Well, for those invited to the wrap party for the Nov. 2nd music video, you will get to see something.  Carlos wanted to have a party …'cause, well, Carlos always wants to have a party.  The video isn't finished.  Hell, we still haven't shot the band performance footage.  But I spent most of today putting together a rough edit.  Maybe some time this weekend (after the “rough edit premier” tomorrow night), I'll post it online.

Around five-thirty this afternoon, I called the edit done well enough for the drunken revelers who will be stuffed into Brenda's house (I expect those not invited to crash it anyway).  I needed to head over to the Bihl Haus for the 4th annual “Olvidate del Alamo,” which, irreverently, commemorates the day the Alamo was besieged back in 1836.

Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez curated the show.  There was work by about 20 different artists.  Poetry readings.  And a bit of theater, where George Cisneros, dressed as a drummer with Santa Anna's troops, proceeded some more of the general's men who escorted some anglo prisoners.  The prisoners wore stetsons, sunglasses, and orange prison jumpsuits with “illegal alien” stenciled on the back.  All in good fun … I think.

Ramon was playing the MC.  He, too, wore an officer's uniform from Santa Anna's troop.  I was able to give him a CD of photos he had asked me for months ago.

Deborah was there, mingling with her admirers.

Jon Philip Santos was there, and if he did a reading, I had arrived too late to hear him.

JoEl from Comedia A Go-Go was there.  He told me his comedy troop was planning a couple of shows at the Jump-Start in  April.

It was a great evening.  It's so refreshing to hear so much truly good poetry.  Most of the stuff should never make it to the ears of the public.

I just had enough time to leave, stop by the grocery store, and type out this short post.  I have to be in Seguin tomorrow for a 6am call-time.  Do these people never learn that I'm used to waking with the sun. or, better yet, the soft footfalls of the postman climbing my porch in the early afternoon.  So, I'm setting my alarm clock for 4:45.  And there'd better be a carafe of hot coffee awaiting me, dammit.

Carlos stopped by to drop off some stills and video he wants to incorporate into this music video we are doing for the band Nov. 2nd.  He wants to get a rough edit together for the wrap party this Saturday.  We still have to shoot the band playing.  But all the scenes of the narrative have been shot.  All four video tapes.  Well, I should point out that not every tape is a full hour.  One of them I almost lost.  It seems that tape number two had some bits of a possible video blog as well as some footage from an audition a month back.  I’m usually assiduous in labeling my tapes.  I guess I’m slipping.  And then there’s tape number three which has only 20 minutes of a series of scenes shot out by Mission San Juan.  And for some reason I can’t get my camera to play it back.  I’ll have to use some other device to capture onto my computer.  Actually, if I had that footage on the computer, I’d gladly edit the sequence where Rosalinda (as our homicide detective) roughs up a drug-addled snitch (played by Carlos) to get a lead on the serial killer (as portrayed by Christopher Dean).  But other than those scenes, everything else is on my computer … waiting.

Earlier today, I pulled out a frame and pasted it onto Rosalinda’s MySpace page.  It’s her birthday (Feb 22nd, I believe).  The image is a rather glamorous  picture for a homicide detective.  But the job can’t be all leaning on preps and sliding open morgue drawers as next-of-kin reel back in horror.  A girl’s gotta let loose every so often.

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Alston alerted me to a free weekly film series happening on the UTSA downtown campus Wednesday afternoons.  This week and next week they’re screening a six-part PBS series on environmentally responsible architecture called “Design: e2.”

“It’s in the gallery,” Alston had emailed.  “The building on Durango Street.”

Normally I would walk — the campus is maybe 20 minutes away on foot — but I was running late, and also I needed to return some books to the library.

When I got to the arts building, I tracked down the gallery.  There were no chairs set up.  Clearly this wasn’t the right gallery.  I wandered around the building, looking for Alston.  Over near the elevator, as I turning a corner, I heard a woman shout: “Hey, Erik Bosse.”  I wouldn’t expect Alston to use both my names. I turned around.  It was Lisa Cortez Walden.  She was getting off the elevator with a fellow grad student.  She invited me out for drinks.  (So that’s what grad students do?  I thought it was just a stale and false stereotype.)  She was soon jointed by another friend.  I explained that I was here to see a film.  She clearly knew her way around the campus, but she couldn’t think of where it might be playing.  We parted.  And as I wandered back toward the gallery I bumped into Alston.

“This is the wrong gallery,” she said straight up, after a quick look around.

We headed across the campus to the architecture building.

The “gallery” was a bleak shell of a room with eight panels of glass doors in the rear.  We were early and no one was yet in the room.  We peered into the darkness.  The glass doors didn’t bode well a movie-watching experience, what with the lights from the corridor shining through.  But I really couldn’t complain about the price.

However, I certainly could complain about the building we were in.  It possessed the aesthetic appeal of a russet potato.  The drab green linoleum floor had fat abbreviated salmon stripes running the longitude.  The florescent tubes overhead hummed louder then the water coolers and they flickered with an urgent desperation.  This hallway in which we waited could have better served the ground floor of the School of Euthanasic Science.

The three episodes we watched were quite well done.  They discussed buildings one would actually  enjoy entering.  Brad Pitt narrated the episodes, and although I never gave his speaking voice much thought, he never struck a wrong cord — he can manage to have a strong, neutral voice.

We avoided the tourists restaurants surround the campus, and headed to Tito’s Tacos for a leisurely dinner.

I'm still trying to find stuff in my apartment.  Yesterday we were shooting a scene from my new short film.  The front room is still fairly sparse, with much of the furniture, and all the books and bookcases crammed in the bedroom.    I wanted a minimal set.  In fact, as I came home earlier this evening, while I stood in the porch, I could hear the sound of my key turning in the lock with that distinctive echo known to all realtors: the sound of a door opened into an empty home.

We were a crew of five.  Me, Russ, Carlos, Daniel, and Chris.  Carlos had Rockie in tow, and she did help out a bit when she wasn't busying herself with her plastic dinosaurs and Barbies (and probably THAT was the movie we should have been shooting — just how did this leggy fashion-slave find herself in the Cretaceous Period, and more importantly, once she evades that ravenous Allosaur, how will she replenish her hair-care products?).

Once Chris, our actor, had arrived (who I'll refer to as Christopher, to avoid confusion), we had to come to terms with the fact that the second actor we needed was not going to make it.

We came up with a scenario that I think will work.  Tight shots of a stand-in (Chris).  All we need to sell the sequence of shots — or so I hope — will be a reaction shot on my front porch, once we get the actor.  I believe it was also Chris who suggested a clever transition shot.  It involved Christopher falling past frame onto my hardwood floor.  I offered some cushions from my sofa, but Christopher would have none of that.  And I recalled that he often did prat-falls and such on stage.  This I think is his West Texas heritage.  Lacking a good wholesome rodeo, the lad has to make do throwing himself down onto hard surfaces; thus making sure that he'll be stove up like hell by the time he's checked himself into the Old Thespian's Home, that shrubbery-encircled compound just down the road past the rendering plant.

The fourth take was the keeper.  Finally!  The poor boy had been dropping face-forward like a sack of potatoes for way too long.  If he was in pain by the final shout of “CUT” he never let it show.  I guess that's why it's called acting.  Let them never see your misery … unless they ask for it.

Daniel wanted to know if we could do a shot from my neighbor's balcony across the street.  This is the swanky house on the block.  The mini mansion from, I'm guessing, the late '20s.  Daniel thought it's make a nice establishing shot.

“If you see the owner drive up,” I told him, “give me a shout, and I'll ask.”

As we were setting up the first shot of the day, someone drew my attention to an SUV pulling to the curb across the street.  I went over to talk to Hope.  When I told her we were making a movie, she laughed.  It seems that her husband, Carlos, who has a business in the neighborhood, had spent the best part of the previous day being interviewed by Bob Phillips of Texas Country Reporter fame.  (For those unfamiliar with Bob Phillips, he has one of the great jobs.  He travels the state, doing human interest stories.  He started in Dallas at KDFW, channel 4, and called his show 4 Country Reporter.  He changed TV stations.  And it was 8 Country Reporter.  But, throughout the state, as a syndicated show, it's called Texas Country Reporter.  If there's a 90 year old woman who runs the most famous pie shop in Lavaca County, Bob Phillips will be there.  If you run a parasailing school in Fort Graham or have unearthed the world's largest trilobite fossil outside of Sanderson, given enough time, you'd be safe to assume that Bob Phillips will be knocking on your door with his small production crew.)  I explained to Hope that we'd be in and out of her house faster than Bob Phillips, but she seemed unfazed.  “Come on over whenever you're ready.”

Maybe an hour later, we took the camera and tripod up to Hope's balcony.  Daniel explained how he saw the camera work.  “Sounds good,” I said, 'cause it did.  “Do it.”  We planned to have Rockie ride her tricycle down the sidewalk, and when she's out of sight, Christopher, lurking in the bushes, breaks into the house with a crowbar (courtesy of my neighbor, Phil).  I shouted to Carlos to release Rockie, who was pressing urgently on her pedals, hot to be in a movie (though this is far from her first movie appearance).  We did three takes, and had to rush across to my place to do a close-up shot of Christopher staring in the window … before the late afternoon sun dropped a shadow onto that part of my house.  And as we were talking to Hope on her front porch, she said how we were welcomed to shoot in her place at any time.  Me and Russ exchanged sly smiles, and made some vague comment about how we'd be back … or, yeah, we'd be back.  I would love to have full run of that house for a feature.  But it's a delicate game, taking advantage of your neighbors.  You got to be gentle about it … or things could turn ugly fast.  I'm happy to say that Hope is still smiling and nodding when she looks up from her rose bushes.

Neighbors.  Such a strange concept.  I have never found myself in such a close and warm exchange with my neighbors than I have had here in San Antonio.  I know their names.  They know mine.  They come to my film screenings and they let me shoot my little film projects in and around their homes.  I go to their art shows, eat at the local restaurants they run, walk their dogs, appear at the schools where they teach in my capacity as a local filmmaker, and even help the local Boy Scout troop with their Cinematography merit badge.  It's a new world, really.  Neighbors, that is.  They're like friends, but you don't have to like them.  Just tolerate them. And, hey, I can tolerate just about anyone.

Yesterday I hung out some with Russ and AJ over enchiladas at Tito’s Tacos.

AJ gave me a huge poster he designed for the 30th anniversary of Carnaval Brasileiro, held this time of year in Austin.  I’d never even heard of the event.  Pete sent out an email drawing attention to their website, since it had several images of posters that AJ has designed over the years.

Most people I know think of AJ Garces mainly as a filmmaker.  But he pays the bills as a freelance graphic artist.  Some of his stuff can be seen at havanastreet.com.

The poster looks great.  He even signed it for me.

He groused a bit about Alamo Heights SA, the online bilingual telenovela, which I believe I heard someone refer to as a cyber-telenovela.  The short episodes I’ve seen are technically slick, filled with pretty people, and nicely shot.  But AJ is a perfectionist.  Also, he fought to keep the project in San Antonio, until most of those sorts of decisions were taken from his hands.  Mostly he remained as director.  His input during post-production wasn’t anywhere near as involved as he’d hoped.  But there’s always another project on the horizon.

Russ seems to be getting into a comfortable rhythm in his new teaching job at Harlandale High-school, AKA, the Film School of San Antonio.  He’s teaching animation.

He asked AJ how much of his art work was done on the computer.  AJ said he did the preliminary sketches and inking free hand.  Scanned the work.  And took it from there in PhotoShop.

“You use a tablet?”

“Yes, sure.  You’ve got to use one.”

But Russ was fishing.  He had received a shipment of electronic tablets for his students, and after he figures out how to hook them all up, he wants a guest artist to come in and talk about the confluence of art and of computers in the work-a-day world.

“So,” Russ asked, “can I get you to come by one day?”

“Oh, of course,” AJ said without out a second thought.

So, there you go, Russ.  A witness.  And I do believe blog comments are as binding as an affidavit.

We three then launched into what we thought was wrong with film in San Antonio.  The one thing that allowed us to be on the same page was that we desire to work on projects of an artistic depth and weight.  We each wish to be better than we are, and we try to learn from all those around us.  But even with our common sensibilities, we each have slightly different thoughts on how to bring the local film community together.  The notion of having an opportunity to get together, show work in progress or completed pieces, and exchange critique is something we could all agree on.  AJ talked of a biannual event, where the work will screen at a venue with the best projector, sound system, and acoustics.  I lean more to a monthly salon, with a casual setting, and time set aside for screening a few items for discussion.  Russ seemed to think that some of the elements of Short Ends still have validity — I think he is interested in an organization, a context, which drives the production of the work that will be screened.  These are all minor things, I think.  What most interests me is to get away from these cliquish groups and clubs, have people show up with one thing in common:  they are making — or are interested in making — visual time-based media.  Everyone is welcome.

I still want to start up my monthly salon.  But this Robin Nations film is robbing me of my weekends until … um, I dunno, April?

Actually, there is no Nations shooting this weekend.  But I’m doing other production work, which also will pay me nothing, so it all works out.

After AJ left to pick up a kid from soccer practice, or whatever it is that family men do, me and Russ spent way too much time talking about Robin’s film, Leftovers.  We were there in Tito’s until the waiters began clearing their throats and locking doors.

“I just wasn’t having fun last weekend,” Russ said solemnly.  “Kick me when you see I’m not having fun.”

I said I’d do my best.

He wants to place the video tapes from last Saturday under the wheels of his truck and roll over them.

“Go ahead,” I said.  “Last I heard you were one of the producers.”

“It’s too late.  Kevin and Robin have already captured it to their computer.”

Usually I’m opposed to re-shooting a whole day of work.  I get snarky and feel that if the people running the production fuck up, let them live with it.  But that sort of punitive mindset presupposed two things.  One, that the buck stops somewhere.  And, two, that whomsoever that metaphoric buck ultimately nuzzles up to deserves to be left in the lurch.  But the fact is, the weight of responsibility on this project is principally shared by four people, and, in a slightly less manner, shared by the entire cast and crew.  And as for the thought that Robin should sink or swim based on the whole productions’ efforts (whether they be of the half-assed or full-assed variety) serves absolutely no  purpose.

We will regroup for next weekend, no doubt.  Whether we re-shoot the kitchen scenes from last Saturday, I don’t know.  I’ve not seen the footage.  But if it needs to be done, I’m all set.  There needs to be beautiful photography that is motivated by each scene.  There needs to a serious person running the art department who will not accept, “it’ll be good enough.”  We need some whip-cracking from Bob to get us to stop dicking around and wasting time.  And, here I know I’m going to get voted down, just one boom-pole.  This is insane.  There are microphone shadows everywhere, like sidewalk slugs after a summer rain.  If we need a second microphone, stick a lavalier on someone.  Get on with it, already.

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Finally, a day with sun and vague warmth.  I was able to hang up my laundry and go for a bike ride.  I mean, really, my needs are simple.  (My tombstone will read: “And all we really wanted was to live in a one room adobe house in the Chihuahua Desert.”)

Actually, tonight I should be cleaning up this rat hole I live in.  Tomorrow I’m shooting a small scene for the next round of the Short Ends Project.  I need to move two bookcases out of the living room, because this character isn’t a big reader.  The 800 or so books can be piled on my window-seats in the bedroom (once I remove all the crap stacked there) — that’s just a lot of trips back and forth.  But the bookcases are hardwood, and even though I can move them, it’s a real bitch to move and then restack them.  I’ll wait on that until someone shows up.

Basically, I have until noon to sweep the floors, wash and put away the dishes, and dispatch some of the more adventurous cockroaches.  That’ll leave me just enough time to brew up some coffee and put out an assortment of pan dulce.

If anyone is in the King William neighborhood tomorrow late afternoon, stop by Tito's Tacos.  Local filmmaker AJ Garces (apparently chagrined to have missed my birthday lunch last week) is wanting an opportunity to hang out with groovy people over a plate of enchiladas.  I know, I know.  Many of you work “real” jobs.  But try to make it out.  Or if you want to come, but are afraid you'll be late, call me, and I'll let you know if we're still encamped.  And when I say “tomorrow,” I mean Friday, Feb. 16th.

210-482-0273.  That is me.  If you read this silly blog, I'd love you to show.  Don't be shy.  We're just eatin' and talkin'.

I am able to enjoy a leisurely late lunch / early dinner (we need a PM version of brunch, I'm thinking), because my project with the Company ended tonight.  Those bastards hinted at a two week assignment.  And because I contacted them too late to get the plum daytime shift, I got stuck with the night shift.  The best I can hope for at night is 4.5 hours.  But because of technical problems, we had not enough work to keep us busy on ANY night.  The first two nights were training sessions, so I can expect a full shift payment.  But that's it.  And with just a measly hour last Friday, and no work at all Tuesday and Wednesday and Friday nights of this week, I'm not going to get much more out of a fortnight's worth of work than the amount of my admittedly delinquent CPS (gas/electric) bill.  Oh, don't worry, there's undoubtedly enough left over to cover the enchiladas tejanos plate at Tito's Tacos.  But, mercy!

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Winter won't leave.  Why won't winter leave?  I've been dropping hints all over the place.  I've made enough snide comments, I thought were loud enough: “The biggest asshole of all the seasons;” “At the party last night I was trying to chat up Spring, but you-know-who staggered up and puked on my fucking shoes — what a disgrace.”

I was huddled in my tiny office off the kitchen, where I had the oven broiling its little heart out with the oven door open.  Two range top burners on high.  I was doing a bit of work for PrimaDonna Productions, digitizing some analog video tape.  My computer was doing most of the work.  And as I contemplated loading my espresso machine up for the second latte of the day, I heard a car roll up to the curb in front of my house.

I did a Gladys Kravitz out the window over my kitchen sink.  I watched Alejandro getting out of a small nondescript car.  There was someone I didn't recognize in the passenger seat.

As I was putting on some pants, I could hear Alex clumping up my wooden steps.  He hammered on my door as inelegantly as he did back when he was my neighbor.

“Erik!  It's Alex.”

When I opened up, I was glad to see he was looking well.

After the preliminaries of men who haven't seen each other in nine months (a protracted ritual of maybe a minute and a half), I asked if he was still living in his apartment on the westside.

“No, I'm living in Mexico.”  Before I could convey my surprise, he added:  “But I'm still renting that apartment.”

“So,” I asked, a bit confused.  “Where in Mexico?”

“Guanajuato.”

Sweet, I thought.  This is one beautiful town.  Now I have someone I can leech off of on my next trip into the colonial interior.

“Wow,” I said.  “That's an incredible town.”

“What?”

“Guanajuato.  I was there over the sumer.”

“No, I'm in Leon.”

This is something I need to learn.  Many Mexicans, and Mexican-Americans with family down south, tend to speak first of their homes not by the city name, but by the state.  Like I would tell people I'm from Texas, perhaps, before specifying San Antonio.  So, Alex was living in the state of Guanajuato (GTO being the dynamic abbreviation), and the city of Leon.

“Oh….”  I muttered, trying to hide my disappointment — Leon is a major city, the industrial hub of the state of Guanajuato, and not the hipster artsy college town of Guanajuato.

“It's great.  I'm taking some art classes and having a great time in Leon.”

He had come by not just to reconnect, but to offer me a proposition.  He wanted to keep his apartment here in San Antonio; but because he was here so infrequently, he wanted to sub-lease it out.  We were talking about a rent for me that would be half of what I'm currently paying.  That alone interested me. My finances are stretched so fucking thin, that even Alex's place seemed enticing.  I'll hook up with him in the next few days to go and see how he's fixed up the place.

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A year and a half back, I looked at the place with Alex.  He had already moved from my three-plex into a place over in the Lavaca neighborhood.  His wife was back in Mexico, looking after an ill parent.  He wanted something cheap and interesting.

We met at this two story building on the boundary between a residential neighborhood and a light-industrial region.  The railroad tracks ran alongside the building.  The ground floor was a defunct beer joint.

“You gotta see this,” Alex cried, dragging me from my truck.  He led me to the front of the building.  We peered into the bar.  It still had all the fixtures.  I was already thinking of how to use it was a location for a film.

“The owner is out of town, or else I'd get him to give us a tour of the bar.”  He grabbed my shoulder.  “Let's go upstairs.”

We walked around to the back of the building.  There was a steep metal staircase, as we walked up, I felt like I was walking up to the pilot's deck in a boat.

Upstairs there was a corridor running the length of the building.

“I'm going to put a lock on that door,” Alex said, motioning to the door we'd just pushed through.

“There are two apartments here,” he added.  “All the doors on this side,” he said, motioning to the right, “belong to these illegals from Guatemala.  I think there's five of them.”  Alex began hammering on the Guatemalans doors as we walked down the corridor.  “See?  They've always working.  It's peaceful as hell here.”

At the end of the corridor, we pushed our way through a door onto a rickety balcony.

“This is great.  I can sit out here, drink my morning coffee, and make sketches of downtown San Antonio.”

He was right.  It was a great view.  I was starting to get intrigued.

We reentered the corridor.  Alex pushed his way into the apartment he wanted to rent.  It was basically one long shot of rooms.  Room, bathroom, kitchen, room.

I must admit I was a bit envious.  It was cheap, gritty, and groovy in a very low-rent kind of way.

As I recall, I described it to people at the time as “this really cool shit-hole over on the westside.”

So, what I'm trying to say is, I might be moving.  Maybe a mile and a half distant, but a world away.  Maybe this would be a good idea.  I'm getting massively bored and complacent in this shit-hole.

I'll just have to see how this all works out.

I got a call from the Company.  They would not be needing my services tonight or tomorrow night.  Something about computer problems.  This means I will have a much smaller paycheck than I was anticipating.  But, on the bright-side, I didn't have to go to work.

In fact, I was able to attend a free screening tonight at SAC.  Gustavo Stebner previewed his newest short film, Ovat Beer.  With the collaboration of locals such as Robb Garcia and Dora Pena, I knew it'd be an event of note.

The story-line is fairly straight-forward.  A man is going out to dinner with his girlfriend to finally meet her parents.  He orders an Ovat Beer.

His girl's father asks, “Ovat?  What's that?”

And the guy launches into the mythic history of this European beer.  With voice-over narration, we cut to a flashback of Baron von Ovat (or something like that) played by the dashing and heroic Wesley Blake Conklin.  This is his adventurous life before he became a brew-master extraordinaire.  We watch as he rescues the princess from the villain, as played by screenwriter TJ Gonzales.    There are several goofy vignettes.  The whole thing is quite clever, very funny, and well put together.

You can see it for yourself.  I believe tomorrow it goes online.  Try looking for it on Gustavo's website.

www.stebnerstudios.com

The turnout could have been better.  But there were still a lot of familiar faces.  TJ and Lisa.  Dora and Manuel.  Robb.  Jennifer Ortega, who I hadn't seen in ages.  Nikki was there with her friend Lee.  When she asked if we'd met, I quickly said yes.  But it occurred to me later that I don't believe we had.  Because I have seen Lee's photo on MySpace and because I have read several of his blog entries, I had made that weird sort of blunder — not so uncommon in this era — where you “know” people virtually, yet not empirically.

Actually, I get a charge out of watching people, like Nikki, who are much more free-spirited than myself, as they step right up to someone they'd never properly met before and say: “Hi!  You're my MySpace friend!”

And why not?

Lisa is working on her dissertation or thesis or whatever.  I'm not sure what her discipline is.  Communications?  Film?  Sociology?  Cultural Studies?  Anyway, she's studying the NALIP (National Association of Latino Independent Producers) organization, with emphasis on the San Antonio chapter.  She and her husband, TJ, are members.  Lisa organized last year's NALIP-sponsored Adelante Film Forum, and she will run this year's forum as well.  She was in the audience tonight holding aloft a tape recorder, like Jimmy Olsen hot on a scoop.  After the film screened, she got some brilliant and incisive commentary from me and Nikki.  And later I gave her a short interview.  She wanted feedback on those who attended the Adalante Forum last year.

My problem is that I'm profligate with my candor, and, worse, I so rarely listen to myself that I don't always know what I've said.  So, I probably ranted for some time about the local film industry folks who have their heads further up their own backsides than the lunch I had at Taco Haven was up mine.  (The above sentence clearly establishes my weak grasp of even the basics of grammar.)

Speaking of Taco Haven, I'd like to thank Carlos for buying me lunch there.  Rockie was sitting across from me, playing the guessing game.  “What's big and green and eats leafs?” she'd ask.  I looked around me, thinking she was talking about something in the restaurant.  There was a mural with a jungle scene.  “A parrot?”  She just laughed.  No.  A stegosaurus.  It's still mostly dinosaurs with her.  And the occasional vampire.  I mean, she is Carlos' daughter.

I helped Carlos load up two more of his films onto his MySpace site.  “El Pollo Fuerte” (written by me).  And “El Diablo, the Devil” (mostly shot in my house, and with maybe 30 percent camera work by me).

As I transfered the DVDs to mDV tape (so I could get them on to my computer, compress them, and upload them to the internet (what an ordeal — digital revolution, my ass!)), I was struck by a few things.  Laviana Hampton is a very solid performer.  Hector Machado cracks me up with his portrayal of flawed nobility as Uncle Chapo.  Anne Gerber is a genius.  And Carlos is a really fascinating actor, especially in the films he directs.

If you've never seen Carlos' stuff, or haven't seen it lately, check it out.  This is raw, punk rock filmmaking.

http://www.myspace.com/hauntedhousestudio

I was talking to Alston the other day.  She's one of the few people who I can bitch about the paucity of art in movies who will understand my disgust.  Following one of my rants, she mentioned a piece she'd seen by video artist Bill Viola.  From her description, I assumed she was talking about The Greeting.  I saw this piece several years back in the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth.  It's stunning in its simplicity.  It is done in a single take with just a one camera set-up.  It's been a while since I saw this, but I'm guessing the piece lasts five minutes.  It's in ultra slow motion.  The real time of the action probably was about 15 seconds.  There are two women talking in front of a neoclassical back drop.  A breeze is moving their dresses.  A third woman enters and they all greet one another.  The emotional dynamic changes.  The newcomer whispers in the ear of her friend, and the other woman is now excluded.  There is high drama in this tiny sliver of time, which is played out in glacial-mode.  Make no mistake, it's high epic, but in miniature.  Like Joel Barlow's brilliant faux epic poem of 1792 entitled “The Hasty Pudding,” a 370 line poem about making and eating corn mush.

Joel Barlow was playing it for grins (much as as Robby Burns' “Ode to a Haggis”), but Viola wants a more serious appreciation of his work.  I'll give it to him.  I find his work beautiful and moving.  And when Peter Greenaway (one of my all time favorite directors) says, of Viola: “Bill Viola is worth ten Scorseses,” I couldn't agree more.  True art will always trump hackery, no matter how clever that hack might be.

There are two films on my need-to-buy list.  I have only seen little clips.  Sadly, they aren't in major distribution.  So I can't rent them.  And they probably won't get screened here in San Antonio.  But from what I can make of what little info I have, they are the real deal, clearly worth many Scorseses.  I'm talking about Cory McAbee's “The American Astronaut,” and Todd Rohal's “The Guatemalan Handshake.”

There is so much great art bubbling up from all over the place, why are we even talking about the mainstream shit?  Sue Corcoran has completed a second feature, and still we find ourselves talking about the Oscars?

I haven't watched the Academy Awards more than four times in my life.  It's no way to look at films, good or bad.  It's like choosing the greatest novels of the year, but you can only pull titles from the catalogue of Scholastic Books.

When my cell phone woke me up (it's also an alarm clock) at 6am, I was well aware that I had managed to get no more than four hours of sleep after an intense day previous of shooting for almost 20 hours.  I think I was having some real interesting dreams.  But I dragged ass out of bed.  Showered. And loaded up some equipment.  I made it to the location pretty much on time.

The scenes we were shooting involved the protagonist's work place.  Carol (played by Sherri) has a part time gig as a radio shrink.  She's about mid-point between Frasier and Doctor Laura.  Our radio station location was the studio of Keith Harter Music.  He has an amazing space over by Austin Highway and Harry Wurzbach.  Keith's studio isn't only involved with music.  He also does film work. He told us about working on ADR for a major Hollywood blockbuster.

We used one of the standard studio rooms.  You know, two rooms separated by a soundproof glass window.  We started out slow today.  We are all exhausted from Saturday.  But Kevin learned from all the bitching of the previous day.  We finally had coffee.  And loads of the stuff.

Coffee can only help so much, and then you have to take some of the blame.

There was plenty of blame to go around.  But all productions limp along for the first two or three days until the crew learns how to work together.

No one can blame make-up artist Ezme Arana.  Ezme had a lot of work on the scenes we shot today.  It was one location, but we were supposed to see these two women through, I believe, four different days.  What makes Ezme brilliant isn't that she creates radically different looks for our actors.  Nope.  Not even that she actually makes these two beautiful actresses even more beautiful with  make-up.  Whatever.  This is the stuff all good make-up people do.  What makes Ezme rock is the way she delivers a complete look, different each time.  There was one costume change where Emily Eldredge (a powerful and sexy actress from Dallas who plays the producer of Carol's radio show) was wearing this clunky necklace made from large smooth-tumbled stones.  The predominant color in the necklace was a dark-tone amber.  And when Emily, playing out her scene, reaches out to clutch Sherri's arm, I noticed that Ezme had painted Emily's nails for this scene in an amber color, but in a mottle design, like some natural rock pattern.  I hope the camera caught it.

I can say with fair confidence that today the camera crew came close to living up to the high bar set by both Ezme and Emily.

I think me and Russ managed to create an intimate space by keeping most of the two sound studios dark, with light mostly thrown on the two women's faces.

We had the final scene still to shoot when five o'clock rolled around.  That was when we were supposed to leave.  Our contact with the location was out, and we had no one to beg a spare 45 minutes from.  After a tepid confrontational exchange between Russ and Robin (come on guys, don't hold back on my account), it was decided to push on.  I think, even rushed, we got that final scene down well in a couple of interesting set-ups.  Sherri and Emily were delivering the goods — at least they appeared to me to be giving strong performances.  My only concern is whether the camera work will cut together.  I don't believe we had any safety cut-away in case the two camera set-ups don't cut.  But working with talented actors has saved my ass so many times when I'm editing.  They hit their marks perfect every time.

This movie has a weekend only schedule.  And for some reason, we have next weekend off.  So, we won't be meeting up until Feb. 24th.  I only hope that Rudolfo hasn't died on us.  If not, we'll finally be able to see his face again.  I'm not sure I'll be able to recognize him without the face mask. 

It's Sunday night as I write about the Saturday shoot for Leftovers.  The first thing I want to say is that the title is awful. There.  I got it out of the way.  The next thing I want to say is, I am beat, man.  I woke up at 5am to make a 6:30 call time in Seguin, Texas.  We all busted ass until a little after midnight.  We packed up, and headed out.  I got home at two in the morning.  I made a quick crash into the yielding comfort of my futon, because I had to make a 7am call time the next morning.  I mean, of course, later that same morning.

So, Saturday, the first day of shooting, we met up at our only location for the day.  It's a beautiful house on the banks of the Guadalupe River.  We were shooting only interiors, which was good.  The warm weather of the previous week had turned back to cold and dark.  And we were shooting only in one room.  A roomy, visually engaging kitchen.

Most of the action we shot involved three actors.  Sherri Small Truitt.  Andrea Hallford.  Tasha Straley.  I had only seen Sherri's work previous.  She was one of the stars of Robin's first feature, Water's Edge.  Sherri conveys warm and appealing with seemingly no effort.  She's probably just playing herself.  But beyond her natural charisma, she make a strong mark on Water's Edge with a few very potent emotionally charged set pieces.

Tasha unfortunately had very few lines in the scenes we shot Saturday.  But I had fun watching her reactions to the other performers.  This is one of the perks of crew work on a film.  When I direct (and I assume most other directors work the same way), I pay attention most to the performances which are important to the scene.  And it is only when I look at the footage later that I realize how nuanced a performance I got from an actor who's character wasn't carrying the scene.  But if you're less involved — on this film I'm camera assistant and lighting — you have the luxury to check out everything.  And Tasha was giving a great performance.

Andrea looks incredibly beautiful on camera.  She's got the upbeat apathetic teenage daughter of privileged parents locked down to perfection.  Playful and not yet committed to a direction in her life.

There were times when Sherri, Tasha, and Andrea were running through lines in a very free unguarded, manner.  But when the camera began to run, that magic drifted off.  I think one of the problems here is that when actors are doing film work, a part of their brains are always preoccupied with physic blocking, so they will be in the same place and the same posture for each take and each camera set-up.  You loose a fair amount of that spontaneity.

Later on, David “DB” Brown, showed up to act in a single scene.  I finally understood why they cast him.  I had only met him once before.  He seemed quiet and unassuming … well, for an actor.  But when the camera began to roll, he gave us some unexpected depth on the lovable pussy-whipped hubby of a successful, driven woman.  I'm looking forward to see him do more work with his character.

Sometime around seven at night, we realized that we would have to re-shoot one scene at a later date.  We were too far behind to get one of our child actors in and out quick enough.  The actor was Ayla.  I hadn't seen her since the auditions for Operation Hitman, about a year ago.  She blew us all away at the auditions.  As did Gabby.  I'm not exactly sure why we decided on Gabby, but they were both phenomenal.  I'm glad to see I'll be working with Ayla.

She and her parents came upstairs while everyone broke for dinner.  She wanted to give her folks a tour of the location.  After her tour, I hung out in the kitchen for a while with her and her mom and dad.  It seems that this little girl has been pretty busy … specializing in portraying little girls that get murdered.  She seemed to find the creepy stuff a lot of fun.

She told a great “Hollywood” story about a recent film she worked on which also featured David Carradine and Ron Jeremy.  (IMDA tells me it's the Adam Rifkin caveman film titled Homo Erectus.)  I won't go into the story, it was really the way she told it — and the fact that it was being told by a child.  For a kid, Ayla is funny, smart, adorable, and tough.  And if you have written a script which features a sarcastic ten year old girl who can kick the shit out of, well, David Carradine and Ron Jeremy, get Ayla's people on the horn ASAP.

All in all, it was a long damn day.  The saddest thing was sound genius, Rudolfo Fernando.  He's down with the flue, or something.  He still managed to  show up pretty much on time.  But, in his desire not to infect anyone else, he spent the entire 18 hour day wearing a white surgical mask. 

We were all too busy to generate much pity.  Sorry Rudolfo.  Get better soon.

Dar and Pete lined up a birthday lunch for me Friday.

I had not heard of this tradition.  My first exposure was to Andy's birthday lunch last year at Casbeers for excellent old style Tex-Mex cheese enchiladas that took me straight back to Roscoe White's Corral in Dallas — where my father would take the family to dine at his favorite dive.

For my birthday lunch, I was treated to Jacala, the first restaurant Pete and Lisa took me to when I visited San Antonio four years or more ago.  They do make a damn fine puffy taco.

Other than Pete, and Dar, Andy showed up.  He was wrapping up his first week on the new job.  After at least a year of freelancing, he looked a bit shell-shocked to have found himself no longer able to schedule his own hours.  Alston was there.  Carlos showed up late, toting in Rockie, who was dead asleep, tuckered out from what sounded like an intense night of cartoon viewing.  She perked up after awhile.

Dar gave me, as a little gift, a journal.  And as I was digging on it (wooden squares are sewn on the front cover), I noticed Alston whispering something to Pete.  She was pointing to the back of the menu.

I was expecting the worst.  You know, a crusty sheet cake kept in the meat-locker for just such events, and trotted out with an assault of Mariachis striking it up with patronizing smirks.

I did get a waiter, who obligingly sang “happy birthday” along with the rest of the table.  But the charming part was the single serving of flan, with a little candle stuck in the middle.

As I was finishing off my desert, Alston leaned over.  “How's the flan?”  I looked up.  “It's good.  Flan's always good.”  I dragged a finger across the plate through the puddle of caramelized syrup, and brought it to my tongue.  “It's hard to fuck up a flan.”

Pete glanced over.  “That's going to be the title of Erik's next blog.”

I realized he was right.  Unless I forgot.  So, I opened Dar's journal, and wrote, on its virgin pages: “It's hard to fuck up a flan.”

Dar and Andy had to return to their jobs.  Pete had to go pick up “the boy.”

Me, Alston, Carlos, and Rockie, went to check out the newest show at the McNay Art Museum.  I'd skimmed a couple newspaper pieces about Factory Work: Warhol, Wyeth, Basquiat.  I admit I had little interest in the show.  Warhol has always struck me as a vapid huckster, who just happened to have found himself periodically surrounded by people who intrigue me.  As a cultural catalyst, I admire him; however, as an artist, I have no interest in his work. Basquiat I rather like.  Playful and innocent.  But lacking in depth.  As for Wyeth, I guess I thought they meant Andrew Wyeth.  Don't care for his stuff.  Soulless.  His dad, N. C. Wyeth, I find much more rewarding.  But I keep forgetting about Andrew's son, Jamie.  I've never seen much or his work before.  Mostly, his farm animal paintings.  Like his father, his work is technically flawless, but I find some of the outre subject matter more engaging in the son's work.  You know, pop icons preening, guys with hard-ons, and stuff like that.

So even though I have only meager interest in each of the artists, the context that pulls all together is pretty fascinating.  As a whole, it's a great show.

But more rewarding, at least to me, was another, smaller show, in a room off to the side.  Jacob Lawrence and the Migration Series.  The entire series apparently appeared in Fortune Magazine in 1941.  It's some powerful work, spare, and poignant.  He was just a kid of 24 when he finished these off.

I first became of Jacob Lawrence fairly recently.  It couldn't have been more than five years ago when me and my sister were pricing some art books that came into the family bookstore.  She was very impressed by a Jacob Lawrence art book which was signed by the man.  When I confessed I had no idea who he was, she was surprised.  Like most people, I am constantly discovering holes in my cultural literacy.  But now, not only do I know who one of the most important 20th century African American artists is, I have also allowed myself to be introduced to some amazing art work.

Speaking of art, I went with Alston for coffee following the McNay.  We went to the Starbucks in her neighborhood.  She had promised my a birthday coffee, but I also wanted to see the paintings she had hanging on the walls there.  She's been doing some really exciting stuff recently, exploring space and perspective.  Her studies on buildings and architectural forms are my favorites.  She makes me think of Giorgio de Chirico and Philip Guston, two of my favorite painters.

Chadd and Nikki dropped by Starbucks to hand off some video work to me.  When I mentioned that Alston had painted the work on the walls, Nikki immediately said that a mutual friend, Hector (an actor / architect) would probably like her work.  I'd thought the same thing.  Probably because I know Hector is a de Chirico fan.

But I had to end my meandering day, hanging out with friends.  I had to be up north for my night job with the Company.  I was afraid I was running late, but highway 281 was smooth sailing.  I got to me desk with maybe two minutes to spare.

“Didn't someone call you?” my supervisor asked.

“Call me?”

“The day shift weren't able to scan in enough tests for the night crew to score.”

“You're kidding?  I just pissed away four dollars of gas for nothing?”

“Well, almost everyone has left.  If you want to score until you run out, we can pay you for that time.”

So score I did.  I probably should have taken my time, but I can only work at whatever speed gives me a comfortable rhythm.  Otherwise the job becomes an ordeal.  And I happen to score really fast.  So, an hour later, and it was all done.  I headed home.

Not much money, but the short shift allowed me to get more sleep.  I had to wake up the next morning damn early to make the 6:30am call time in Seguin for what was being promised to be an 18 hour shoot.

And you can't get more foolish up than that.

Unless you're doing it for no money.  Yeah, that's worse.