2011: Our Odyssey - The Video

A few days ago I wrote an article called 2011: Our Odyssey, and then last night, as 2010 drew to a close, I thought it'd be a great idea to have it as a video, with someone saying it. After all, I'm a writer/director, my words are okay on the page, but they're better when someone with real talent can bring them to life.

So I emailed the wonderful Tracy Clifton and asked her to perform it to camera, which of course she agreed to do because she's the kind of actor who gets things done. So, here is '2011: Our Odyssey' the video version, and I hope you're as inspired by Tracy as I am.


Happy New Year!

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2011: Our Odyssey

2011 is the year. It's the year we reach for the stars and storm forth into each day, dedicated to making everything happen. Yes, we say this every year, and yes, we lose steam after two weeks. But not this time. We have this thing now, we have this community; we are filmmakers, and writers, and bloggers, and actors and camera operators and a million other things and we are getting good at supporting each other with our creative pursuits. Now is the year that we turn it on full-time. We're gonna keep working and trying and creating till 3am and we'll stand in freezing fields at six in the morning figuring out how to get the boom mic to work when all the batteries are dead. This is the year for it. 

Sometimes we're gonna lose confidence and sometimes we're going to feel worthless and sometimes we're going to feel convinced that we're talentless. But things are different now. We've found people online and slowly but surely we find people in our communities who get it. They like talent and they like coloring things in and they like cameras and they like how words magically gel together and they like YOU and they like ME. We need to stand up for each other and stand up for our art and stand up for all the things we've achieved, are achieving, and will be achieving. We need to be confident and we need to be aware that when failures happen, they teach us more than our successes will and they make us come back stronger the next time. But from now on, next time is right now. And it's right now every time. It's not next year and it's not in five year's time. 

Now is the time to write those movies. Now is the time to get cast in a dream role. Now is the time to get your favorite movie star to be in your movie. Now is the time to take that class, to read that book, to email that producer who scares you a little, to blog like crazy about all your favorite movies. Now is the time. It's now. And we're all here for you and we need you to be there for us. Because we want to make movies that express who we are and what we're feeling. We want to do what we love, and meet people we love, and feel the love of audiences and friends and people who GET IT. GET US. You are those people, we are those people. We are here because we know a movie isn't just a movie. That feeling you get when Andy Dufresne crawls through a sewer of shit isn't just a movie. That feeling that rises in your heart when getting the train to a meeting while the theme to Forrest Gump plays in your headphones isn't just a movie. That feeling you get when a cinema audience laughs at your one-liner isn't just a movie. It's more than that. What we do, how we feel, and how we make others feel and how they make us feel -- that's the stuff that makes life worth living. That's what gets us up in the morning. And this year; we're focusing on that. 

Are you signing the pledge? You don't need to sign with a pen or hand me any money.. you just need to keep showing up, and keep supporting people, and keep sneaking food into cinemas, and keep loving what you love and keep standing up for it. Are you with me?

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Reflecting On John "LEO MCGARRY" Spencer

"Johnny,  it seems we hardly knew you. We love you, and we miss you."

-Martin Sheen.

We were fortunate to get some poignant, adventitious glimpses of Leo McGarry -- some of John Spencer's finest work -- in episodes that were originally screened after the unexpected death of the actor who played him, John Spencer. As if by pure luck, John's performances in his final episodes are some of the finest in the history of THE WEST WING. But looking at his acting career, you realize: it has nothing to do with luck. John Spencer was always getting better, as an actor. Leo McGarry was his masterpiece.

This week I have had the privilege of talking to Eli Attie, who was a Supervising Producer and Writer on The West Wing. Here's what he had to say about John.

"The West Wing had an extraordinary company of actors. Not typical TV actors, the people who move to LA as teenagers to primp and pose and become stars, but deeply serious actors, who had honed their craft in NY theater and were unbelievably dedicated to the process, to the work itself. John had spent decades in that world, and even among our great, great cast, he had a weight of experience, a way of owning his place in a scene, that was in many ways equivalent to the authority Leo had as White House chief of staff. His role was unquestioned. There was an accumulated strength and wisdom to John's acting. Some actors find their way to a performance; John knew precisely what he was doing from the first take, always. Like Leo, there was no room for stumbling around. And no need."

At the beginning of Episode 10, in Season 7 - the episode begins with Martin Sheen addressing the audience, and sharing the news that we would be witnessing the final few months of John Spencer's work. The episode that proceeded this statement was one of Spencer's finest. The Santos For President campaign was running out of patience with Leo McGarry-- who was stumbling over simple questions whilst rehearsing for the Vice-Presidential candidate debate, with the staff worrying over his health and ability to fulfill the role. 

It's a heartbreaking episode because we see the powerhouse of Leo McGarry, for the first time in seven seasons; looking extremely vulnerable. He looks this way until the final moments when his performance in the debate outshines all expectations; and we (and his staff) realize he's been manipulating the media the whole time. This episode is a shining example of the brilliant complexity that Spencer brought to his work.

"I went to the small wake that his family held in New Jersey right after he died. Just a few of us made it; the weather was awful. It was my first Catholic wake, and as the tradition dictates, there was a big corkboard covered with family photos of John throughout his life. In his West Wing days, his face was like a novel--so much complexity and depth of expression. Simple reaction shots of John, while the other characters were talking, could tell as much story as the words.  And looking at that board, I remember thinking: he had that same amazing character actor's face when he was six, he was just waiting to grow into it. Which might be why his career really came alive later in his life."

John's final two episodes on The West Wing were a fitting tribute to the man - which is especially moving considering this was never their intention. Episode 12 of Season Seven was written by Eli, and featured a remarkable scene between Leo and President Bartlet (played by Martin Sheen). Of course, Eli Attie wasn't to know that this would be their final scene together; but we can only thank the Gods that these two wonderful men got to share the screen one final time. There was something powerful about seeing these two masters (fictionally, as characters, and in reality, as actors) on screen together. They compelled me and held my attention in a way so few can. I wrote about this in my previous article about the show, "They brought a gravitas; a weight, that you rarely see in television, or in life. We need them. They represent the type of leadership and eldership we all need, within our selves and from those around us."

I asked Eli, "On screen; Leo had a real gravitas; he was an elder to those around him. Could the same be said of John Spencer?"

"I think on an acting level that was true, absolutely. Just in terms of age and experience, both Martin and John had that kind of gravitas, a very well-earned respect from the whole cast and production. But personally, I think of John as someone who was always laughing and joking, would always greet you with a hug--a more openly emotional person than Leo. Leo quite literally had the weight of the world on those shoulders. John could afford to be looser, more casual, more of a thoroughly creative spirit. John was an artist, after all, which I don't think Leo could ever have been, or would have fully understood."

The final episode that John appears in, is the first episode where Donna and Josh kiss. The Santos team are celebrating gains in the polls; and they are all in high spirits. We see a brief shot of Leo, in the mix -- and it steals your attention. There he is, full of life -- not only do we see Leo McGarry unusually happy, but we see a glimpse of the John Spencer that the West Wing crew knew, the artist and creative spirit that Eli just described. It's touching. It's only a couple of seconds -- but it's a more moving few seconds than most TV shows manage in their entire runs.

The episodes that followed dealt with the death of the character, Leo McGarry, which was made more real and emotional by the fact that we were mourning the death of John Spencer, too. For us, as viewers, it was deeply sad. For the cast and crew of The West Wing, they had lost a close friend. In some strangely poignant and beautiful way, it made for some of the greatest television ever made. But it also meant an end for the show.

"One of the reasons there couldn't have been an eighth season of the show, in my view, was John's absence.  When I think of that final run of episodes, dealing with Leo's death, and of course John's as well, I think of Brando in the final scene of The Godfather Part II. he's not actually there, but you feel his power, you feel the life-force that he was, and everyone is still reacting to him. John's death left a gaping hole in the middle of the show, a cavernous vacuum, and the rest of Season Seven was largely a reaction to that--a memorial to him and to the creative world he helped to shape and lead. So his death of course changed everything. I have a hard time separating the personal aspects--gathering to share memories at his home right after his passing, the wake and the funeral and the memorials--from the writing and filming of those final shows. We grieved through the work."

With thanks to Eli Attie. 

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Divisions In The Film Community

Film lovers have a tendency to be very devisive. Terms like 'film buff,' or 'film geek' - what do they mean? What positive things do we attribute to those terms and what negative ones?

Pretentiousness is everywhere - you can hardly get into a conversation about movies without one person oppressing the other with righteousness and condescension. Does someone who loves Truffaut love films more than someone who loves 'Big Mommas House 2' or do they just love Truffaut more? Why does it matter?

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A SHORT STORY - "Learning From Experience" - By The Kid In The Front Row

LEARNING FROM EXPERIENCE

A Short Story

By The Kid In The Front Row

Tom Hooper arrived at Leonard & Stone Publishing four minutes before his appointment. Any later wouldn’t qualify as early, and any earlier would mean sitting awkwardly in the waiting room at one of the biggest publishing houses in the country. Although Tom was an expert at sitting awkwardly, he did his best to avoid it. This time, he was comforted by the fact that four minutes from now Richard Leonard would be giving the go ahead to publish Hooper’s masterpiece.

Fifty six minutes later, Tom was invited into Leonard’s office, which was almost as big as Grand Central Station. ‘I like your writing,’ said Leonard, with about as much enthusiasm as someone with very little enthusiasm, ‘but the violent mugging scene isn’t believable, and the rest of the book depends on it.’ Tom knew he was right. His only experience of a mugging was when his sister’s best friend, Paula, stole his Hanson CD twelve years ago and only gave it back after a steep ransom.

‘It needs energy, it needs realism. It needs pain. This is a moment that changes his life,’ said Leonard.

‘That’s why I used the words torment and agony,’ offered Tom.

‘I don’t buy it. You need to fix it.’

‘I agree.’

‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Seeing friends.’

‘You don’t have any friends.’

‘I’ll start tonight.’

‘You’ll finish tonight. I’m showing it to Stone tomorrow afternoon.’

Tom knew instantly that this was impossible, which is precisely why he agreed to do it and promised to have a new draft with him by the morning. Richard Leonard was famous for pulling shit like this, and Tom was famous for nothing, which is why he decided to do as he was told.

He sat in front of his typewriter for two hours without doing a thing. Probably because the typewriter was broken and had been for eight years. Tom liked sitting in front of it because it made him feel like a writer whereas his laptop made him feel like an underachiever, as did most things. How the hell was he going to write a realistic mugging?

Braggard lurched awkwardly against the wall, as the mugger swiped the documents from under Braggard’s nose. The mugger turned back towards him and smashed him in the face with a hefty punch, which was painful.

A book published by Leonard & Stone was the key to all his dreams, but it could disappear in a matter of hours. Maybe the mugger could be carrying a gun and shoot Braggard, he thought. Tom went with this idea for a while, before realizing it would compromise the next chapter, where Braggard wins an Olympic gold medal. It’s time to give up, he figured; everything I write is pathetic. Maybe the kids who live on the Fretton Estate should write the story, they’re great at robbing people of their belongings.

Tom was suddenly inspired. He closed his laptop and immediately reached for his coat. Four minutes later he was entering Fretton Estate and flashing his expensive wristwatch which was a gift from his ex-girlfriend, Sally Wiseberg. He turned and headed immediately down Fretton Lane, better known as Death Lane to the locals. He looked around, determined to be robbed at knifepoint. This was the key to getting his creative juices flowing. He looked around – nobody was there. A good sign, he figured, something is definitely going to go down.

He heard footsteps behind him. YES! This is it. A young guy who can’t have been older than fifteen stopped him in his tracks and said, ‘do you realize you’re walking down Death Lane at eleven at night?’

‘Yes. I fancied a walk,’ said Tom.

‘Give me your money.’

Tom thought about it. To just hand over the money would be the end of the ordeal, which wouldn’t exactly bring out his inner-Shakespeare. ‘I need the money to buy my girlfriend a present,’ said Tom.

‘Shut the fuck up and give me your money.’

Tom was only fractionally frightened, but it was an improvement. Things were bound to get worse when a giant-of-a-man stepped out suddenly from behind a van.

The man looked at the little teenager and then looked at Tom. He was holding a knife. ‘Allow him,’ said the giant-of-a-man, ‘He didn’t mean to come down here and he needs the money for his girlfriend,’

‘Wow, that’s very kind of you,’ said Tom.

‘If we ever see you down here again, this knife here is going right through your fucking body.’

Tom was petrified, which in turn made him absolutely delighted, which confused the two men as Tom had a beaming smile on his face.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ asked the not so friendly giant, which snapped Tom back into reality.

‘I did. Thank you.’

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ said the little one. And Tom was gone.

Braggard came to the sudden realization that his life was at risk. Two masked gunmen held their weapons to his face. His head began to sweat, his hands began to shake, and it dawned on him that he may never see his children again.

Braggard took his wallet out of his pocket and handed it to the men, and then made his way to Olympic archery training.

It was an improvement. But the second paragraph was pathetic. Tom glanced at his bookshelf, wondering if there was anything he could steal. Nothing came to mind. The writing was still not good enough and there was no way Richard Leonard would publish something with such a weak middle section. Tom stared out of the window, bitterly disappointed with his limitations as a writer. He could only nail it perfectly when it was something he had been through – which is why his short stories had been published seventeen times on guyswhocantgetgirls.com. He sat down with a small coffee and came to the sad but true realization: he would not be able to write something he did not have any experience of.

Tom stepped out into the night again and strode valiantly into Death Lane. He had a confident posture and a gleam in his eyes that said I am going to write the best book you’ve ever seen! He gasped for air desperately as a blade suddenly ripped through his clothes and plummeted into his back. His life hurtled through his mind as he found himself spinning and falling and suffocating. His head smacked down on the ground as the giant-man and little teenager sprinted off into the distance.

Some time later, his eyes gradually opened – he made out the blurry figure of a streetlight. A pain ripped through his entire body. He could barely move, but barely was enough to move his left leg and push himself up onto the curb. For the first time in his life, he was conscious of his breathing, probably because it wasn’t happening. He desperately swerved his breath around the painful parts of his body; it was like a magical dance that allowed breath by only using four percent of his lungs. A crazy thought popped into his head: I can make my way home. I can use this in my novel.

He gulped down a glass of water the second he got home. An insight, true or not, had come to his awareness; I am not going to die. He knew that if a writer is not dead, then they must continue their work. He sat down by his laptop and took a large, and painful breath.

The masked gunman stepped towards Braggard, who turned around, startled. The gunman smacked him in the chest with the corner of his gun. Braggard thumped down on the floor and felt a jolt of death ripple painfully through his body. He thought of Mandy, his High School sweetheart, with her golden blonde hair and mild disdain for his personality. The gunman continued to beat him, leaving Braggard for dead, but still with an outside chance of making the Olympics.

Tom was delighted with the paragraph. It had pain, it had truth, it even had emotion and a glint of the character’s romantic past. Tom smiled to himself, and continued writing.

The gunman then reached into Braggard’s pocket and took his phone, wallet, and documents. This was bad news for Braggard, who needed the documents for the Olympic committee.

Tom sat there despondently. Partly because of the awful writing, and partly because the right side of his body was numb and the left side of his body was leaking blood quicker than Usain Bolt can run the hundred metres. Tom had two options. One was to phone an ambulance and save his life, the other was to keep typing away at the keyboard in the hopes of finishing what could end up being his one-book-legacy, given how quickly his body was giving up on him. Should he call for an ambulance? Or should he remain in the warmth of his own home and finish his work?

He stood at the end of Death Lane – staring down the street. He’d always been a believer in positive thinking and visualization. He felt a sense of calmness, ease, and joy due to his inner belief that the giant man and teen would definitely steal his belongings this time. That was all he needed to finish his story.

They couldn’t believe their eyes. ‘Is that really him, back for more?’ asked the unusually large one.

‘Let’s finish him off,’ said the nervous teen.

‘You’re so violent.’

‘He might call the police,’

‘Let’s talk to him,’ said the giant.

Tom stumbled forward, gripping on to a nearby lamppost – it was the only thing that was going to keep him standing.

“Why are you back?” asked the giant-man.

“Am I meant to be afraid of you?” said Tom,

“You’re not looking very good. You should go home.”

“I think you’re scared of me.”

“Scared of you? We nearly killed you.”

“For no reason. You didn’t take my wallet or anything.”

The giant brutally hit Tom in the skull faster than a wine cork flying into the kitchen ceiling. Tom was out cold.

He came around, eventually. He was surprised to be alive, but more than anything; he was concerned that he didn’t have enough material for his novel. He reached with his right arm to feel for his wallet. Actually, his arm didn’t move, it was broken. Instead he began screaming, due to the dull pang of horror that shuddered through the underside of his arm. The pain was too much to bear – but he fought on, and managed to figure out where his left arm was and how to use it. The wallet was gone. The watch was gone.

As the documents were ripped from Braggard’s hands – the sensation of scorching pain screamed through his body and soul. The last thing he expected to feel at this moment was loneliness, but that’s what he felt. Laying there in the middle of the dark alleyway, he felt the same loneliness as when Mandy left for University, and the same loneliness as when his Father disowned him all those years ago. When someone takes your possessions in the dark of night --- you are one thing, alone. But you are comforted by the fact that it’s something you know extremely well.

Richard Leonard stepped out into the foyer and looked at the pretty receptionist. “Have you seen Hooper?” he asked. She pointed to the sofa, where a man, somewhat similar to Tom Hooper, was sitting there in a daze; looking like he’d just escaped a large explosion.

“Everything okay, Tom?” asked Leonard.

“I’ve written the pages.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’ve done the fucking pages,” whispered Tom.

They were in his office. Tom didn’t even remember walking in there. Maybe he’d blanked out for a bit. “I have good news Tom,” said Leonard, “we’re going to publish this baby. We love it.”

“We really do,” said a woman who appeared from nowhere and looked exactly like Catherine Zeta-Jones, “it’s a masterpiece.”

Somehow, from somewhere, Tom managed a smile. He’d made it. This was his moment.

“One thing though,” explained Leonard, “We’re going to go with the original version after-all. Thanks for trying, but the new draft is a little too realistic for our liking.”

Tom sat there in silence. There was a buzzing in his ears and the vague chance that he hadn’t heard what Richard Leonard had just said. Either way – he was now a published author.

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