Tuesday, March 28, 2006

The Cheese Stands Alone

Just a quickie - I’m realising that information and opinions do not need to be stockpiled for an epic post every fortnight.

I went to speak to the 4th year film students at Ryerson today (the school from which I graduated ((btw, if you use parentheses within parentheses, is the general rule to double up?)) )

I have maintained in quarterly contact with one of the more dedicated film professors there, a good man who seems to genuinely believe in each and every annual mob of green elitist cinephiles ejected from a canon into his lap.

I have done this once before, last year, prior to the CFC. I went in alone to talk about the festival circuit (when I’m called in as the expert, beware) as it was the time of year where the students were thinking of circulating their 4th year thesis films. It wasn’t a chat about writing or the industry, per se, but more about how to make the most of your ‘baby’. I hate speaking in public (one of the great lessons from the CFC was how to speak in front of a room without looking like I just came from Bikram yoga), but it went well, in my opinion.

Fast forward to this year. I went in with two of my fellow Ryerson classmates - one a producer, and one a director (who happened to be in my CFC year). The producer graduated from the Centre a year earlier. Nice folks - but thankfully, neither can be classified as comfortable speakers either. Our agenda, walking in as three Ryerson and CFC alumni, was to discuss the film centre. And, in front of a group of 18 disinterested university students (how did YOU act when you had a guest speaker?), we spoke at quasi-considerable length about the benefits of the Centre.

Now, let it be said here: The last thing I was interested in was a propagandistic rah-rah reach-around for the benefit of the CFC. I was hoping to give some candid and potentially insightful views on the state of the Writer's lab as I understand it, and on the direction in which it is going (HINT: a key word there). So, we broke it down. First, the director will talk, then the writer, then the producer, with a Q&A to follow. Frankly, I can't believe I was allowed to go second.

So: The director gave her spiel. Then, up was Budd. A quick overview of the application process, followed by a bit of a day to day, something cheesy about the ‘community’ we built, and finally, I hammered home the importance of not overvaluing the production exercises - you’re there for your features. Fairly concise (unlike this blog, I kept my unnecessary verbosity to a minimum), and passed it on to the producer. I kept most of the specifics for the question period following.

Producer spoke - and more words fell out of him in this 5-min. introduction that I’ve heard from him in the five years I’ve been his acquaintance. A man of few words, to be sure. But anyway, the kids woke up and did their clapping, and then it was Question Time.

Now, quickly: This is the reason I came. While I hate speeches, I do enjoy providing feedback and had every intention of giving them any answer they wanted (not that I really have many, but if they were wondering the over/under on the years before the CFC become the KFC, or Klymkiw Film Centre, I would have said 4.5).

The questions rolled in, and what followed really amazed me. Not ONE of these film-school kids cared about being a writer. None. No questions posed about our fine craft whatsoever. They had many queries about the Directors and Producers lab, and even an Editors question, but that’s it. The closest thing was this: “Can the directors write their own Universal Shorts?”

I cleaned the vomit off my shoes and bit my tongue while the writer-director to my left answered.

On one hand, I wasn’t sure whether to be happy (less competition coming down the pipe) or sad, but ultimately, I chose sad. When I was at Ryerson, I knew that I wanted to be a writer - only because I sucked royally at everything else (except producing - although I’m not sure I did it right). There were lots of wannabe directors in the class (and even more writer/directors, or 'auteurs', as they'll insist you call them), some DP's, and a few of us scribey hopefully and our notebooks of stoned ramblings. But two years later? Zilch in the graduating class.

As I’m typing this, I’m still numb about the fact that none of these kids, with stars in their eyes and Hollywood peeking up just behind Gould St., had any interest in writing. I'll chalk some of it up to the unrealistic naivety that Ryerson gives you about being a working director.

Is being a writer really that bad? I don’t think so. In fact, I know there are many reasons why I wish to write my days away. And I’ll list them in the Love-Fest, coming soon…

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Prelude to a Love-Fest

It’s been so long.

On one hand, I feel guilty. Much like the small plant that my girlfriend donated to my room, I’ve been neglecting this blog. I can only hope that it requires significantly less water, sunlight, pure air, and grooming than does the plant. One thing that it does NOT require, however, is any less attention. In many ways, it’s a living, organic, tangible ‘pet’ – or it would be if people actually posted salutations, comments, even insults. Regardless, fair blog, I am singlehandedly to blame for the lack of recent nurturing. I’m sorry. The plant gets no apology...it knows why.

On the other hand...

The only reason to feel guilty is if I’m under the impression that I’m letting people down. I have a desk job; I know that for many there is a desperate dependence on surfing your favorite sites. It can be grounds to Irish your coffee (not that my contemporaries need an excuse) if a regular fave hasn’t been updated since Feb. 13th (That’s right, Friedman. I only hope you’re not posting because a) you’re too busy writing a great script b) you’re too busy writing a decent script or c) you’re tanning at Pepperdine, knee-deep in sorority girls and grapefruit-flavored Fresca.)

That being said, I don’t know that this blog penetrates the same circus of informative, interesting ego-prose that our favorites (August, Mazin, Friedman, Wordplay, and the other Monkeys) perform in. I don’t know how many people visit the site – but if there’s a way to check this within Blogspot, let a brotha know. I don’t know if people care, one way or the other, save for those who love me and those who hate me.

In any event, fueled by Karen’s insistence that chemically-balanced literates actually waste their cookies on bdsa.blogspot.com, I shall trudge on. Not to mention the handful of semi-professional industry fluff who run into me at parties and muse behind smug lips, ‘So, I hear you have a blog….I’m sure it’s… (pause to sip mohito, ensure anti-establishment pins are securely fastened, resume eye contact)… fun.”

Moving past my guilt/non-guilt, there’s not much to report. I went as a guest of inkcanada (THE Canadian screenwriting group of the future) to see AVENGE BUT ONE OF MY TWO EYES, an honest, emotionally raw (if poorly paced and a half hour too long – but when a director wears too many hats…) Anti-Israeli occupation doc made by an Israeli. As Avi Mograbi spoke to an engaged crowd, I regarded him with the blind sense of authority I reserve only for people with neat accents or handguns. What a commanding speaker – that’s one talent (along with nimble guitar hands) that I wish I had, the ability to engage a room with booming eloquence and grace.

Following the movie, a few of us went out to discuss. This is when all hell broke loose…details are unnecessary, suffice to say it was a rip-roaring good time, I learned Mexican mask wrestling is not only a valid passion but also worth the energy, got boozeltoffed (look it up) with some great new acquaintances, and woke up smelling like I was tied to a mattress and doused by a fire hose gushing JD and Moosehead.

I met with VA again, and we de-briefed one another: I told her who I was in contact with, and she did the same. We agreed (meaning I agreed) that it’s a good time to take a breath on the feature front and focus on some TV specs. Specifically, a half hour comedy spec and a 1hr. drama original spec. There is one fundamental reason for this decision: I want work ASAP. Not tomorrow, but yesterday. I’m patiently growing impatient with 9-5, rush-hour sandwiched on the TTC, the lack of creative contributions, the lack of funds. Before KW tells me I’m a whiny little baby, I know I’ve got it good. I’m aware. I know I don’t yet deserve to rattle on about what is fair and what is not…but writers should write, I keep telling myself. There’s a reason we like to lock ourselves in rooms and conjure up explosions and threesomes and underdog stories – and it’s the same reason we don’t take to working amongst cubicles and status meetings and inter-office acronyms.

I know it takes time – time is fine. Gotta get your face out, meet the producers, directors, agents, broadcasters of the country: The movers and shakers of this frigid cinema brotherhood (sisters welcome - nay, preferred). Follow the chain – it's all about contacts. An example: It was mentioned that there’s a woman with an idea for a mobile short – and a director who is interested. Thing is, she don’t wanna write it. I know: cell-phone shorts aren’t exactly hitting the big time. But it makes sense for me to do it. Why? The person with the idea just happens to be a big-time writer up for positions on some of Canada's biggest TV series. The interested director is an up-and-comer with an excellent reel, and alum of Ryerson (as am I). We’re roughly the same age – so as he grows, (hopefully) I’ll grow. Forming a relationship with these people is the right thing to do…assuming, of course, that we get along. It’s that cardinal rule that I keep getting drilled into my head: Only work with who you like.

An interesting aside: The above rule runs contrary to my father’s cardinal rule: If they’re gonna pay you to write shit jokes on toilet paper, you better write the funniest shit jokes ever scribbled on two-ply.

Seriously, now:

I have recently become rather concerned about the image I’m projecting on this blog. In other words, I’m beginning to think of the children. I’m afraid that I come across as a surly, sarcastic, self-conscious writer…which is no more than 63% of Josh Budd. Based on the suggestion of my far better half (and if you’ve met her, you’ll certainly agree), to come is a post about things that make me happy. Why I choose, like so many others, to jump headfirst down the fifteen-storey waterslide without being certain that there’s actually water at the bottom – the kamikaze dream of the creditless screenwriter. We're all hoping not to hit the rocks. What about his crazy game is actually fun? Basically, all the sugar coated cheeseball (sounds disgusting AND unhealthy) reasons for keeping inspired, focused, and sane.

Stay tuned. Love-fest coming soon. It’s the only time you’ll get this out of me, so enjoy.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Post 10 - Out of Obligation

There are a set of fundamental rules for running a successful company. Tried and tested do’s and don’ts that lead to an efficient, profitable workplace.

DO provide a comfortable work environment.
DO provide staff with incentives for advancement.

DON’T force your staff into spandex, studded leather, or cutoff denim.

Whoever thought that it was a good idea to take a group that sits at a desk 40+ hours a week, nourished solely from the fruits of a fast food court, and squeeze them into nostalgic, unflattering fashions that were ugly twenty years ago, really dropped the ball on this one. Bearing witness to flesh gasping for freedom, popping and squirting out of any available gap in fabric should be Guantanamo torture, not a social activity. Watching the stockings on an overweight account exec split as she bends over to tie her rental shoes is NOT a way to make co-existing with her on a daily basis any easier. Yeesh.

The actual activity itself, bowling: not bad, wardrobe and aside. I learned two valuable lessons:

1. Work is work, and pleasure is pleasure. While intra-office social gatherings are a great way to bond, I’m always leery of those people that confuse co-workers with lifelong kindred spirits – when your entire social circle works in the same bar/office/brothel as you do, it’s time to think about branching out. Or what you did to turn off all of your old friends.

2. I am not a good bowler. Not even a decent bowler. I can throw the ball hard – but straight? That’s not as simple. I do possess some athletic ability, but as I learned, none is necessary to succeed in the game – excuse me, ‘sport’ - of bowling.

But, enough whining.

The Creators Three have been hard at work on the SELF HELP series. We’ve really been focusing on focusing – ensuring that the world and characters are serving the series, and not trying to pack every little clever gag and reference into the pilot. We’re channeling everything through what we’ve determined to be the three pillars of the series, and it has really helped to streamline the plots. It’s becoming rapidly apparent that writing has every bit as much to do with what you choose to delete as what you choose to write. The term ‘re-write’ is becoming less terrifying over time. There’s more to this, but until the dust settles, I’ll refrain.

I have a friend who’s been in the industry a long time. He was a hotshot at Alliance-Atlantis back in the day, and travels amongst the sultans of Canadian film bureaucracy. An email he sent me from Torino last week went something like this (edited for brevity’s sake):

Josh,
Italy is cool. Watching speed-skating with a dear friend of mine, Big Broadcast Executive. We were kicking around this series idea at dinner. It’s ridiculous, half-baked, and fairly cheesy. And BBE loves it! If you can get a few pages together on this idea soon, I’ll give it to him. HE WANTS TO MAKE IT.

Regards,
Josh’s Friend

A pretty interesting email. I threw up my nose at the idea, but it seemed silly not to give it a chance. We threw a one-page together, and a remarkable thing happened. I actually started to – gasp - sort of dig it. It was a tremendous relief to me. I’ve long been concerned that, if given the opportunity to write someone else’s asinine cliché, I wouldn’t be able to find something within it to hold my interest. Thank god I’ve got low brow tastes.

I’m pretty sure nothing will come out of it, but if at the very least I can meet BBE, it’ll be worth it. That, and keeping my friend happy will hopefully keep surname Budd fresh in his mind if any future opportunities arise. I was surprised to learn that the majority of young writers make excited promises but rarely deliver – and that just doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. They can’t hire me if they don’t know my work, can they?

Well, it’s certainly official. Everyone’s favorite awards farce, the Oscars, is this weekend. That glorious time of year when even the biggest cinemidiot moonlights as a film critic. My favorite is when people discuss at length films they’ve never actually seen. Going on and on about Brokeback Mountian with only People magazine’s review as a reference. There’s nothing more satisfying than hearing two young Bramptonites (sporting those tapered sideburns I despise) on the Go-Train complain about Jack Black’s snub in the best actor category.

Absolutely Not Italian Suburbanite 1: I mean, fuck, guy, the guy’s hilarious - you just gotta take a look at his body of work and…

Absolutely Not Italian Suburbanite 2: For reals, brotha. He was the bomb in that flick where the Fresh Prince is being chased by that crooked buster in a suit…


Forget the Oscars. I’m starting a Gemini pool – the only problem is that no one outside of the industry cares. How many of your friends and family actually tune in to the broadcast of Canada’s cinematic celebration? Be honest - and flipping to it during commercial breaks in “The Biggest Loser” doesn’t count. This is OURS, folks. As a nation we attempt to cling to each and every minute distinction between us and our neighbor, but somehow we’re culturally embarrassed to embrace what little homegrown content we produce.

A sad state of affairs.

What chance to we have to make a mark in this country? How can we feed our children and our expensive drug habits (we’ll be feeding theirs in years to come) without swallowing our artistic goals like an overcooked piece of pork and penning the next I-love-my-best-friend-but-they-love-some-other-jerkface Rom-Com or an Arab-Jew shoot ‘em up buddy flick – which, is years overdue, dare I say.

You know what? I’m gonna get on that. Copyright pending, people. “Jewish Jihad 1: The Temple of BOOM” – coming soon.

(Writer's note: I was all ready to call it 'Hamas-ter of Terror-monies', but I deemed it kinda lame. Good call?)