Wittmann, Arizona

Took Zorba to Arizona today. Drove there in six hours and literally thought we just got started talking after warming up all our thoughts. Decided to drive back the same day because I heard a ding in my head. Ready for the month of truth, and the ever-draining search to figure out how to make movies-- savant style.

This Side of Paradise

Walking through downtown a few times a week has been a great way to off set many habits and ways of thinking I didn't realize I've grown accustomed to. For example-- shopping. It's unbelievable how many different, unique, and genuinely cool shit there is along Los Angeles St. It's all completely cheap, of the same quality as anything you'd find at Target or stores of that nature, and it's filled with stuff I've always wondered where I could get something like that.

Specifically right now, old Nintendo and Super Nintendo games. Yes, you can go on eBay, order it from some lady in Kansas, but you'll be paying competitive prices. It's all about making as much money as you can on eBay, that's the whole point.

Over here, there's not much of a monetary discrepancy between Final Fantasy II and Family Feud. You just have the check the box of SNES games with the $4 written on it. That's how the mexican stores do it.

The Koreans however-- they know. But they also know where they're located-- two blocks from skid row. They charge a little more for things that they know are worth a little more, but they also have the Chrono Triggers, Lufia II's, the Final Fantasies.

Swap meets are cool and all, but this is even better for certain things.

Illusions of Less Grandeur and The Search For Magic

My mom told me a story the other day. I was in it. And in it, I was nineteen years young-- anxious and naive. I was watching the Godfather at home. Afterwards, I loaded up the documentary about FFC and the makings of his movie. The point of my Mom's story was that afterwards, I called her over and fast-fowarded to a specific shot and paused it. It was an image of Coppola's production notebook--a fat, four inch binder that looked like it was about to explode out of its covers. She said I pointed at it and said to her with that gleam in my eye and that confidence in my voice, "that's how I'm going to make movies."

Then I went to film school-- the best one in the world apparently, and they trained me not to do it that way. Not directly anyway, which was even more dangerous. They trained me to work in a system. To work diligently. To get along with people. To be a filmmaker instead of an artist. And I did it. I was able to make something halfway decent within the system. It made me believe I was on the right track.

Then I graduated. I moved away and began to create. I quickly realized there was a lot I didn't learn, but I knew that. So I taught myself. And things were conceived, written, and planned.

Turn the pages to last weekend, our first production day for Eat Your Heart Out. The day went as planned-- we shot at the stunning Takami Sushi in downtown LA on the 21st floor and then did the bedroom scene back at the apt. Beautiful images of the story were captured. We had a crew of three plus the two actors.

Something wasn't right though. It's hard to explain now, and impossible to realize on the day of the shoot. Quite frankly, it's not something I'd like to divulge, because it's the secret I know, the secret that's not a secret but is one because it's so easy to forget. The next day, I saw the dailies and the same off-feeling continued to blossom, but the rational mind is resilient. The filmmaker mind that was molded and trained at USC gave all the necessary explanations and language. But luckily, I am first and foremost, a ferociously emotional man. So as I drove home, something quietly exploded inside me. Three years of training and practice slowly became clear. Literally. And once I saw through all that, I remembered why I wanted to make this movie in the first place; how and why I wanted to make movies at all in the first place. And it instantly became very clear: This isn't good enough.

It's a simple concept, but it's the most crucial concept. THIS ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH. Only the director, the creator of a project can truly know whether this is true or not, it's hard to be honest with yourself about it. There are a million-- and I mean a million tasks as you go along that can be accomplished and discussed and executed, especially when you have such a small crew and you have the responsibilities of a producer/writer/director/casting director/director of photography/editor/grip/electric on a project.

It was a good feeling though, a comforting, reassuring feeling that after only the first day, when everyone else felt okay about the shoot, when the actors were positive and confident in their performances and in this project, when the images looked as stunning as they did, when the morale was high and we had momentum-- I was able to stop, fire the actress, put the entire film production on hold for at least a month and feel so angry at myself and the crew that I could have flipped tables. To be able to decide that it doesn't matter if you make some enemies along the way and that the priority of film making isn't about getting along with people-- because that happens afterwards when you know you did your part to the best of your abilities, but nothing good, nothing magical happens without some tension, and one has to welcome that.

I'm on the right path again. I remembered there's a road that leads straight to the magic of films, of scenes, of life and of the stories, situations and interactions we rarely find in movies-- the magic I forgot about but know. I realize more than ever now that it's a learning process, but I'm glad I'm at the right school of thought now-- the Kubrick and Coppola school of the thought. The THIS ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH lesson and the discovery and exploration of a way of thinking, a way of doing things as an obsessive, demanding artist that will not settle for anything short of his ability. The worse thing I could do to myself and to everyone involved is not to insult them or create tension-- it's to make a movie that simply isn't good enough.

Sometimes...Why Make Movies?

Kiki's Delivery Service

We saw Hayao Miyazaki's 1989 joint Kiki's Delivery Service today. It's the fourth of his I've seen behind Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, and Howl's Moving Castle and I have to say-- I should start taking his work much more seriously. Despite all the Shakespearean studies of human interaction in life and relationships I adore in French New Wave, Annie Hall and Manhattan, Eternal Sushine and Wong Kar Wai, I have a permanent pyramid of desire to experience and tell classic stories of epic adventures and love I find mostly in old video games like Chrono Trigger, the Final Fantasies, Zelda, Lunar, and in movies like The Seven Samurai.

Miyazaki's stories always give me that feeling-- that desire that you immediately want to take the few people you love and live in his world. There's something so familiar, so safe and fantastical about the world he creates that makes me feel clean and pure, which is quite difficult at my age and with my point of views. There are no religions, no existential crisis, no politics or future or past-- just a story that could be told at any time about things we care about but forget to. I'm ready to watch everything else he's done, and to hopefully retain some of that unexplainable magic that works on me when I watch his movies.

Halibut

So I used to make tilapia all the time when I lived in LA and it was no big deal and it never smelled or anything-- it was just good and simple so the other day, we decided to make Halibut because homegirl eats fish now and we found some sort of Veracruz or whatever the fuck type of mexican recipe that required us to bake the fish after you sear it and the whole time I kept thinking-- how is this thing going to have any flavor if all you do is pat some salt and pepper on the outside and of course it didn't have much flavor although after we mashed it up with the rice and sauce it was a little better but-- the entire house smells like the most nasty third world country kitchen which I don't really mind if it was my place but it's not and it's not going away so now everyone's pissed because who the hell wants that so what I'm saying is-- fuck baking halibut.

Date #2

There's not much I'm going to tell about except this homemade log of mint chocolate chip ice cream was really one of the best things I've ever eaten and also...

As a general rule, don't go to places and do things you used to like when you were younger. It's something I already know but keep testing. Most of the time, you either still do have fun and feel like you haven't progressed at all (which isn't such an awful thing), or you can't believe how stupid it is. But, if you're with someone you enjoy, it ain't so bad.

Leo

The infamous August 12 birthday for my two favorite lions.

The uninvited guest:

The cake:

The present:

The grown-up birthday dinner at Bandera's: (you can guess which one was mine)

(It's this one. This is the one that was mine.)

Although afterwards, with drunken misdirected angst, I stole the pepper grinder, which I don't regret because every household needs one.

West Africa

HEY MAN, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON OVER THERE IN WEST AFRICA?

I put my Nikon kit on Craigslist for a price higher than what I would expect since it's almost a given you have to barter with everyone, but I get this email about 15 minutes after I post the thing.

Great right? I'm excited, this guy sounds like the stereotypical high rise office dad working downtown while his daughter's out doing romantically positive things since she doesn't have to worry about anything. I get this right before I go to bed and told him I'll deal with him in the morning. I tell the Ding and the first thing she says is that it's probably bullshit but I don't take it seriously because she likes to think everything I do is bullshit sometimes.

Morning comes and I'm driving to work, ready to make the transaction with this guy as soon as I get to work. I stop by Zorba's apt, and casually mention it to him. He says, "What? West Africa?" At the same time, I get like four calls from my Dad. I finally pick it up and the fool's already yelling at me. "NOO. NOOO. IT'S ALL BULLSHIT. DON'T DO IT DON'T DO IT." Zorba hears it even though it's not on speaker and laughs. Then they all tell me it's bullshit-- don't you know? "But damn," I thought. I was so eager, so happy to be selling my stuff for such a higher than expected amount. What? That's the whole point? Thats how they get you?

A few minutes later...

and later...

Hey man. I'm thinking about playing along and getting an address. And then sending them my shit in a bag with toenail clippings and a pipe bomb. Can you imagine that fucking post office that's receiving all this shit? Jesus what a world...