epic fail

22 Octbore 2008
Mercredi

There’s been a lot of debate within my friends and I if I’m getting my moneys worth in school here in France. It’s debatable and completely relative to what I make of my situation. I like all my teachers/professors, I enjoy the friends I’ve made, and I love Paris. By all accounts that should be enough. I can’t say I’ve learned everything already; sure I have 5 years of film history and theory. I believe it’s my third week in school and things are still basically all review, from my French lessons to film theory, history, and even production. But I cannot dismiss that even in these review sessions, I still manage to learn new things and fill film holes in my mind that were either left blank or forgotten from general stupidity.

The other day in school we saw the “best films of EICAR” which left me utterly devastated and melancholy. As unrealistic as this hope was, I walked into the theater holding on to my underoos and desperately wishing, pleading, and wishing that my underwear would be blown away so I could really focus and up my game here. Quite the opposite. There was solace, however, in the fact that it was a unanimous decision amongst peers and staff alike that these films were as ridiculous as my expectations.

After our Hollywood pitches in Directing class, where we constantly push the “Learn the rules before you can break them” creed, my perpetual struggle to mix art house, kitsch and commercialism easily disenchanted my classmates. I can’t make a living doing what I love and have to learn otherwise. I have to figure out how to cross breed what I want to say with cold heartless industry of TV and film. My dog is a Terrier and a German Shepard, and I imagine it couldn’t have gotten that way without a helpful push from a devious human owner. If that human could push this improbable spawn, hopefully I can be able to breed a monstrous hybrid bastard child between moneys and art. Mart.

I see EICAR and Paris as an important step towards realizing this sexy combination. Yes I have the pretentious education of film theorists and history. Yes I have the sickening education of Hollywood formulas, audience manipulation and target demographics. I’ve practiced the three act structure, I know I can do it. I’m positive I can do it. It’s just that when I do it, I stop and examine what I’ve done and realize I’m not being true to myself. I don’t necessarily think that all my films should say something from the inner depths of my soul because I’m an artist. Horse-merde. I just really need to figure out how to not treat the audience like they’re idiots, encourage thought, allow something from myself to show within the film, and still entertain an audience.

I don’t want to proclaim that the Hollywood industry is a thoughtless, soulless beast and that commercialism is the devil. I don’t want to be another progressive liberal completely against THE MAN. I’ve grown up with THE MAN and it’s done good things to my life and those around me. I really believe there’s a way to strike a deal with THE MAN without losing my soul, and I intend to find it.

Thoughtful films are only eaten by the already thoughtful, and that really needs to change.

23 Octobre 2008
Jeudi

I’ve been eating this creamy sauce concoction Danielle and I cooked on Monday for maybe 4 days now. I recall someone telling me milky foods go bad after like 3 days, or maybe I imagined it. I really don’t remember, and I probably should. I’m still alive thus far and I’m saving some money and my precious, precious top ramen. The only drawback is I get gas which isn’t really a drawback when I live in my own little hole anyway.

While coming home with friends the métro doors were just about to close. A man struggled to keep the doors open for us. It was by far the nicest thing anyone has ever done here in France. He was all smiles, as we were too, and according to that little boy from the 6th sense and Kevin Spacey, I feel obligated to pay it forward. I must pass along niceness to three other people, and if they do that to three more, we’ve got one giant pyramid of kindness. And not the kind of pyramid that pyramid schemes are founded on, but more like the good kind.

I think my first act of kindness will be to recycle all my water bottles which have been piling up near my radiator. My second act of kindness will be giving a stranger a cigarette since that seems to happen twice a day, everyday (which is starting to wear out my wallet and my cigarette supply), which I believe amounts to more acts of kindness than just one. And lastly, my third act of kindness will no doubt be to stop using the word “fabulous,” which if I do ever say that – and mean it – is a crime against nature. It’s one thing when an older straight man says it that probably fought in WW2. But coming from a tiny 23 year old who will pull the gay card if there is a war draft, it’s just not right.

I’m going to attempt to write the script and begin writing the storyboards of my first short film here at EICAR. Despite a mixed class reaction, I’m really excited. I’m trying to figure out a way to use the input I received in class (which was basically make it a real story where something actually happens), but the real butt buster is to still try and keep it subtle. Avoiding clichés may already be out of the question…the whole concept and execution seems, to me, like it’s already been done.

But what I absolutely love about it is the fact that it’s based on a true story, as most of my films are, which may be a way of saying I’m arrogant. Throughout the day I remember snippets of things I’ve read and lectures I’ve heard. I remember a particular series of lectures on Hitchcock films at UCI where we discussed how one would film absence. How fucking bizarre and cool is that. “Why it’s easy,” you say. “Just film NOTHING.” I’m sure that’s exactly what Hitchcock did. WWHD?

And then during my screenwriting class, the teacher told me she liked an idea I “pitched” for a short film with dialogue which will be a later film. It’s actually a script I’ve already written and planned to shoot this summer. I’m not too comfortable with it because it’s by far reaching way farther than I’ve reached in terms of storytelling and directing. I’m used to telling stories where nothing happens. If you were to graph the rising action in any of my films, it would look like the economy is crashing, not like a healthy rising line. That’s just how I roll. I’m not exactly the most exciting person. This would be the first time I attempted a genre other than “subtle think piece with kitsch-ey ideas to make a serious subject a little silly.” This movie would actually require me to really, truly direct actors. And since the two actors I trust in completely and were cast to play these roles are in America, and since I would have to cast French actors where communication may be a problem, I’m fucked. There goes my domestic bio-terror zombie film.

I was intending on shooting something based on a short story I wrote about two brothers walking home where nothing happens (again). But really? How the fuck can I direct a child, let alone a French child? I can barely order coffee without making an ass out of myself. And don’t get me started on the gender of objects. I have enough problems deciding which hole to put it in; playing the gender card on everything else will just make me sexually inept forever.

24 Octobre 2008
Vendredi

I received another care package full of oatmeal, tuna and salmon. The contents inside look like I’m a hurricane victim receiving canned foods from the Red Cross or some other charitable nation. Or it can be mistaken for a food package to an impoverished nation. But really now, am I that much different? Sure my closet is filled with Ben Sherman and Urban Outfitters’ generic brands, I have an iPod and a Macbook Pro, but when it comes down to it, I think I’m about equal to a starving Filipino child. We’re probably roughly the same weight, only I have larger bags under my eyes.

After many discussions about EICAR thus far with other students, I came home and watched the last half of my documentary. It’s weird how quickly I forget these amazing and important messages that I learn and try to convey – it’s not about the environment, it’s about the person and the people you meet. It’s just so difficult to start over…for 5 years in America I built great relationships with talented people, from directors to actors, cinematographers to designers and musicians. I’m starting all over in a new country with people from many countries, but this time instead of just using our free time to pursue our passion, we’re all here in Paris to pursue it. It’s cah-razy.

I think about 95% of the people in the international section of my department know how to speak at least two languages. What the shit. I’m so American. I’ve basically lost all the Japanese I knew (which wasn’t much at all), I can only understand Tagolog and not speak it, my French is sub-par, I don’t remember a thing about Spanish, and I have poor English grammar. I’m linguistically fucked. Is linguistically even a word? Dammit.

I ran out of medication for my skin allergies for about a week and a half, and consequently, thanks to stress in Paris, my right arm got quite itchy. It’s definitely gotten better and I received some more medication today, but currently I have a scab right in the middle of where my arm bends. And conveniently, there’s a small mark in the middle. It looks like I shoot heroin. I’m not sure what’s worse: looking like a heroin addict because of eczema, or being a heroin addict.

25 Octobre 2008
Samedi

Do you have identification on you? No. Then you can’t withdraw money despite having all the bank papers you got when you created a bank account. But I’ve been waiting for 2 weeks for you to send me a bank card or checks so I can access money in the first place. Sorry, you can go get your passport but you have to hurry because we close in 30 minutes.

Even when I’m utterly helpless and poor, I still didn’t run. Not in cowboy boots, no. So I walked as fast as I could, crossing streets and almost getting hit by smart cars, bikes and weaving around countless old people. Got home, changed into real shoes, took off my fake leather jacket, grabbed my passport, and hauled ass to the République so I could have money to live. I noticed a lot of people staring at this tiny Asian boy powerwalking down Boulevard Voltaire. I tried to imagine what they were thinking. Where is he going? Does he know how silly he looks? I love how his outfit consists of thrift store pants, a vest his Dad had from the Philippines, Lacoste, Hugo Boss, and 300 dollar Italian shoes. It’s like a bum mugged a label queen.

Earlier in the day I was finally exploring some shops near my house I never bothered to look at. I found a music store! A full size keyboard is only the cheap cheap price of 289 euros. The cheapest guitars were 59 euros which I’m considering buying, despite the fact that I’m still not that good at the ukulele. Unfortunately, there was no cheap violin, so my neighbors can rest in peace. I was really hoping I would get neighbor complaints like “He’s killing a retarded cat slowly with a big wooden spoon” with my amazing violin skills.

I went to the Marais district tonight to read and write some of my script, which probably wasn’t a good idea. I just wanted to be around a lot of people to people watch and write, but it being Saturday night and it being La Marais, I didn’t get much work done. It was fun to see really shitty costumes a week before Halloween, but then I realized they were just tired faggots, and they always dress like that.

A friend of a friend told me that I “need to get a French boyfriend who doesn’t speak much English so you can perfect your French”. See, there’s way too much work in that suggestion. The words “need to get” imply effort, and “doesn’t speak much English” suggests mentally straining conversations. I’m already exhausted midday thinking about paying bills, buying food, and worrying about the financial burden I am on my family. Can’t I just wake up rich, fluent in French, sleeping next to giant sacks full of money and a French boyfriend that has a fantastic movie collection?

I made a short film about trying to meet someone at a café, about putting books out for people to see, about acting mysterious and intellectual. All I saw tonight were trashy gays sucking each others’ faces off and stumble around scaring tourists. I imagine all the great people here are casually sipping wine in studios on a Saturday, discussing the world economic crisis, great films and novels, the American election, and making fun of literary and film theorists like Derrida and Mulvey. They’re sporting top hats and monocles while obscure indie bands play from a beat up record player. They’re scoring 200 points at Scrabble. “Ah ha,” one of them says. “57 points for mononucleosis. I shan’t say you all rue this day.” “Oh my heavens,” someone replies. “You are as pedantic as you are imperious.”

God I miss doing that, god I miss making fun of how pretentious we were, and god I miss my friends and family.