo, sex and holy rolling. In classic HBO fashion, the seedy underbelly is sliced open and its entrails exposed for us to feast on.

Unfortunately, Season 4 transitions from vampire sex to war on witchcraft, and for me the show has officially jumped the shark. The writers must sense that their audience will eat up whatever drivel they dish out, penning such appallingly bad dialogue as "This fucking sucks!" when Marnie the witch gets taken down. I'm sure they'll keep True Blood on life support for a few more seasons, but I think the whole thing is getting ridiculously campy and over-the-top.

On the other end of the spectrum, we have Let the Right One In. This love story disguised as a horror movie is delightfully refreshing, and not just because it seems to have been shot entirely at -30 in the dead of the Swedish winter. Its protagonist, Oskar, is an almost albino-blond 12-year-old who is so innocent and sweet he hardly seems of this world. Of course, the school bullies have a field day terrorizing him. One day, he meets a girl his age (Eli) who seems to understands him but, strangely, she goes around barefoot in the snow and can only come out to play at night. People in the neighborhood start dying mysterious, untimely deaths as Oskar and Eli get closer, until he finally beings to understand her dark secret....

The film's style is old-fashioned and it looks like it was shot 20 years ago on a $10,000 budget, but in a good way (think of what a horror film would look like if directed by Ingmar Bergman c. 1984). That being said, its restraint makes it suspenseful, and its well-spaced, creepy FX scenes give just the right amount of goosebumps. Hard-core horror fans might disappointed (although I'd encourage them to give it a chance), but for me this movie's subtle thrills and endearing protagonist make it a great thinking-person's scary movie and represents a much more sensitive, decidedly un-American take on the vampire love theme. I haven't yet seen the US remake (entitled Let Me In), but without young Kare Hedebrant's angelic face and captivating performance, it surely couldn't compare. If you need something to watch while handing out candy tonight, I highly recommend the original.

Happy Halloween!

"drive" fan

I was going to write a post devoted to Drive, the retro-80's chase movie I had been anticipating seeing for some time, but I'll never top this brilliant "illustrated reaction" by Lisa Hanawalt.

However, I'll still say this: While the grown-up part of my brain thinks that the best part of this movie was the opening sequence, and that it's just a little too "cool" and its style trumps its substance, the teenager in me is totally agog.

It's the kind of movie I would have seen at seventeen and then stayed up all night talking about over coffee with my friend. I feel like plastering my walls with posters and fan art devoted to it. Even though I found the lyrics to a certain song way too on-the-nose while watching the movie, I have a compulsion to listen to the soundtrack on repeat through my headphones while writing Ryan Gosling gushing fan letters in spite of (or perhaps because of) the goofy grin he wears throughout the film.

I haven't had this kind of reaction to a movie in quite some time (to specify how long would be to divulge my actual age). Anyway, if you're looking for something to watch this weekend, go and see Drive. Unleash your inner teenage fan girl in the process....

first we take toronto

Days 2 and 3 were quite a whirwind so I had no time to blog--which is the way it should be, after all. (No, I didn't see any "celebrities," just huge crowds of people gathered around taking pictures of them.)

After sleeping in (I'm getting too old for 9am screenings after party nights) we started Saturday off with a bit of hanging around festival HQ next to the Lightbox just to have a coffee and take in the madness. Had we been a little more bold (or desperate) and a little less proud, we could have run up to Ted Hope (the indie producer/god with over 100 titles to his credit) and others, with our script. But that is not our style; with all the Blackberries going off and industry-types milling about, we were out of there after an hour or so.

Our film of the day (ticket prices are so prohibitive that we had to limit ourselves) was FUBAR-director Michael Dowse's new movie, Goon. After the last night's heart-wrenching Marécages, we were in the mood for a comedy and this one delivered the goods. I am a long-time Dowse fan but had heard absolutely nothing about Goon before going in, so it was even more of a pleasant surprise. The screenplay was co-written by Jay Baruchel and Evan Goldberg (whose previous credits include Superbad and Knocked Up) and was delightfully over-the-top, as was Baruchel's performance as the foul-mouthed, mercurial sleaze-ball host of "Hot Ice", a web TV show devoted to minor-league hockey fights and hits. Dowse introduced the film saying it's been a hard few months for hockey goons (referring to the untimely deaths of enforcers Derek Boogaard, Rick Rypien and Wade Belak) and he said that although this film is a comedy and has "no social agenda whatsoever," his heart goes out to these guys and their families. Someone asked him in the Q & A if this film is an attempt to move away from FUBAR and into the mainstream, and he replied that he doesn't know what mainstream is, he just wants to make good movies. The refreshing thing about Dowse is that his movies have a lot of heart (often lacking in our cerebral, ironic national cinema). Furthermore, this film is an interesting case study of what is possible when a bunch of Canadians who have "made it" in Hollywood get together to make a movie in Canada--hopefully this time the distribution won't get bungled and it will be widely seen.

The rest of my stay at the festival was pretty much devoted to the business side: cocktails and schmoozing. For the first time, I really felt that we were getting somewhere and by coincidence we crossed paths with many of the people we were hoping to talk to and some unexpected ones too. As a writer/director I'm often more comfortable in my bubble off in a corner somewhere, but I'm gradually learning not to try too hard and simply be myself in these situations. It can definitely be overwhelming trying to make meaningful conversation with dozens upon dozens of strangers, but that is why there are free drinks. In the end, I felt like we are finally starting to make the right connections and come across kindred spirits who are actually willing to help. They are out there--it just takes a lot of beating around the bush to find them. With a bit of post-festival follow-up, who knows what could happen?

My stay was only three days but that was just enough; a person can only take so much schmoozing, boozing and waiting in line (we actually decided to step out of the rush line for Take this Waltz just before the start because there were so many people our seats would have been terrible). Some of us may have day jobs to get back to, but attending the festival makes us feel like filmmakers again. Regardless of the outcome, I had a good time at TIFF this year.

jour #1

Well, it's been just over 24 hours and already we've already managed to score tickets to the opening night party (along with all of Toronto) talk our way into an industry event, and attend the opening screening of the Canada First! program. We also got some business-related good news, some bad news and a taste of the fear and self-loathing that creeps up at some point whenever we come to TIFF. In all, a pretty full-on first day.


In the morning we attended Telefilm's "Canadian Talent to Watch" panel, featuring Simon Davidson (The Odds), Guy Édoin (Wetlands/Marécages), Anne Émond (Nuit #1), Ivan Grbovic (Romeo Eleven/Roméo Onze), Yonah Lewis and Calvin Thomas (Amy George) and Nathan Morlando (Edwin Boyd). Atom Egoyan gave a thoughtful, self-deprecating introductory speech about starting out in the industry and how the panelist's first features are "much stronger than my own". The panelists had some interesting advice for emerging filmmakers including "work with your friends, because shooting a film is very hard and you need friends on set" (Anne Émond) and "the biggest challenge as a director is preserving your naivety and intuition within the confines of a shooting schedule" (Ivan Grbovic).


Next, we attended the much-anticipated North American premiere of Guy Édoin's Marécages--another example of raw, powerful Quebec cinema. The film tells the story of a farm family facing bankruptcy and other, more serious setbacks in the midst of a drought. There is a scene in which a calf is torn from its mother by the desperate farmers, only to die; the brutal reality of farm life is rarely portrayed on screen with such honesty (if at all) and it hit very close to home for me, being from a rural milieu myself. Édoin obviously qualifies as "talent to watch" and although I'm still reeling from the emotional kick in the stomach, I look forward to his future offerings. 


We shall see what tomorrow brings....

everyone's a critic

Today is the start of the movie madness that has been branded simply as TIFF. Everyone in the film industry knows what this means: the Toronto International Film Festival (in case you've been living under a rock or without TV for the past decade or so).

This festival is not only on par with Cannes and Sundance in terms of celebrity glitz and indie influence, it is also an annual pilgrimage for us small-potato Canadian filmmakers hoping to ride the coattails of some friend-of-a-friend into fame and fortune (or at least a good party or two).

Nothing can describe the excitement of having a première at TIFF--as a Canadian filmmaker you feel sky-high, thinking the experience is going to change your life. I was lucky enough to have a taste of this two years ago when my short was an "official selection" (allowing me to emblazon my press materials with the coveted laurels and TIFF logo for all time).

The festival did end up changing my life, but not in the way I thought it would. Imagine my dismay after arriving in Toronto, picking up my industry pass, greeting my cast and crew, who had flown across the country to be there, only to open up the free Toronto weekly and read a scathing review saying my film was terrible and brought down the program. "Crushed" does not even begin to describe the feeling. Having invested two years of blood, sweat and tears along with thousands of dollars of my own money in the project, my sense of pride and accomplishment was instantly stomped on.

I still made the most of the festival and had a great time, but was haunted by this skunk in the woodpile. A writer friend of mine once told me to never, ever respond to your critics, but I've decided to respond indirectly--by setting an example.

When I attend TIFF this year (not as a filmmaker, but as a blogger) I will try to refrain from any criticisms that are catty, self-important or deconstructive. In fact, Mom's advice to say nothing at all when one has nothing nice to say is, as always, best; I know how hard it is to make a film and how devastating negative reaction can be, especially to an emerging artist.

Now, let's hope I can get into some screenings.....

art of the state

Why is it that Anglo-Canadian filmmakers just can't seem to break through with audiences on the same level that our writers and musicians have? Let's put the Jewisons and the Cronenbergs aside and focus on those who still reside and work in Canada, with Canadian dollars backing them. (Also, we've never had a deficiency in the experimental and documentary departments, I'm talking fiction here.)

Much has been written on this subject; some blame the talent-vacuum that is Hollywood, luring away all our writers, actors and directors. Others say it's the government funding structure, which we are lucky to have, but which works in mysterious ways more often than not. Perhaps it's the ever-present national identity crisis: who are we and what makes us Canadian? etc. There is also the lack of available screens due to the distribution/exhibition oligopoly that is taking over theatres.

Whatever the obstacles in our path, I think we Anglo-Canadian filmmakers need to take a closer look at our product (which is, after all, the one thing we can control). Do our recent films really stand up when compared with Quebec, let alone independent American offerings? Rather than wade too deeply into the debate, I'll let you be the judge. Here are some interesting ones to consider:

Black Field (2009)

This is a promising feature debut from Winnipeg director Danishka Esterhazy. A Gothic prairie tale set in the 1870s, it tells the story of a love triangle between two sisters living alone on their farm and a handsome francophone stranger with a dubious past. Although some of the details could have used more fleshing out, this film reminds me of playing "pioneers" with my cousins in the bleak prairie landscape (in a good way) and the two young actresses are a pleasure to watch.

Small-Town Murder Songs (2010)

I had high expectations for this one, and perhaps that was my problem. The concept sounds great--a murder shakes up a pacifist Mennonite community in rural Ontario. I was hoping for a Canadian Silent Light (a brilliant, slow-paced Menno love-triangle set on a Mexican colony by director Carlos Reygadas) but found writer/director/producer Ed Gass-Donnelly's  use of music and superimposed Bible verses (the same as quoted in Glenn Gould's radio doc The Quiet in the Land) to be a bit heavy-handed. Plus, I get tired of seeing the same actors' faces all the time (Jackie Burroughs, anyone?). Sometimes it's better to go with unknown or unprofessional actors in bit parts, since recognizing a well-known one can take the audience out of the story.

Grown-Up Movie Star (2009)

I really enjoyed this one, another debut from a woman filmmaker (Adriana Maggs). The story of a self-destructive teenage girl in a small town may not be the most original (I've even made a film about that subject), but I think originality is over-rated anyway. It's what you do with a concept that makes the film live or die, and this movie's fine cast carries it off brilliantly. Saskatchewan girl Tatiana Maslany even won an acting award at Sundance for her performance and is definitely on her way up.

Cairo Time (2009)

I have to admit that, for me, this film was the most pleasant surprise of the bunch. Yes, it falls squarely into "chick-flick" territory, and although the stories may sound similar, it's nothing like the cliché and shmaltzy Eat Pray Love. In Cairo Time, love blossoms between a woman waiting alone in Cairo for her husband, who is prevented from joining her due to his high-stakes job with the UN, and a dark, handsome friend of his. Somehow, writer-director Ruba Nadda has managed to make this dreamily romantic, funny and bittersweet film without being sucked down into sentimentality--a terrific feat when dealing with material like this! I have great respect for this prolific yet under-appreciated filmmaker and look forward to her future offerings.

PS: Notice a thread developing here? Four out of five of these films are from women directors--hopefully this trend continues!

PPS: Some other recent Canadian films I look forward to seeing: The Kate Logan Affair (Noël Mitrani), Good Neighbors (Jacob Tierney), and of course, Keyhole (Guy Maddin).

west is best

I love films that are set in the West but aren't actually Westerns. I mentioned a couple of these (The Last Picture Show and The Killer Inside Me) in my small-town melodrama list, but since it's another favourite subgenre of mine, I thought I'd elaborate.

The Western has more offshoots than perhaps any other genre; every decade or two it seems to be revived with a twist. However, it always seems to boil down to the same old elements, which gets tedious if you're not a fan of overblown myths of masculinity and stage-y acting. I know I'm going to catch some flak for this, but I find Sergio Leone films painful to watch and Jon Wayne's cardboard delivery really gets on my nerves. That being said, I love the western setting: the sweeping desert landscapes, the horses, the cowboy hats--with the right artistic vision these elements can meld into pure cinematic magic.

Fortunately for me, there are lots of auteur films in which to get a fix without the tired tropes of the classical Western. Here are a few, for your viewing pleasure:

The Misfits (1961)

Written by playwright Arthur Miller, directed by John Huston and starring Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable and Montgomery Clift, this film is a tour-de-force. In her final (and, probably, best) performance, Monroe plays a divorcee who is appalled when her rugged cowboy lover, played by Gable, plans to round up the area's last remaining herd of wild horses and sell them for dog food. Her love for the untamed beasts is consistent with her love for Gable's manly character, but the latter's Western pragmatism spoils the romance and leads to disillusionment. The film has its share of light, funny moments, but it culminates in an unforgettably passionate outcry from Monroe. If you ask me, she is generally underrated as an actress (it's hard to take a woman seriously when her breasts are always falling out of her dress) and, here, the casting choice takes on added significance since, in life as in this role, she proved to be a tragic figure too sensitive for the rough world around her.

Brokeback Mountain (2005)

This is a classic tragedy about two people who love each other more than anything else in the world but can't be together--the twist is that they happen to be cowboys. Masterfully directed and acted (the late Heath Ledger is especially brilliant as man-of-few-words Ennis Del Mar), the film contains what is, in my opinion, one of the saddest moments in all cinema; I won't spoil the plot for you, but I will admit that I bawl like a baby every time I see it.

Giant (1956)

James Dean in a cowboy hat. Need I say more? This sprawling epic about a Texas ranching family is perfect viewing for a long, late-summer night.

Hud (1963)

Paul Newman in a cowboy hat...you get the picture. Anyway, this gem of a film also has a really interesting screenplay in that the title character is actually the antagonist and his young nephew who seems to be on the fringe of the story ends up being framed as the protagonist. Filmed in beautiful black and white, it's pure pleasure to watch.

Crin blanc / White Mane (1953)

This film is delightfully odd; coming in at 40 minutes in length, I would describe it as an existential fairy-tale for kids. Directed by Albert Lamorisse (The Red Balloon), it also has to do with the capture of a wild horse, this time in the Camargue region of Southern France. A young boy witnesses the attempts of the gardians (Camargue cowboys) to break a wild stallion named White Mane. A violent contest breaks out between White Mane and one of the other horses in which they paw at each other with their hooves and bite each other until their silvery coats are streaked with blood (this long, visceral battle looks as though it just happened spontaneously and they decided to let the cameras roll). White Mane, the victor, escapes the paddock and from then on the little boy is obsessed, fantasizing about the magnificent creature in gorgeously filmed, hypnotic dream sequences. He finally does get to ride White Mane, but the gardians give chase across the desert marshes; the film closes on the boy and horse swimming out to sea, never to return.

PS: Unforgiven, a brilliant anti-Western by Clint Eastwood, and The Three Burials of Meliaques Estrada, an arthouse indie-Western by Tommy Lee Jones, may appear to be more faithful to the conventions of the genre, but add enough twists to make them very interesting anomalies for anyone who's tired of the same old horse operas.

thin letters

A former film prof of mine used to call rejection letters "thin" letters. When your application (for a grant, a festival, a contest, etc.) is successful, you get a thick letter in the mail: an envelope containing your acceptance letter, along with forms to fill out, and sometimes even a check. But when you are unsuccessful, the envelope contains only one soul-crushing piece of paper: an impersonal form letter "regretting to inform you" of the fact that you've been rejected. (My prof actually made a hand-processed, 16mm short film called The Thin Letter.)

After what may often be three or four months of waiting and hoping, thin letters can be devastating. It takes a while for the news to sink in; for the first day or so you may find yourself drifting back into that habitual state of anticipation, only to remember that it's all over. I am just coming out of that phase for the third time this month. No, I am not bitter--one of my thin letters came with helpful, encouraging comments and, after all, I have received my share of thick letters--but the repetitive cycle of application/anticipation/rejection does get old at a certain point.

However, as the cliché goes, you can't win them all. Rejection is a part of life, and soldiering on becomes easier the more you do it. So, my response to the thin letters was to declare, "I'll show them, I'll show them all!" and send out yet another application, once again crossing my fingers. (You may as well enjoy the anticipation--after all, you never know....)

tree of life

Like Tarkovsky, Terrence Malick is another film mystic and favourite director of mine. His work is deep, mysterious and, whereas Tarkovky's tends to be dour, joyful. He eschews making worldly entertainment in favour of meditating on life's big questions like "what is love?" and "what happens when we die?"  In his relatively small body of work as director (only six films in 42 years, of which Days of Heaven is still the best in my opinion) he has managed to give us a clear and unique worldview in which nature and grace are the dominant forces. You don't just watch a Malick film, you experience it; you have to enter with an open mind and check your habitual film viewing expectations at the door--never more so than with his latest, Tree of Life.

The "story" (I use quotation marks because the film is less of a narrative and more of an experience) is about a boy growing up in a straight-laced small town in the 1950's; his mother teaches him and his brothers to love and be joyful, while his father trains them to be manly and cruel (he is not portrayed as a heartless villain, but rather a product of his environment and the times, and is redeemed in the end). The younger brother dies in Vietnam, and each family member prays, in eloquent voice-over, to be reunited. Here's where the cosmic montages come in: from the big bang to the dinosaurs, to the glass-towered cities of today, they long for each other until the end of time when their prayers are finally answered.

Malick truly goes out on a limb here, both stylistically and thematically. In our jaded times, educated people often look down on religious faith as the domain of naive fundamentalists, while in this film it is restored to what it once was: humanity's most sublime pursuit. We saturated, savvy viewers may interpret cosmic montages as the language of advertising and the image of a man in a business suit wandering in the desert as a well-worn cliché. Such is the dilemma of releasing a modernist oeuvre in a postmodern world.

Were it not for his hermetic isolation, Malick would perhaps have been more wise to some of the pitfalls he ventured into. But would he have had the insight to capture so compellingly the perspective of a new-born child, to linger so lovingly on all the small lessons given to the baby by its parents? Would he have had the patience to film the secret life of boys in their backyards and alleys in such detailed and life-like complexity?  His monk-like approach to his work makes it an honest expression from the bottom of his soul and I for one would never encourage him to "get with the times". Kudos to the producers (Brad Pitt among them), who didn't either, for simply trusting his unique vision and standing behind him in getting this elusive film made.

exteriors

As you may have noticed lately, my posts have become a bit fewer and farther between. I have to admit, I've been doing less writing in general for the past few weeks. The thing is, summertime in Canada is short and sweet and we have to get out and enjoy it while we can.

It's not that I'm blocked--I have more ideas bubbling away than I can keep up with--I simply acknowledge that there is a time for everything, and, as a creative type, taking care of the body is just as important as taking care of the mind. In fact, as Mark Fenske, associate professor at the University of Guelph and co-author of The Winner's Brain: 8 Strategies Great Minds Use to Achieve Success writes here, physical activity and periods of mind-wandering are now known to propagate spontaneous thought (and often, creativity). I am a true believer in this, since I often get my best ideas while jogging or going on long walks in quiet, familiar surroundings. Furthermore, there are few things worse for your body than sitting at a desk for hours on end, as explained by this alarming article.

So, instead of feeling guilty about it, I have resolved to get out and get physical on nice days, and save the hammering at the keyboard for rainy ones. Who knows--perhaps it may even improve my work. Either way, it's an experiment I'm willing to try.

summer viewing

It's here!!! It's FINALLY here!!! (Summer, that is--we Canadians wait all year for this.) The air is filled with BBQ smoke and the scent of lilacs; the nights are warm and balmy and the days are long and bright. What better way to relax after an evening of bike riding, jogging, lounging in the park, etc. (or weather those rainy days at the lake) than watching a movie? I can't think of anything either. So here are a few favourites that will heighten your enjoyment of those moments:

La Dolce Vita (1960)

I first discovered this Fellini classic one summer in High School and it contributed to my decision to become a filmmaker. I didn't realize it then, but the Italian aristocrats' lives of leisure--long, aimless car rides, spontaneous swimming and sleepless nights of partying and ghost-hunting--strangely resembled my own episodic existence as an adolescent in summertime. In Marcello, a romantic observer rather than an active participant in the revelry, I recognized something of myself. But all of that aside, the sweetness and magic of this film (along with the ear-pleasing sound of Italian dialogue) make it the perfect waking dream to experience in summer.

The Myth of the American Sleepover (2010)

David Robert Mitchell apparently enjoys La Dolce Vita as much as I do, because his first indie feature owes a debt to it in terms of spirit and content. Don't get me wrong, The Myth of the American Sleepover is much more than an homage--it is a moving portrait of the end of summer, the end of adolescence, the comfort of the neighborhoods where we grow up, and the mystery of the wide world that awaits us. I happened to catch it at a festival last year and am thrilled to see it's getting released in July. I will be sure to remind you to go and see it when it comes out.

Superbad (2007)

Definitely one of the best mainstream comedies I've seen in recent years, this one tells a teenage story from a different angle, focusing on the painfully embarrassing, awkward side that many of us may choose to forget. Brilliantly written and performed, this is great fare for when you feel like a laugh. (Michael Cera's rendition of The Guess Who's These Eyes is a classic moment in cinema, if you ask me.)

Splendor in the Grass (1961)

Another summer film about teenagers? Yes! Summer is fleeting, and so is youth. This small-town melodrama (my favourite genre, as you know) is, sadly, not very well-known. In glorious Technicolour, it tells the story of two young lovers torn apart by their raging hormones. It launched Warren Beatty's career as a movie star (and possibly as a prolific womanizer as well); I can see why Nathalie Wood's character literally went crazy for him. The acting is a little dated at times, but Kazan's use of water to represent sexuality would have been cutting edge in its day. This movie is perfect for necking with your sweetheart on a steamy summer night. I only wish I could see it at a drive-in!

In the Heat of the Night (1967)

Mystery is another great summer genre. This classic by Norman Jewison was ground-breaking for its social relevance (the main character is an African-American detective investigating a murder in a small, racist town), but it is also a really entertaining, well-made film. The cops cruising by the window to ogle the exhibitionistic housewife and the fry cook dancing to Foul Owl on the Prowl in the deserted diner are especially priceless moments.

Rear Window (1954)

And finally...Hitchcock. I think all of his films make great summer viewing, but this one, a murder mystery set in the midst of an infernally muggy New York heat wave, especially so. Shackled by a broken leg, an adventuresome photographer is cooped up in his stifling apartment and hen-pecked by his girlfriend and housekeeper as a mystery unfolds across the courtyard from his window. Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly are delightful together, Thelma Ritter is a riot, and the voyeuristic device of shooting POVs through the protagonist's telephoto lens is cinematic perfection--pure pleasure, anytime of year.

stop the ride

On a rainy night last week, I did something I hardly ever do: I attended the opening night of a summer blockbuster, The Hangover Part II (in AVX). I could turn this into a rant about what is wrong with the movies today, but I actually more or less enjoyed the film; it's the experience of going to the theatre that makes me shake my head in dismay.

There have always been bad movies, but only in the last five to ten years has the actual experience of watching them been ruined (with a few exceptions, including the short-lived Smell-o-Vision). In commercial theatres these days, you submit to being deafened by digital sound, fattened by bushel-sized popcorn, and brainwashed by advertising--all before the show even starts! I would go so far as to say that the introduction of surround sound and curved screens started this downhill slide; a door-knock coming from the back of the theatre only distracts me and, unless seated directly in the middle, I find curved screens more annoying than immersive.

If you're like me, you go to the movies to forget where you are for two hours, not to be constantly reminded by obnoxious technology. Roger Ebert, a self-proclaimed "reactionary purist", has written about his opposition to 3D (which is already faltering in popularity among North American audiences) and other "enhancement" technologies such as D-Box motion seating. His argument is that theatres no longer sell movies, they sell a theme-park experience. This, along with bad projection, texting audience members, and the high ticket price, is causing many film-lovers I know who actually care about content to give up on the theatre entirely and get their fix online instead.

It may seem sad to squander all the resources, talent and technical expertise spent on bringing films to the big by viewing them on a computer monitor or mobile device; however, there could be an up-side to this progression. If film viewing becomes increasingly a solitary experience like reading a book, maybe the content will get more subtle and intimate as time goes on. I might be overly optimistic, but making films for the "tiny screen" (iPhones, tablets, etc.) will perhaps influence filmmakers to scale back the spectacle and focus on the story for a change.

Until then, thanks to sites such as MUBI, we cinephiles can access thousands of beloved classics and obscure masterworks online while we wait. We can only hope that, in the future, Art will win over Industry, the fads will pass, and one day we'll be able to return to the theatre and actually enjoy the experience.

small-town melodrama

As you've probably guessed from my Stegner House posts, I am a lover of small town mythology. Small towns are fertile ground for conflict; behind a façade of normalcy lurks a rot so fetid that only a huge blow-out can clear the air. (At least, in the movies.) Hollywood may be prone to exaggeration, but that is the name of the game with melodrama; perhaps that is why that particular genre is so well-suited to the small town setting.

Here are some conventions of the genre: everyone knows everyone, and their business too; the young ones are dying to get out and the old ones are waiting to die; there is an unshakable power structure in place, with the town’s richest family at the top of the pyramid; there is no sanctity of marriage—everyone cheats on everyone; not only is difference not tolerated, it is actively sought and destroyed; and most importantly, no one is who they pretend to be.

Here are a few of my favourite small-town melodramas:

The Chase (1966)

Directed by Arthur Penn (Bonnie and Clyde) and starring Marlon Brando, Robert Redford and Jane Fonda, this film chronicles a day in the life of a rip-roaring Texas town, where local bad boy Charlie "Bubber" Reeves is headed after he breaks out of jail. The sheriff, played by Brando, tries to convince the convict's wife (who is engaged in a tryst with his best friend) to get him to surrender, but a vigilante mob is out for blood, and forces a fiery climax that ends well for no one. This gripping film is an under-appreciated classic and a quintessential small-town melodrama.

The Last Picture Show (1971)

Released at a time when psychedelia was in full swing, this quiet, black-and-white film feels like a reaction against the hippie radicals of New Hollywood. Operating in the classical mode of studio masters like Hawks and Ford, it’s less of a melodrama and more of an archetypal character piece, or as Sight and Sound’s James Bell describes it, “en elegy at once for a period in history, for a time in one’s life, for small-town America.” Whatever it is, it’s one of my all-time favourites.

The Killer Inside Me (2010)

The most recent incarnation of the genre that I've seen, this film is brutal and misogynistic, yet somehow still enjoyable. Based on the 1952 pulp fiction novel by Jim Thompson, it suffers from a too-straight adaptation; sexually-deviant sheriff Lou Ford’s story is heavily reliant on a web of relationships too sprawling to fit into a movie. Casey Affleck is deliciously creepy as the twisted anti-hero, and all conventions of the small-town melodrama are present in the extreme, yet it’s still missing something. Director Michael Winterbottom, being British, was perhaps ill-prepared for this deeply American yarn (David Lynch, with his effortless undercurrent of weirdness, could have made it an instant classic). Nevertheless, there are more than enough good performances, cool cars and million-dollar music cues to make it worth watching.

Blue Velvet (1986)

David Lynch is the undisputed champion. The opening sequence of this movie alone sums it all up: to the sound of Bobby Vinton’s golden voice, azure skies and ruby roses gradually give way to an extreme close-up of larvae writhing disgustingly under the surface of an emerald lawn--the small town melodrama in a nutshell! By the way, this was the last film ever to be shot in glorious, three-strip Technicolor; if someday you get the chance to see it on 35mm, drop what you are doing and go. There is nothing like it.

If you're into the genre, here are few others that I love: Splendor in the Grass (1961), Hud (1963), In the Heat of the Night (1967). Watch for mini-reviews in my upcoming "summer viewing" post (if summer ever decides to stick around, that is).

dark night of the soul

"Upon that misty night
in secrecy, beyond such mortal sight
Without a guide or light
than that which burned so deeply in my heart
That fire t'was led me on
and shone more bright than of the midday sun
To where he waited still
it was a place where no one else could come"

- St. John of the Cross, from Dark Night of the Soul 

The weather couldn't be more beautiful today, but the blue sky and bright sun couldn't clash more with the way I'm feeling. I am having an artist's dark night of the soul, or what I like to call a "why bother?" day.

A "why bother?" day goes like this. You get up, you go about your routine, everything is fine. Then you get to thinking. About your life, your career. You ask yourself, Am I wasting my time? You get stuck on that question and it plays in your head like a broken record. It saps your productivity, spoils your mood. Everything you've done seems worthless, you suddenly feel lost. In a previous post I made a list to remind myself of why I make films, but when I'm really in the doldrums, no rational argument will help.

I once heard a celebrated author say he wishes he hadn't spent the last 40 years of his life writing. What a crushing realization to come to in the sunset of an illustrious career! Think of all the people out there clamoring for the very life he regrets. The idea chills me.

Like mystics, artists too can have crises of faith. I think it comes from spending too much time in our heads, blindly chasing abstract concepts. These moments are just part of being an artist--they are the price we pay for the privilege of making art. I've found that there's no other remedy but to wait them out, and go outside for some fresh air and physical activity. I suppose maybe an ice cream wouldn't hurt, either. (What would St. John have said to that?)

women to watch

When I was in film school, I would have had trouble naming 10 women directors off the top of my head, let alone 10 contemporary ones whose work interested me. As far as I can remember, we only studied Leni Riefenstahl and Maya Deren in my Film History classes (which is pathetic, now that I think back on it).

I was too in love with cinema and distracted with learning to pay attention to the gap. I never felt under-represented in my film school, since there were just as many of us girls as guys. As a young woman filmmaker, I was never intimidated by "gear" and could detect no discrimination whatsoever from funding agencies because of my sex.

Then, when I was touring with my medium-length documentary, I experienced my first taste of ignorant dismissal (it was unintentional, but that is perhaps the most dangerous kind): a female journalist kept passing the mic to my producer/husband instead of me. Yes, he contributed much to the film and was entirely familiar with the material, but I got more and more frustrated as she repeatedly passed over me, the creator, in favor of the man standing next to me, simply because he was a man.

It wasn't the biggest slight in the world, but it certainly made me mad, and it made me understand why we have to pay attention to these things. Ignorance is bliss, and as long as we ignore a problem, it will never go away.

Directing fiction films is a true boys' club. We face the same issues as the women in other male-dominated fields: people are constantly testing us to make us prove our worth, we often have to choose between having kids and having a career, we are told we're "good for a woman", when we just want to be "good". In fact, I would rather just be called a "filmmaker" than a "woman filmmaker" since the latter smacks of a second class. (How often do you hear "She's a genius!" by the way? ...Exactly.)

Countries including Sweden and Spain have instituted quotas in their state funding agencies to help bolster the ranks of female filmmakers. I'm not really in favor of this approach because I think that proposals should be judged by their merit alone, and not by the gender of their creator. The best way to support women filmmakers is to make a point of watching their work; it will only succeed as long as audiences (both male and female) pay to see it.

Here are some women to watch:

Kelly Reichardt

I absolutely loved Wendy and Lucy and can't wait to see Meek's Cutoff, coming soon.

Sophia Coppola

Lost in Translation is a favourite of mine, and I'm very much looking forward to Somewhere, her latest.

Lynne Ramsay

Ratcatcher is a brilliant and haunting work from this UK director.

Debra Granik

Winter's Bone is one I keep harping on. Just go and see it already.

Courtney Hunt

...Same with Frozen River.

Kathryn Bigelow

She was the first woman ever to win the Oscar for Best Director, as well as buck the stereotype of women not being able to direct commercial action movies. I confess I haven't seen The Hurt Locker yet, but it's definitely on my list.

Jane Campion

...you must already know. Still haven't seen The Piano? Shame on you!

Deepa Mehta

Water is my favourite of all her films, but Heaven on Earth is good too. She gets extra points, having received death threats in her native India for broaching the controversial topic of widow's rights.

Jennifer Lynch

Following in daddy David's footsteps must be tough, but Jen's creepy detective thriller Surveillance stands on its own. Unfortunately, it is chronically overlooked and underrated.

Sarah Polley

She gets more than enough media attention here in Canada (token woman, anyone?) but Away From Her is solid. I'm not going to hold it against her that she was famous before she started directing.

Granaz Moussavi

This up-and-comer has the soul of a great artist. At a festival, I saw her recite a poem she wrote at age 19 in three different languages (she translated on the spot). Her debut, My Tehran for Sale, knocks it out of the park.

Sophie Deraspe

I briefly mentioned her film Signes vitaux (Vital Signs) in my post about this year's Rendez-vous du cinéma québécois. It was such a powerful and visionary piece that I can't wait to see what she comes up with next.

There! 12 women directors off the top of my head, and not a single romantic comedy. Things must be looking up.

don't quit your day job

I read this article in this morning's Globe. It saddens me to hear that documentary funds are drying up and opportunities for distributing them are becoming fewer and fewer, while the number of filmmakers is rapidly increasing.

I love docs, have made some before, and hope to make more in the future. I sympathize with the people in the article who need to have day jobs in order to keep making their films. But for me, this idea is nothing new. I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that I will always have to work to pay the bills, and make films on the side.

Until box office sales pay our salaries or internet distribution becomes financially viable, Canadian filmmakers will always have to sacrifice their personal finances in order to keep going. But there is an up side to this equation. Having to fight tooth and nail for their work means that they must care deeply about it. Hopefully, with so much of themselves invested, the outcome will be better quality films.

The landscape has changed; today, legions of people with DSLR cameras or videos on YouTube are calling themselves filmmakers and flooding the festivals with content. The sheer number of films (especially documentaries) is impossible for the industry to support. The "accessibility" of filmmaking, which has enabled many of us to learn the craft in the first place, is the very thing that's preventing us from making a living by it. We have no choice but to keep our day jobs and make our films the best they can be--in our spare time, if necessary. 

On the up side, films like Up the Yangtze and The Last Train Home have shown that it is possible, with a great product (emphasis on great), for independent, one-off docs to make money in addition to being socially-relevant, cinematic works of art. There is always an appetite out there for good stories well told, but the filmmaker has to be willing to make sacrifices in order to get them out there.

life experience

Alas, my last days at Stegner House were such a whirlwind I hardly had time to write. But that's ok, since part of the craft is spending time out in the world, getting life experience.

On Saturday I finished a rough draft of the treatment I had come to Eastend to write, so I felt it was time to celebrate. The hockey playoffs were on, and with no TV in the Stegner House, we headed to the Cypress Hotel bar to have a few caesars and watch our team (they lost). It could have been a dismal evening, but in came a huge group of locals for a birthday party and things started to look up.

The town mayor, a large, gregarious man, broke the ice by buying us a round. We joined their table and he introduced us to everyone. There was a wide range of ages, from 19 to 70; all the men over 40 were ranchers, and all the men under worked in the oilfield. All the women worked in health care, except for two: an agricultural scientist and a petroleum engineer. They were a lively bunch and regaled us with heated political debates.

But as the night wore on, they opened up more and more. After jokingly calling me a "commie" for my left-leaning, big city politics, one young rigger told me that although he has all the money he could ever want, he is deeply unsatisfied with life. As he looked me deep in the eyes, I could see that under the tough exterior was a sensitive soul trying to live up to the manliness of his rough surroundings.

Fifty years ago, in Wolf Willow, Stegner wrote about the role-playing masculinity of his day, calling it "the code of the stiff upper lip. [....] An inhumane and limited code, the value system of a life more limited and cruder than in fact ours was." He was referring to the life of the wild frontier before the land was settled, when "men were men" as the saying goes. An aftertaste of that brutal period still survives.

Among these young men, the political creed may be "every man for himself" yet they all band together to save their neighbors' homes from the rising flood. They love to shoot guns yet, as one confessed, he feels terrible whenever he kills an animal. I've never known a people so rich in contradiction, so steeped in subtext.

No matter how imaginative you are as a writer, you can't hope to conjure all the complexities of life from scratch; little details absorbed from conversing with strangers, or doing things you wouldn't normally do in places you wouldn't normally be can come in handy when trying to add depth and character to a story. Fiction is often grown in the fertilizer of fact.

As I closed up the Stegner House in the bright sunshine of long-awaited spring, I was thankful for both the peaceful reflection and the colourful encounters I experienced during my time there. Not much has changed in this town since Stegner's day, and my secret hope is that it never will.

on a roll

The weekend already! How time flies, even out here.

Yesterday was a relative flurry of activity. I was invited to a local Good Friday ritual in which the townspeople, on foot, carry a wooden cross from one church to another, reading passages and singing hymns. It was both lovely and a little bit sad; the early morning air finally felt warmer and the robins and flickers (this town is full of them) contributed their voices in droves, but every few minutes we were deafened by the revving engine of a huge truck with an ATV in the back, or someone's barking dog. At the end of the service, the worshipers warmly introduced themselves and invited me for tea, but I was itching to get back to my desk and made my exit.

For the rest of the day, I was "on a roll." I've learned that when you get in the groove, it's best not to get out of it, no matter what. I barely left my desk until the late afternoon, when I heard voices in the back yard. The lady in charge of the Stegner House and her husband were piling sandbags against the back of the house, "just in case." (The water in the creek behind the house hadn't hardly risen since our arrival, but everyone in town wants to be prepared, regardless.)

Over veal parmesan and dry ribs at Jack's Café, we swapped stories and compared notes. We may lead different lives, but some things are universal, especially among old married couples. Although forty years our senior, they still knew how to have a good time, reminding me of what we might be like in a few decades.

Walking home under the millions of stars, I thought: this town sure knows how to make a writer feel welcome.

a monastic routine

There is a glut of light in this house. With windows on all sides, the upstairs is bright from sun-up to sun-down. In the big city, a space with this much sunlight would cost a fortune, not to mention the view.

Since coming here, I've settled into an almost monastic routine: up early and at my desk until lunch, out for a walk, back in for a nap, and at my desk again until suppertime when the study gets too hot from the sun. The evenings are quiet, with no TV (the selection of VHS cassettes left behind by previous tenants leaves something to be desired) and barely enough radio reception to break the silence. We spent the last two nights walking, listening to music and playing Scrabble until we got tired, and went to bed early.

Some people might think us crazy for spending our holiday in such an isolated place, but I can feel myself getting more and more "unplugged" each day. After losing yesterday afternoon to a sore stomach, I had a very productive writing day and my emotions are settling down. I could stand another two weeks of this, easily. Maybe a lifetime, who knows?

getting started

As any writer knows, the hardest part is getting started. After looking forward to this trip for months, today I found myself struggling for a number of reasons.

First of all, I chose to get started by re-writing instead of writing, which was a bad idea. Re-writing is a soul-sucking, discouraging process because it's all about judging yourself. After spending the good part of the day nit-picking the screenplay I've been working on for the past year, by mid-afternoon I had the blues and decided to get out of the house.

It doesn't take long to familiarize oneself with Eastend; all told, it probably has only a half-dozen streets and a half-dozen avenues. On my way to the drug store to pick up a new notebook, the few people I crossed gave me the three-finger wave from their pickup trucks. It made me realize how disconnected I had become from this pace of life; although I had spent almost 20 years of my life in a small town such as this, it suddenly felt alien to me. That in-between sense of displacement suddenly became acute. I decided to go back to the Stegner House and recharge my batteries.

After a nap, a meal and a long evening walk down a gravel road, I felt much better. Tomorrow I will start fresh with a change of tactic. I am here to write, not re-write. Perhaps I can use the strange emotions percolating in me as fertilizer for my brand-new screenplay.

a land to mark the sparrow's fall

Snow! When the plane broke through the clouds at Regina Airport, the fields were a patchwork of white. In places, flood water came right up to the roads, reflecting the steel-gray sky. Normally by this time the farmers would be seeding; this year, some may not be able to seed at all. Everywhere we went, people bemoaned the weather. 

But this morning, as I headed West on the Trans-Canada and turned South towards Eastend, it was sunny and snowing. The gleaming hills were veiled in a luminous white fog. Water stood steaming in the summerfallow. It was magical.

Once settled in our final destination, Wallace Stegner's childhood home, we took an evening walk along the swollen Frenchman River and breathed in the quiet. Not two minutes from our door, a pair of courting bush rabbits scampered through the wolf willows as though we weren't there; a scattered herd of mule deer stared as we passed, unalarmed. The air was cold and clean as a butcher's blade.

My writing room looks out on the river and the steep, silent hills. With the lamp turned off, I pull back the curtains to let in the dying light. I can't wait to begin.

"Desolate? Forbidding? There never was a country that in its good moments was more beautiful. Even in drought or dust storm or blizzard it is the reverse of monotonous once you have submitted to it with all the senses. You don't get out of the wind, but learn to lean and squint against it. You don't escape sky and sun, but wear them in your eyeballs and on your back. You become acutely aware of yourself. The world is very large, the sky even larger, and you are very small. But also the world is flat, empty, nearly abstract, and in its flatness you are a challenging upright thing, as sudden as an exclamation mark, as enigmatic as a question mark.

It is a country to breed mystical people, egocentric people, perhaps poetic people. But not humble ones. At noon the total sun pours on your head; at sunrise or sunset you throw a shadow a hundred yards long. It was not prairie dwellers who invented the indifferent universe of impotent man. Puny you may feel there, and vulnerable, but not unnoticed. This is a land to mark the sparrow's fall."

 - Wallace Stegner, Wolf Willow

home again

"Home is a notion that only the nations of the homeless fully appreciate and only the uprooted comprehend," wrote Wallace Stegner in his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Angle of Repose.

I have always had an affinity for Stegner, that "Great American Author" who actually grew up in a small Saskatchewan town not too far from where I was raised. He kept returning to themes of roots and place over and over again in his books; even though he called his birthplace a "dung-heeled sagebrush town on the disappearing edge of nowhere," I think his writing owes much to its character. I would even go so far as to say that it, and his self-imposed exile from it, defined him as a writer.

My own artist's voice is also influenced by displacement. My family were pioneers who came to Saskatchewan at the turn of the last century to make a better life for themselves and their descendants. Four years ago (almost to the day) I moved far away from them and everything they had built in order to pursue my own dreams, only to be clawed at by guilt and homesickness. After confessing this to my grandmother over the phone, she said wisely, "Just do what you have to do." Her comforting words made me feel like a pioneer in my own right. 

Coming full circle, this spring I will revisit my home province and spend a week writing in the childhood home of Wallace Stegner himself, now a residence for artists and writers. Perhaps my work will benefit from rediscovering my roots as much as his did.

Stay tuned for my dispatches from the Great Southwest.

slice of life

I recently had the opportunity to attend a sneak preview of Shannon Walsh's collective documentary À St.-Henri le 26 août, which will have it's première at Hot Docs next month. Loosely based on the NFB classic, À St.-Henri le 5 septembre (made almost 50 years ago), the film is a lovely, many-sided portrait of a Montreal neighborhood and the characters who inhabit it.

There is nothing better than a good documentary. Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is just as entertaining. Some of the people we see in docs are so over the top that if they were fictional characters, no one would believe them. As a seasoned NFB veteran once told me, good characters are what make good documentaries.

The so-called "slice-of-life" genre reminds us of what life really is. Pursuing goals, chasing desires and battling antagonists takes up only a small percentage of real life, and yet these are the driving forces to which most fiction is chained. Real life is about minutiae: going to the convenience store, washing your car, getting ready for school or work. Our lives slip away unnoticed if we don't get enjoyment out of these moments. When we take the time to attune ourselves, we can get immense pleasure from the in-between times that would otherwise be forgotten.

emerging artist

A younger friend recently asked me if I had any words of advice for negotiating the transition between university and making a living as a creative type. Although flattered, I approached with caution, since it's easy to dish out advice from your armchair while the other person puts it all on the line. I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's life decisions--my own are enough to contend with.

That being said (my favourite expression, the perfect segue from a disclaimer), it got me thinking about that crazy period in your mid-twenties when you're fresh out of school. You have followed this rigid routine for as long as you can remember and then suddenly you're cut loose, floating in space. You are (at least I was) up to your ears in debt and acutely aware of the need to make money, but you are not yet jaded enough to give up on your dreams. It is a scary, exhilarating period that I have just barely left behind.

I can't really offer advice, but I can recount my own experience. I moved to the big city, got a day job that I enjoy well enough, and work like a maniac on the side trying to get my projects off the ground. So far so good.

I suppose there is one key idea in there that could qualify as advice: work like a maniac. Don't just dream--do! It is essential as an artist to never stop producing, no matter how busy you are trying to pay the rent. Productivity is creativity; you need to have something to show for all your talent. If you lose your momentum, it's tough slugging getting it back so keep at it, even if all you can muster is six hours a week.

By the way, if you entertain notions of going on non-working holidays or owning a home any time soon, you may want to choose a different career path. Maybe one day you will be able to have it both ways, but as an emerging artist you still have to prove to the world that you are worthy. Now is the time to get cracking.

viewing distance

Please excuse my absence these past two weeks--I have been extremely busy in all spheres of my life, both the day job and the filmmaking (travel, grant deadlines, frantically rewriting in order to shop the script around, etc.). Anyway, hopefully the busy-ness will pay off with some opportunities down the line.

In the game of endless second-guessing known as rewriting, there comes a time when you have to step back. At this point, you cut things out only to turn around and put them back in, you rearrange things only to realize that you've killed the momentum, you endlessly say to yourself "what if I did _____ instead?" and follow dead leads until you drive yourself crazy. You absolutely hate what you've written and can't imagine why anyone would want to read, let alone make, your script. This is when it's time for a break, some viewing distance, so that when you come back to it after a while, you can make objective judgments or maybe even feel a sense of pride over that pile of paper you slaved over.

This is where I'm at with my latest project. But it's ok; I've got another one that's been calling my name for some time now. After a couple of weeks of resting my weary brain (and hopefully getting outside for a change), I will sit down give it the attention it deserves.

how to write a (good) grant

Even though I'm totally exhausted after once again rushing to the finish line on my grants (many of the deadlines are on March 1st), I thought I would share a few things I've learned from my almost 10 years of experience writing applications and being on juries. (You'd think after that long I'd have learned to finish before the deadline, but so far it hasn't happened....)

Peer assessment juries are like lotteries. Sometimes you get one that just understands your work, and sometimes you don't. The reality is that usually no more than 10% of applications will get funded, so they have to unanimously love your proposal for it to make the cut. Unfortunately, success often has little to do with the actual idea and a lot to do with the way it's presented.

When getting started, pay special attention to the application form for each agency, and read ALL the guidelines carefully (I would even suggest printing them off so you can have them beside you as you write). NEVER re-use a grant you wrote for the Canada Council when applying to SODEC, and vice versa. You can recycle some of the content, but always be sure to present it in a way that follows exactly what is on the form, in the same order. This simple step will help you immensely, as jurors will quickly be able to skim through and see that you hit all the marks.

No matter how good your idea, one thing alone will ensure that you stand out from the crowd: great writing. I can't stress this enough. Not only must you be a competent filmmaker with a track record and a clear concept, you must also be a good writer in order to get money. 

Make sure to edit what you've written. Ask someone to read it (preferably at least 24 hours before the deadline) and LISTEN to their suggestions. If something doesn't make sense to them, cut it or change it. Most of all, have someone else proofread for you; you'd be surprised how many things you'll overlook when you've been working for the last 14 hours straight and are running on no sleep. Juries hate spelling mistakes because they demonstrate sloppiness and a lack of commitment--they'd rather give the money to someone who is meticulous and hard-working.

Jury members usually receive a binder with 300-500 pages of reading material. They will thank you for being concise, not using a $10 word when a $2 word will do, and making sure that every sentence presents a clear idea, rather than running around in circles. If your writing flows like water and the concept is easy to define, they will see that you worked hard on your application and will most likely recommend you for funding.

If you should receive a rejection letter (a "Thin Letter," as a prof of mine used to call them), it might not be because they didn't like your project, but because you failed to explain it clearly. They should be able to visualize it as if it were right there in front of them. Call and ask for the comments so you can improve your submission next time, and never submit the same application at future deadlines without making changes. Whatever you do, don't unload a bunch of negativity on the funding officer because, although they don't decide the outcome of a grant, they can still be of help to you in other ways if you're on their good side.

Finally, remember that these are your peers and chances are you might know a person on the jury; I always caution against making enemies in this business, and now is the time when you really don't want personal disputes to come back to haunt you.

how to work the room

I've been to a lot of film industry cocktails over the years and have learned a few things about "working the room". If you have a project that you want to get off the ground, or a film you want to get programmed, or are trying to get anything out of anybody (which, sadly, most of us in the film game are), you need to learn how to schmooze.

-          If you're not invited to the party, don't walk up to the registration desk and give them a long-winded spiel about how you forgot your invitation. Stay cool. Hang around until you see someone you know, then go in with them. When all else fails, act like you're on the list.

-          Once inside, don't look like you're working the room. Don't be phony. If you start looking over someone's shoulder trying to see someone more important to talk to, you will make them angry and you don't want any enemies. Find a way to make a graceful exit if you absolutely must talk to someone else (being honest is usually a good way).

-          You want to work with your friends, so go out there and make some friends! You'll never be able to work with anyone you don't get along with, so should you get a chance to talk to that big producer with the fat wallet and he just rubs you the wrong way, you're probably barking up the wrong tree. 

-          Never dismiss anybody's assistant, because they're closer to your level and have more influence with their boss than you realize. Also, in a year or two they may be the next big thing.

-          Don't know how to get a conversation started? Ask someone where they're from--that's always a good way to get things going. Whatever you do, don't stand there and talk about yourself (especially not your project); ask them questions. It is a great way to get to know people, and that is what this is all about. Whatever you do, don't get into a rant about how much rejection you're getting and how much the funding-agency-who-shall-remain-nameless sucks; keep it positive.

-          Most of all, don't ever force a pitch on someone. If the topic should come up, wait until they say "What is it about?" before you unleash it on them. If they don't ask, follow up with them at a later date when they're in a more "work" frame of mind. (Be sure to ask for business cards.)

Remember, the worst that can happen is nothing. The best thing that can happen is that you'll meet some like-minded people you can talk to at other industry cocktails. After all, anyone who is going to get involved with your project has to be willing to walk over broken glass for you, and that kind of relationship can't really be formed over the course of a 5-7 cocktail. These events are generally pretty useless, so you may as well take advantage of some free booze and hors d'oeuvres.