As of today, I have: all my locations set, all my cast in place, and my crew is almost in place, sort of. I'm trying to get on the same page with my sound mixer, who seems really interested in the script, but may be booked up the weekend of the shoot.
Here's some low budget facts:
1) The short's entire payroll is coming off my lone credit card.
2) We're using four rooms in my house for scenes.
3) We're shooting an after dark scene at a park notorious for its late night drug transactions.
4) I've been so busy playing director, I haven't made time to learn my lines.
5) We wanted to shoot two scenes in the clubhouse in my gated community, but they turned me down because they "didn't have enough time to research what my shooting would entail." Everytime I drive past the place, I throw eggs.
6) Everyone's been hating on my camera, but its lack of long range focus will force me to make tighter shots. Which is good.
Went out to the Project:Involve shorts fest last week sponsored by Film Independent over in Hollywood. Some pretty decent work there, but I just wanted to see what I was up against. Took my Toledo friend Rob Neal, who's my editor, and may possibly end up being my cinematographer as well. It was good to catch up with him as I hadn't seen him years. Yet I think it's fate that we reconnected, just before I embark upon what could be a very important turning point in my life. Today, me and the wife drove around L.A. most of the day, doing pick up shots of the great city of Los Angeles for what I hope to be my opening credits. (It's my 400 Blows tribute. Cats who know me, know I will pay tribute to Francois Truffaut's films whenever possible.) I really think that's why my scripts ran into problems with the Hollywood types. It's bad enough to be a person who is heavily influenced by European filmmakers in this color by numbers movie climate. It's even worse to be that way and be black. THEY CAN'T SEE ME.
Haven't been alongside the Clippers during their playoff run. Haven't had time. My Pistons have stumbled into a Game 7 with a Cavs team playing way above their heads. (Really, Detroit's just been playing way BELOW their heads.) I'm so angry about the way the series has gone, I've become numb. The refs are giving LeBron respect like he's already Jordan, and my crew are not playing Detroit Pistons basketball. They're not playing Detroit Shock basketball either. They're barely playing Detroit Country Day basketball. And I'm talking about the junior high team. It's sickening. I have obsessed over this series to a state of Zen. Whatever will be will be.
In addition, as if I weren't busy enough, I'm copyediting a few articles for the as yet unnamed Intrepid Media Short Story collection, which will be released this fall. ("The Meaning of Michael," an old short story that I wrote about a jazz trumpeter who reunites with estranged, legendary father was thankfully accepted to the collection.) The last few rejection letters from my essays are beginning to trickle in, including very nice rejection letters from The Sycamore Review and The Missouri Review, which have encouraged me -- as much as a rejection can encourage anyone. I'm also working on a very late late addition to my book of essays called "The Simple Life" (it's about my marriage and the ins and outs of marriage in general). I don't mean to sound like I'm complaining, but I feel like I'm in the middle of a storm.
If the Clippers win their series, I don't know if I'll be at the games. But, thanks to the regular season, photographically, I'm covered either way.
RIP Johnnie Wilder, Jr.
Alvin Brown is my first cousin's son. You heard it here first.
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