DC, We Have a Problem…
So… this has happened to me twice now: My film, Purple Heart’s Final Beat, has been exhibited a half dozen times in various film festivals, and yet even though countless people must watch this thing before it gets thrown on up the screen for the public, the version shown is messed up. And I’m not talking about something simple, like a few seconds of film are missing or maybe some digital pixelation. I’m talking about shit that is painfully obvious, even to people who have never seen the film before. Yes, it’s THAT bad. How bad? Well, to give you an example, let’s take my screening at the Artisphere Theater in Rosslyn, Virginia just last night for DC Shorts:
This is what a screen capture from my film is supposed to look like.
And this is how it looked in the theater. (This is not an exaggeration.)
Now… wouldn’t you think that, if the projector being used wasn’t meant for such a theater, they would have tested it out before screening their half of the 145 shorts in the festival? And that, if the projector proved itself to be so painfully inadequate for the job to the point where every film showcased was seen at less than half of their original picture contrast, they might have considered getting a different one?
Even better, why wasn’t the audience made aware? Why did this point have to be brought up by someone from the audience during the damn Q and A?! And then to have the answer to the question about the films’ darkness be: “Yeah, we noticed that, but we couldn’t do anything about it…” Uh… yes, you could. All you’d had to do was get on the horn to a local theater and request a new projector bulb sufficient for the task be donated to the festival. Pop, pop, unscrew, unscrew, twist, twist, clamp, clamp. Done.
This type of unprofessionalism from a film festival that prides itself on being one of the fastest growing and most popular film festivals in the nation is staggering to me. Not only did the piss-poor exhibition of these films deprive the audience of the full experience, but it provided a gigantic distraction and most of all, it’s a spit in the face of the filmmakers who traveled from around the world — literally; one director flew up here from Brazil — to see their work (possibly for the first time) on the big screen. I sat with my head in my hands, my eyes covered half the time, shaking my head in disbelief. I felt anger that my film was being showcased improperly for the second time; I also felt empathy for the other directors, especially the ones whose films were never shown before theatrically.
Bottom line: There was no reason for this. Unless laziness counts. I believe that film is the world’s greatest art form. I traveled here to celebrate that art form with people who are supposed to hold it in the same high regard I do. Although apparently that high regard stops at having to do a little extra leg work to get a brighter light bulb.
The Next Week… and Beyond
Lightcraft Entertainment is shutting down production so my overworked and overtired ass can take a long overdue vacation. But of course, even as I’m away, I’m promoting the business. This coming Thursday is the DC Shorts Film Festival. Purple Heart’s Final Beat will be screened on opening night in a prime spot, so it’s looking to be an exciting weekend. I’ll be live-tweeting from the event and any parties I happen to attend. I’ll be posting pictures and keeping everyone abreast of any awards we happen to be in contention for. Networking will be the name of the game.
I’ll be returning next week to an overload of work, including the redux of my first Haywire Effect episode, which will be shot, cut and exhibited within two weeks of my return. Four weddings are awaiting completion as well, so needless to say, I’ll be a hermit. Just don’t forget about me – I’ll need to come up for air and sunlight once in a while.
Haywire Effect News
It’s nearly been a year since my last episode of The Haywire Effect and no one is more impatient about it than me. This year has been the busiest of my career and has really hindered any ability I’ve had to do much other than turn out wedding edits. At this rate, I’ll actually have to hire another editor to take the heat off me so I can have the time to devote. But in any case, I’m here to tell you that the wait is nearly over.
The redux of my first episode on John Carpenter’s Halloween has been written and will be screened in the Mitten Movie Project as planned. Also written and just waiting to be shot is the review of Star Trek V. So just letting you know, it is on the way. With a little luck, the new format will turn out even better. More news as it comes in.
Trailer Trash: “Ghost Rider 2”
The full title is actually Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, but I thought that would just take up too much room.
Now, I know a lot of people are probably expecting me to rip on this trailer but in all honesty, I’m all for this movie. The first one, like so many comic movies, was a misfire and Nicolas Cage seemed to be in the prime kind of form most people hate him for. But Nic Cage has nothing to do with my desire to see this movie. It has everything to do with the two guys at the helm: Neveldine/Taylor. These two schizoids made the Crank series, two of the most hellacious, irreverent action films of the last decade, and I love them for it.
I’m not a Cage-hater: I think he’s an incredible actor of unyielding passion and fire… in the right role, that is. Adaptation, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans, Leaving Las Vegas and Face/Off are all good examples of the Nic Cage everyone loves. But all you have to do in order to understand the stigma that comes associated with the words “starring Nicolas Cage” is just watch this next video (NSFW language)…
Story Time: “Inaudible”
This is a short story I wrote in my creative writing workshop back in my sophomore year of college. I haven’t written much prose since then, but re-reading some old fiction of mine always makes me nostalgic for getting back into it.
Blake O. Kleiner’s
INAUDIBLE
Living overtop his brother Conner’s nightclub, Milo Lloyd didn’t sleep. But he was already used to the insomnia from the drugs he was taking as a human guinea pig for a pharmaceutical company practicing experimental medicine on the edge of the law. They employed semi-suicidal people in their quest to bypass FDA regulations, and avoid pissing off the PETA people.
Already accustomed to the hallucinations and body sweats from his private pharmacopoeia, Milo had begun indulging in risky hobbies of self-amusement during the post-witching hours while the entire apartment pulsated with the bass from the monolithic stereo speakers below. Erroneous ads for imaginary businesses and not-quite-support groups like Tylenolics Anonymous all had Milo’s phone number inscribed at the bottom above invisible fine print. Clueless people called about their Tylenol addictions round the clock.
An incessant bell signified the first call of the night. Conner called out for his brother as he rifled through disorganized stacks of papers. The dining room table had pulled double-duty as a desk since he opened the nightclub on the first floor: The Jolly Angler. It was a septic tank for the bullshit of binge drinkers.
Responding to his brother’s shout, Milo meandered out of his bedroom, a sombrero encircling his head, one of Conner’s weatherworn Doc Martens shoes protruding from his teeth. He had been nibbling on it, tonguing its crevices, trying to place the familiar taste to a hazy memory. What was normal for Milo wouldn’t have been questioned by a dog. Conner, on the other hand, threw his arms up incredulously at the sight of his brother in a pair of boxer shorts with a gapped open crotch hole. “What the hell are you doing? Don’t eat the shoes!” A normal speaking voice was a luxury in this apartment.
Milo spat out the brown leather shoe onto the dining room table. It landed inaudibly on a stack of signed Sexual Harassment Consent forms Conner was rustling through to find a blank one for his newest hire. The forms scattered to the floor, beneath and around the table.
Milo put on a dubious smile.
“Just get the damn phone!” shouted Conner, unsuccessfully attempting to move the table. Everything in the apartment was glued, nailed, or taped down to avoid unauthorized movement during songs with a lot of bass. A cup of pens on the desk in the far corner danced to the beat of a Queen song.
Milo sashayed over to the phone and swooped the receiver up with his index finger. “Hello,” he said, stomping his shoed foot on the floor in time with We Will Rock You.
“Hi, I’d like to order a pizza by credit card,” a feminine voice said.
The line was scratchy with a suspicious clicking and garbled static, but it might as well have been Beethoven for the effect that it had on the pharmaceutically euphoric Milo. He picked up a pen, still pounding on the floor. He wrote down the woman’s credit card number on his hand and asked for her address.
That’s when the line went dead.
He shrugged and tossed the phone into the air. The receiver landed on its cradle with impossible efficiency.
Conner shook his head from underneath the dining room table, his butt poking out one side as he scrounged around on his hands and knees. He reassembled the mess of papers, and stood up, folding an unsigned form beneath his armpit before tucking in his shirt.
Milo was tap-dancing on the coffee table now, clapping his hands on his bare chest, jumping into the air, and kicking his feet out into the center splits. That’s when he crashed through the table and reduced it to kindling.
The room and music came to a dead halt.
Conner stood at the door, ready to leave the apartment for his managerial duties downstairs. He looked at his baby brother as he would a crinkled photograph of a dead relative, nibbling his cheek to hold back the tears.
“Where are you gonna end up, Milo?” Conner breathed, exacerbated. Milo could not hear him, so he inserted the words into Milo’s mouth for him: “Probably detox. If I’m lucky.”
Conner sighed with resignation and closed the door behind him as the volume of police sirens outside elevated above the ambiance. Milo laid in the rubble, watching the fun shadows cast on the ceiling by the red and blue light show in the street.
L I G H T C R A F T I M A G E S