Left last night for a random drive and ended up not turning around. Sometimes, at night, I'll take a drive, listening to music, just to clear my head and calm myself down. Writing proves to be bound in anxiety and lost leads. This time, though, I didn't take my usual scenic route and, instead, detoured towards a path less travelled.
Taking the northbound lane towards Toledo, I accidentally, or divinely, depending on your perspective of the events, wound up on a toll road which I could not get off of until I reached Cleveland: a good two hours away. Being about three hours from my home, at that point, I opted to continue onwards just to see where I'd end up. I'm pretty good with navigating the flat terrain of most of Ohio, so I had no fear as to getting lost. Besides, I had my trusty GPS system my Dad purchased for me, for Christmas. I still haven't used it.
Now, I'm not sure where I'm at as I write this, in a Denny's, on my laptop. I'm not really sure I care either. I have until the 5th of January to come back and I imagine I'll take that amount of time to reflect on what it is I'm trying to prove to myself doing this. Unless, of course, I run the limit on my credit cards first. We'll see. Luckily, in this wintery economic climate, gas, food, motels and the such are dirt cheap. Even though I saved a bundle of money by simply falling asleep in my vehicle last night. I was reading Crime and Punishment with Screamin Jay Hawkins tellin' me he's got a spell on me and the next thing I know it's morning and I've left the car running all night. You live, you learn and you move on.
Nothing of substantial interest has happened just yet, but tonight I'll venture forth towards a dive bar, or perhaps to a coffee shop in order to attain the acquaintance of someone with remotely the same interests as my own. If those sort of people exist in these quarters, and I believe they may.
Cigarettes and coffee are what propel me along on this meager journey towards "I don't know what just yet." My only companions: a notepad, taperecorder, laptop, book and yearning to find a story.
Don't order the Grand Slamwich: IT'S HORRIBLE! But the waitress is nice!
Once you've seen Ikiru, you'll never forget this image.
And how could you? Hasn't it taught you that living a dull existence isn't living at all; you're already dead. Isn't it time you got out and did something with your life. Changed your ways. Pull yourself up by the bootstraps. Haven't you had enough of the minutia of your run down day to day measly living? I have. That's why I need to change. That's why I have to change.
To take a little from Sam Cooke:
"its been too hard living but I'm afraid to die Cause I don't know what's up there beyond the sky"
"there been times that I thought I couldn't last for long But now I think I'm able to carry on"
Barack Obama himself took a little bit from Sam's "A Change Is Gonna Come" during his campaign and the message is still as poignant today as it was in yesteryear.
So, back to Ikiru. Bringing about change. Realizing that it doesn't take a facing with death to understand that you're always dieing. That you're always writing your own biography with every action, or inaction, that you take. whether you choose to do something or nothing is still a choice. So get scootin'. Don't go out in the middle of a song, without having gotten it all out. Raise your voice and spill out your soul. Nothing should, nor can, contain you. Is your life living you or are you living your life?
Find something you're passionate about and do it. Believe that you can do it. And do it.
I have trouble staying on task. Here I am trying to write a Noir screenplay and I start watching all these Noir films for inspiration, motivation and character. I get the first act down, a few later scenes and most of the ending. I rewrite some of the dialogue, change a characters name, move a few locations around, reorganize the outline to reflect said changes and here I am without anything finished. In fact, I've already moved on to a new project that has nothing to do with this one.
Sometimes I'm able to incorporate a new idea into the existing screenplay I'm working on, but right now, I can't focus on shit and I don't think the new material will work it's way into the Noir script. It's not like I have ADD or anything, at least not to my knowledge, but I'm not diagnosed so who knows. I just can't stick the the goddamn subject I'm trying to hammer out. I'm actually quite bored with my material, even though I believe in it.
So now I'll go to work on this new material, hoping I can finish it before I get bored with it too. This is how it usually goes: start something, get excited and full of creative bursts, get everything down and find out I need more, lose interest or get bored, start a new subject or work on an old one, repeat. Sometimes I come back around to an old script I had given up all hope on, only to finish it in its entirety. So, there is hope that I can come back to this at a later time and give it the gusto it deserves.
I can't stop watching movies. It's like a fucking addiction, no really. I get home from the ol' "9 to 5" and make a list of shit to do. It's usually comprised of the simple things: clean apartment, do dishes, feed cat, do laundry, yoga, kegal exercises, etc, etc. But then I'll make my "creative checklist" which is more or less compiled with wishful thinking: finish Noir screenplay, finish reading Crime and Punishment, read chapter of editing software, etc, etc. And then I do nothing. I put a film in and sit there watching it all night long. By the time the film's over, it's "too late" to do anything, so then I just go to sleep to do it all over again the next day.
It's probably just the climate change. Starting tonight, I'll get back into it. Into the groove, into the flow of working out the kinks of boredom and apathy.... tomorrow.
Francois Truffaut is kicking some serious Film lover ass right now. No joke. This is only the third Truffaut film I've had the divine joy of viewing, and I must say, it is the best thus far. After Jules and Jim, after Day For Night, I decided to embark of the Truffaut train of cinema. The next stop was Shoot The Piano Player, which I've long heard was a massive influence on Tarantino, P.T. Anderson, Scorsese and various other directors whom I generally adore. I must say, I don't think I'll be leaving this stop soon.
Immediately upon finishing the film, I logged onto Half.com, where I purchase all my movies(which follows the same philosophy of how I buy all my film equipment: cheap, used and on credit) and hastily plunked down, with shipping, a whole $20 for this darling example of film genius. I rarely do this unless I was very truly moved by a film, as I am with all Paul Thomas Anderson films, but as I foray deeper into the French New Wave I'm finding it's becoming a habit, albeit an expensive one. I don't really give a rat's ass.
I am in love with Truffaut's work, thus far. Everyone wants to toot Godard's horn, and rightfully so as he's wonderful in a film school sort of way. But, it's Truffaut that speaks to me emotionally, whereas Godard speaks to me technically. Godard's films: Contempt, Breathless and Alphaville are three of my newfound faves when it comes to film. But they just don't penetrate my emotions and stimulate my mind the way that only three people can: Paul Thomas Anderson, Francois Truffaut and the always lovely Jaden Ame Alexander. Rather, I'd take Jules and Jim, Day For Night and Shoot the Piano Player as better examples of what film is capable of, in the hands of a great, visionary director.
Oh right, the film itself. So this film combines every genre ever. It's a comedy, a drama, a heist, a noir, a romance, a kidnapping, an existential, a satirical film. Take your pick. And isn't that what you want in a film: to enliven all of the senses? To appeal to all faces of emotion? Some people are turned off by this, instead I revel in it. This is the kind of cinema I intend to make. If you're a friend of me, you're a friend of Truffaut. Let's stay friends!
Then after all this pussyfootin around about Truffaut, I watched a Bunuel film: Viridiana. I'll get to that later when I figure out what the fuck it is that I just watched. Tune in later.
Here are the this weeks library borrowings, which I'll try to provide reviews for as the week progress, or regresses, depending on your perspective of the weekend.
Shoot the Piano Player ~ God Roma ~ Fellini Through A Glass Darkly ~ Bergman Winter Light ~ Bergman Stranger Than Paradise ~ Jarmusch (woot woot grew up in OHIO) Yojimbo ~ Kurosawa Viridiana ~ Bunuel Vampyr ~ Dreyer
Looking like a hell of a weekend for me! Who needs film school when you've got a library? Some people take for granted the Good Will Hunting method of learning: READ. If you want to do something in life, learn about it. I want to make films therefore I must watch films, read books and discuss topics of interest with people knowledgeable on the subjects. It's really not that hard when you look at the thing in itself. You can teach yourself anything. You wanna know why I admire Paul Thomas Anderson and Quentin Tarantino so much? They didn't go to film school. They taught themselves the craft and their material is mountains better than anything put out by the system.
Ladies and Germs, may I present to you: BILL MURRAY
Bill Murray has been in the news a bit, as of late, for his bitter divorce with his runt of an ex-wife. She claims he's addicted to pot and beats her endlessly. That's a bit of a paradox if you ask me. Potheads don't beat anyone; they sit around and conspire ways that the government, is like, against us, maaaaan. And other hippie shit I used to be absorbed in when I was "enlightened" by the overuse of pot. Not that it's bad or anything, but using it as often as you can, every single day will do nothing to "change you perspective on shit". It will only fry you into a mindless Grateful Deadhead that digs hemp necklaces and emptyheadedness. Moderation, ya dig, keep it in moderation. Or, as Daniel Tosh would say, "grow up and do coke, like an adult".
Anyways, Bill Murray is in the news again but this time for something equally as radical. He's been showing up at random house parties in the Brooklyn college area. Mostly hipster hangouts, Bill's been seen simply walking into the house of an obvious party, sitting down and casually mingling with the guest.
"He’s not a boozy, sweaty party hound who gets caught on camera cheesing it up with pretty young girls (see: Mel Gibson, Bono); rather, he’s more like a ghost in the night, who shows up out of nowhere, engages in utterly random conversations and then exits gracefully—leaving witnesses to wonder what the hell just happened" Cites some source from somewhere else (so sue me).
Is this not the coolest fucking thing ever? How humble and down to earth this guy must be to just roll up in someone's cribspot and chillax to the sweet tunes of indie rock. I, for one, would allow this man my bed if he'd sign my coveted copy of The Life Aquatic. Now I'm sure Bill was just looking to score some dope, and he'd be right to do so. He's had a long career and hasn't, until recently, gotten the respect he deserves.
The article goes on later to talk about how Bill is suffering from depression and does this as a way to cope with his divorce. A psychologist diagnoses him as lonely and seeking attention. What? Get the fuck out, no really, GTFO! Clearly, people are retarded. Bill's just having a good time and not letting the element of celebrity tarnish his image of himself as a human being. If only every actor could see a little bit of Bill Murray in themselves, this place called Hollywood would be filled with blissful rainbows and smiling sunbeams. Instead of the tarpit that it currently is.
This past weekend, a few new films were acquired into my collective subconscious.
Day For Night ~ Truffaut Passion of Joan of Arc ~ Dreyer Double Indemnity ~ Wilder Trois Couleurs: Bleu ~ Kieślowski I Vitelloni ~ Fellini Satyricon ~ Fellini The Bicycle Theif ~ De Sica
All of these films were nothing short of incredible. I literally stayed up, sick, every night this weekend review film after film. Every angle shot, every word muttered, I was on it like my heart and Jaden's soul. I made a little notebook to jot down all the inspiring scenes, witty remarks, and various other film techniques that I deemed noteworthy. The movie with the most marks: The Passion of Joan of Arc.
This film was a highly emotional one for me. The past few years, I'd say I've been in an existential crisis: a moratorium phase, if you will. Ceasing any productive activity and just living day to day without expectations. Little has come from it, to say the least, and I've rarely gained any sort of insightful, earth-rattling knowledge that would move me into doing something worthwhile. Instead, I'd just float and float and float, as a ghost of a man living in a shadow of a life. Anyways, the first time I watched this film, about a year ago, I was deeply considering renouncing God and all that came with it. Thinking like the existentialists Sartre and Camus, I deemed life something that I could control. I found out, in the form of a vicious vehicular accident that this was not the case. Anymore, I still believe you have some control over things, but that you shouldn't ask what the meaning of your life is but rather, what life means to you.
All that aside, (I get off track quick), The Passion of Joan of Arc, mostly done in close-ups, brought about some sort of rejuvenation deep down within. I felt that if I stood my own, believed in myself, and did the things I know I can do, that I'd succeed. Joan didn't necessarily succeed, per se, but she nonetheless lives on as a figure of passion, purpose and poise. She kept her cool under pressure and she stuck with it until the end, even if it's death, as any true artist should do for their belief.
Holy shit, was I inspired. Words just bleed through my fingers onto the page. I've never felt such a release of pent up emotions as I did upon the finish of this film. Has anyone ever had anything like this? Being moved by something, so strongly, that you felt like you were shaken out of a slumber and thrust into an overdrive mechanism that was beyond you. I manged to compose the second act of the Noir screenplay, as well as rewrite the first: slicking the dialogue, propering the format and delving deeper into character development. My Jaden would be proud.
What about you guys? God? No god? Existentialism? Atheism? Hedonism? What kinda stuff makes you think, inspires you, moves you and cause you to reevaluate your will-power?
This blog is dedicated to a precursor of the French New Wave movement. It's a little diddy called Bob le Flambeur, or "Bob the Gambler". It's a CLASSIC. I insist you all pick this movie up, pop it into the DVD player and settle into your favorite movie viewing position. Prepare yourself for one of the most influential crime/heist/noir films ever made!
This film was, single-handedly, the main influence in Paul Thomas Anderson's Hard Eight. The influence is plainly evident in some major instances: the young man idolizing Bob, the whore of a girl that the young man loves, the bad gangster trying to steal away the young kid and other details that P.T.A. was compelled to derive inspiration from. He didn't lift direct scenes or anything, so don't go a cryin' THIEF! ye foul thing. But you'll see a lot of similar cinematographic techniques: iris, camera whips, constantly moving camera and things like that. It really adds to the beauty of this moving, and for being made in the last 50's, it really holds up to today's standards. This was the film that inspired Truffuat and Godard, as well as today's version of Truffuat and Godard: Paul Thomas Anderson and Quentin Tarantino.
I'm glad I was able to find this (note: at the library) as I'm not going to purchase it on Half.com for $16 bucks. A fair deal, if I don't say so myself, for it is a Criterion release; something that gets movie geeks moist in the mouth. This film is going to be my inspiration for finishing the abandoned Noir film I was working on since my last blog post. I've been abandoning scripts, and starting new ones, for way too long a time. I just need to go back to the old scripts and nurse them to the powerful cinematic time-testers that I know they have the potential to be, if I'd spend the proper amount of time, care and heart on them. My scripts are like a phoenix, I suppose. They'll come around, when I get my head off of other shit and back into the wonderful world of storytelling.
In other news: I found some potentially awesome reads at the local Buy N Sell bookstore, which added a fanciful coffeeshop, btw, so I can now stalk some intelligent prey over a cup of iced caramel machiatto. I sometimes leave my "screenplay writing for dummies" book out, in front of my notepad, so girls will think I'm uber hip and totally down to party. (note: it never works - don't try it at your local coffee hangout) Anyways, the books I found were:
Crime and Punishment ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky The Portable James Joyce ~ "someone" The Odyssey ~ Homer The Doctor & the Soul ~ Viktor Frankl Pyscopathology of Everyday Life ~ Ol' Sigmund Freud The Collective Works of Plato ~ "someone"
Looks like I've got some readin ta dooooo. And damn, am I ever excited about it. Going to the bookstore never, ever, ever gets old. It's almost as good as going to Goodwill. Speaking of which, I've found the most incredible winter coat in all of humankind. I don't have a pic yet, but I soon will and you'll all want my exuberant warmth when you see this thing. It's a plaid trenchcoat, made by London Fog, circa 1973. It is THE motherfucking shit. You know I mean it when I curse like that. Lined with faux fur and wool, this jacket represents all that is manly in the life of mere mortals. It exudes confidence, class and says "hey, I'm approachable, but you better damn well bring your A game, sister, or you'll be reduced to rubbish by my gusto!" I really couldn't ask for a better ladykiller jacket.
As Mr. Cruise says, in Magnolia: "Respect the cock, tame the cunt!"
Having just recently viewed, and reviewed, Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs, as well as Pulp Fiction, I've come to the conclusion that he might be a just a genre writer; FILM NOIR. I've never thought that before, seeing as to how his work is reflective of many genres. But, in essence, they're all pretty much the same, at the core.
Now, I've seen the Kill Bills, and loved it, but I've also seen the disaster of Death Proof, and loathed it. Jackie Brown was great, True Romance was alright and Natural Born Killers was, eh, it was okay. I realize that the last two were merely written by Tarantino, rather than directed, and I think his steady hand of film knowledge would have prevailed for the last two. Oliver Stone is okay, he doesn't really stand out in my book.
Anyways, I got on this subject because what I'm writing about, now, has this sort of feel to it. Not a Tarantino-eque feel, not a homage and certainly not a rip-off. Just that "feel". Perhaps it's just that genre of crime, which Tarantino so awesomely dominates. Whatever it is, it's what's stuck in my mind so I've been watching nothing but crime films. Here's a list of what I've been watching the past few days, on repeat:
Chinatown (Polanski) Reservoir Dogs (Tarantino) Pulp Fiction (Tarantino) Hard Eight (P.T. Anderson) The Two Jakes (Nicholson) The Third Man (Not Welles) In Cold Blood (Brooks) Seven (Fincher) M (Lang) Breathless (Godard) Alphaville (Godard) Touch of Evil (Welles)
And that's about it for now. Even if I'm not really watching them, I'll still have them on in the background, on the projector, in order to pause from my writing, turn around and feel inspired by whatever scene is randomly playing. It helps, it really does.
Now, I'm not jacking anyone's style, so don't think I'm just watching these films and taking scenes out of them. I'm being provided with inspiration and ideas. To be motivated, one must be inspired. To be inspired, one must be moved. It's something like what Jaden posted on her site a while back: the actor inspires the writer, the writer inspires the director, the director inspires the actor. It's a vicious circle of creativity that whirlwinds itself into the creative processes of actively creative people. Now, that sentence wasn't worded very creatively of me, but you get the idea.
An now, for something completely different: An ode to the woman of my dreams, Jaden A.
Jaden sets my heart on fire. An Endless love, it'll never tire. She has me hanging from a wire. Her love's on ebay, I'm the buyer. For her, I'd be a frequent flier. My type of need, for her, is dire. She's sizzlin hot, just like a fryer. Listen to me, I ain't no liar. She never fails me, she'll inspire. To pull us apart, you'll need a plier. Into her arms, I wish to retire.
I ran out of rhyming words. If you have some of your own, don't just sit there, help me out people. This angel deserves praise, she never ceases to amaze, and other various cliches.
I've recently found this website, Moviepoet.com , and it's pretty radical, if I don't say so myself. What you do is write a five page screenplay every month. At the end of the month the script is reviewed by the members of the site and the top three are posted. The top three are also placed in a magazine that I cannot recall. A few scripts have been picked up for production and the site is an avid hotspot of indie filmmakers to connect with fledging writers. It's pretty tight, really. This month is a one page screenplay on any topic of your choosing. Yall should sign up n shit.
Moving on. I saw Role Models last night. It wasn't that great. It had it's shining moments, but my brother and I were the only people in the entire theater to laugh at them. It could have been way better with Paul Rudd and Sean William Scott; didn't have enough material. It seems the whole movie was on the spot improve, rather than a concrete screenplay. The starbucks jokes that were used, I've been hearing the past three years now. I'm sure you all know it: venti, tall, grande are all large! We know, cashcow, we know.
Saturday was a mess. Michigan-Ohio State game. Didn't care. I went down after the game to hang out with some friends after having spent all night friday with a bottle of pinot noir and a wheel of cheese.
Oh, I didn't just eat cheese and drink wine, I wrote about the first ten pages of a script, directly after my completion of the film Boogie Nights. It was incredibly inspiring, as any PTA film will be, and as soon as the credits rolled I had my laptop fired up and my fingers rummaging through the keyboard, hungry with lust for letters. Those letters came together to form words, which ultimately helped me towards my goal of compiling sentences and paragraphs. It was pretty intense to witness this all in person.
So, back to Saturday. I meet Ben at his girl's place. We tried to wake up his g/f, to no avail. They'd been drinking since, oh, about 7am, as most lushes do whenever rival teams play. Needless to say, when I arrived at 4pm they were TRASHED. Incoherent mumbles of "fuhkin shots dood. leth ohrda Peeza" and other shit that I couldn't comprehend. I asked myself why I tolerate this, they offered to pay for the pizza, I then understood. After the pizza it was pretty much bouncing back and forth between friends in peril amongst themselves. Friend A was upset at Friend B who was upset at Friend C who only wants to hang out with me.
I hang out with friend A for a while. He wants to sit home and get more pizza. I didn't drive an hour to get some fucking pizza. I leave. Friend B wants to go to the most crowded, shoulder to shoulder, wait 20 minutes to get a warm beer, p.o.s. bar in all of campus. So we go, it sucks, I leave with friend C. Friend C wants to go back to the house and have some more pizza before going back out, somewhere a little less crowded. That's fine, I say, tired of all the god damn pizza being slung around. We eat some terrible goop of liquid atop a cheesy crust and head past friend A who is passed out on the couch. We go out for a while and friend B calls every five minutes wanting to know where I'm at. He thought I was going to come back and go to that stupid bar. NO. He's upset now. Friend A wakes up and calls, he thought I was gonna sit with him and watch tv all night, he's upset. Friend C gets into it with his brother's friend and I'm reminded of mommy and daddy fighting again.
Finally! I finally managed to sit down and hammer out page after page of the screenplay I've been meaning to get at. Took long enough! Appears I've been in a creative spurt as I've written the beginning of this screenplay, wrote a one-pager for moviepoet.com and even finished an article for a magazine. I'm ecstatic as it's about time I got back to doing what I know how to do.
Friends coming in from Vegas on Tuesday. It'll be fun; he's the lawyer type, which means he has money, which also means he'll spend some of it on me wherever we go. I like those kinds of friends. I'm not really a good friend to people, I know, but I do put forth a concentrated effort. Honestly, I'm pretty self-absorbed. Not in the way that I think I'm hot shit, or overly attractive, or anything of that nature. I'm just absorbed in my own life: I do what I want, when I want, with whom I want, however I want to do it. I put my needs in front of others. That's a bad thing, to an extent. But I'll come around eventually; I do miss the affection of others.
Oh, wow. Here I am bitching and moaning about my feelings. I promised myself I wouldn't do that. That'd I'd just do the stream of consciousness, rambling prose thing. I guess feelings will come out when you do that. Maybe I'll go cut myself later, that helps teenage girls, addicted to Twilight, to deal with the pain.
Twilight: it's just the new Last Vampire, from Christopher Pike. The storyline that singlehandedly introduced me to my own erections. Nothing is sacred anymore.
My cat, Kitty, birthed an inept baker's dozen (eight) kittens last night. I had no clue she was even prego. I was a little upset that I didn't get to go through the whole process of Juno with my cat. You know what I mean - the pseudo new-age way of disussing teen pregnancy. It probably would have gone something like this:
"Yo, owner, I'm pregos fo sho, u know!"
"I'm sorry, did you say something? All I heard was 'meow!'"
"Dint youz hear me? I gotta bun in the oven and no mitt! Ascootin you best get cuz yo carpet is all wet."
"I don't comprehend a word you're saying right now. Here's your milk."
"Fool, I can't drizzle that mizzle or my litter box'll be liquizzle. Anyhoo, I'm about to, honest to blog, birth the girth right outta yo wallet."
"Yeah, that's a good kitty. Run along now, you're staring at me again."
Can we get this animal an Academy Award? Not only did her steadfast weight gain decieve me, but every single one of her kittens are a different color, which leads me to believe she's a sexually rampant alley catstitute.
So now I'm stuck with finding a home for six of the babies. I'll keep one, the strongest of them all, of course, and one will go to someone at work. The rest, I hope to pawn off as christmas presents for people who seem to need the gift of responsibility. Hopefully they'll enjoy!
I should have been writing. This weekend turned into the Lost Weekend, a film by Billy Wilder. Rather than hole up in front of the computer, with a movie playing in the background, for inspiration, I went out Saturday night. It's not as though I was suffering from writer's block; I simply went out for it was convenient; the worst reason.
The audition was at 2PM. I was already late getting there. The role was man that used to be a superhero but lost his powers and is now a villain. It was intriguing because I was told the inspiration for the role was Kevin Spacey in Se7en (the coolest movie title/spelling ever) mixed with Heath Ledger as Joker. This is the kind of role that is creatively satisfying and I couldn't wait to try out for it. Come to find out, the script was so poorly written, the dialogue so atrocious, I turned down the opportunity for the role. I felt terrible for the director, thinking this material was worthy of being made into a film. Now, I'm no screenplay connoisseur but I like to believe that I can spot decent writing when it's placed in front of me.
The way things are going in Hollywood, anymore, I'm sure this is the kind of movie that would be greenlit after the producer heard the pitch. "Good guy turns bad, tries to kill new good guy, says things like 'Who's laughing now?', SIGN ME UP. Here's a check for 30 million, have it done by Thursday"
And it will probably happen just as I wrote it.
So, my next goal was to leave the audition, head back home, lock myself in and write all night. Didn't happen. Not even close. I left the audition and went to meet Ben and his fine honey, Shawna, at a local dive bar so we could swim in the molten jacuzzi of lushhood. Ohio State won; I could give a shit less. The sea of scarlet and gray was boring and the people sporting their proud colors were no more entertaining. Ben and Shawna are cool as hell, don't get me wrong, and they kept me thoroughly entertained throughout. It's just the people we met, out and about, that were either obliterated to the point of obnoxiousness, or they were simply inept at carrying on a conversation about anything other than their prior nights endeavors, which undoubtedly involved even more alcohol than they were currently consuming.
Not as though my way of drowning it out was any better than their way of celebrating. I drank to descend myself to a lower level of consciousness. It was then I was able to "relate" to them. And when I say relate I'm actually talking about the words "Oh yeah?", "Really?", "You don't say!" and my personal favorite, "Fascinating!".
So the evening pushes into late night and we find ourselves at a party being held by some of the coolest people I've met. Our friend, Evan, noticed the drumset was avail to anyone looking to get the bodies moving. He did just that, but well! I think it had to do with being away from the Ohio State fans, who use the team's victory as an excuse to be a binge lush.
All in all, I'd say I had a great time. I certainly gained a few memorable lines and happenings that will find their way into a scene in a script I'll work on soon.
Just not soon enough.
On a side note: I went to buy a scarf from The Gap. I opted against it when I saw that the scarves were FORTY FUCKING DOLLARS! Sorry, Gap, but we're in a recession and Goodwill has a better selection.
After much debate, I finally gave in and picked up Jules & Jim. I heard about this film from watching Vanilla Sky, which is enthralling. You can really note how influenced Cameron Crowe was by Jules & Jim, in making Vanilla Sky. A few key scenes are lifted almost directly.
Having imagined Jules to be the woman, as it's such a pretty name, I was shocked to find out that the female characters name was, in fact, Catherine. This would be the smallest tremor of shock I would experience for the duration of the film.
For some months now, I've been picking at a screenplay about an ex-girlfriend's free-spirited, nonchalance for the world. Her vile ways with numerous and various men, all the while up keeping a relationship with me. I'm not bitter, you can't be when you're ignorant to the ways of the floozy. I just thought it would make an interesting character study; going into the depths of what makes this girl the way she is. Soon, though, I came to the conclusion that searching for a reason "why" would be less entertaining than showing the actual results of the "why". I think it'd be more surreal to see her actions as they are committed, as a result of impulse, rather than due to years of Mommy hating. Whoa - getting off subject.
Jules & Jim, yeah. So basically, watching this movie brought to the forefront these memories of all my exes. Memories I had thought were repressed to my subconscious. This girl, and her relationship with these men, brought about an intercourse of loathe and love. I was actually drawn to her and wanted her to be apart of my life, if not me apart of hers. Certain scenes, though, frightened me in all her hostility and disdain towards her male subjects, particularly Jules.
I've already penned, in detail, the way I wanted certain scenes to play out. And here, right before my eyes, it was happening within a film crafted by the mind of someone else. The script I was working on now seemed to have already been done, and it had been, by Francois Truffaut. I'd say that's an admirable thing, but this is the only film from Truffaut that I've witnessed, as of yet. I dig the whole French New Wave thing; Godard is a new liking of mine. But I'm not some pretentious film snob; I merely pretend to be when I'm at the local art college. I do a lot of wine drinking and cheese eating whilst complaining about how "self-indulgent" Fellini was.
You see what happens when I start to talk about film. I get off subject quicker than my sex life does. This was one of the most profound nights I've had in recent history; here I am not able to think of a single, solitary thing, profound, to say. It's all minutia.
Well, anyways, my whole point was that viewing this film last night has brought about some sort of epiphany. I don't know what it is, just yet, but my intuitive side is telling me, tonight, to shut myself off from the objective world and hammer out a screenplay, John Henry style. If you don't know who John Henry is then you'll have to look up "folklore". He was one tough s.o.b. and he got it DONE.
Progress reports at a later time. Wine, Cigarettes and Coffee. Oh, and cheese.
So I'm off work now. It's sublime. Having recently finished dinner, I now stand on the verge of finding the willpower to finish the monumental feat of cleaning that I started yesterday. Cleaning is underrated; most people enjoy sloth. Me: I'm a neat-fucking-freak when it comes to the aesthetics of my humble apartment. That's a good thing, right? Right?
After the cleanliness portion of the night has passed, I intend to embark on a journey of rewriting a screenplay that I one day intend to direct. Where do I ever get the inspiration, you must wonder. I'll tell you; Paul Thomas Anderson.
If you haven't seen a P.T.A. movie then you're doing yourself a grand disservice. Immediately stop reading and head to your nearest Blockbuster. Upon arriving, go straight to the counter and ask for the Manager. When he comes to, promptly challenge him to tell you if that branch has Magnolia on the shelf. When he tells you, albeit sadly, that he does not; tell him how dissatisfied you are with their selection.
There, this blogging thing isn't as hard as everyone imagines it to be. I suppose people have problems with their feelings and whatnot; feeling the need to lament, to the world, their simple lives and impoverished emotions.