Category Archives: Uncategorized

After Josiah Wraps, Cultists Frolic

It's Monday, now, and I'm on the other side of the Josiah Youth Media Festival. All of last week I was busy running errands, making phone calls, moving chairs up from the basement to the performance area, and generally busting ass. I guess it all caught up to me Sunday morning when I woke up early for the final day of shooting on Christy Walsh's “Melancholy.” My lower back was all twisted and throbbing. I found myself whining like Dr. Zachary Smith, whose job it was to bedevil the “Space-Family Robinson” in 1960s version of the future. And, dammit, I'm still stove up, and shuffling around like Mickey Rourke in “Barfly.”

The festival was a success. Although, audiences were not what I'd hoped for. One of the problems (which we'll have to address for next year's festival) is that some of the local high-school teachers provided us with their students' submissions. This posed little to no problems for many of the schools. However, a couple of the schools didn't pass on to us the contact info for their students. For security reasons, no doubt. But when these teachers were contacted with a list of those students whose work we'd be screening, they seemed disinclined to notify the students. I'm convinced that at least a dozen local young filmmakers had their works screened to a paying audience and they STILL don't know about it. This is very sad. Not only have the kids lost out, but Urban-15 had much fewer audience members than were anticipated.

But on to the positive stuff.

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The new screen — a huge motorized contraption — gave a large picture. The 90-something seats all had a nice view of the screen. The sound system handled most all the works admirably … though some had audio issues that even the best speakers couldn't salvage. (I wasn't completely happy with the audio last year when Urban-15 screened the Manhattan Film Festival. There seemed to be some problems in the mid-levels. But now, the sound has a wonderful fullness.) George Cisneros transformed the sanctuary space of an old church into a screening room. Herman Lira worked the video switchers for three nights of smooth viewing. He had to deal with DVDs with different menus, various pre-role formats (if any), as well as the audio differences — he worked both the video switching as well as the soundboard.

Saturday we also had our Media Now student workshops.

The morning began with Victor Payan. Victor is an instructor for San Anto, a youth cultural center over on the westside. He is involved with San Anto TV, a sort of video oral history project. He showed up with two of his students, Sterling Abrigo and Julian Moreno. They were key crew members on the wonderful short documentary, “Reverend Perkins: Underground Artist.” The kids were fairly shy, but both were thoughtful and in possession a a playful sense of humor. They're well on their way to new projects. Victor Payan took control of the first hour of the workshop (allowing me to do other things) — and, from what I had an opportunity to see, the guy's a hell of a teacher.

Next we had Janet Vasquez from the San Antonio Film Commission. I wanted her to talk to the kids about locations. I'd noticed, during the judging process, that some of the pieces I wanted to see get higher marks, suffered because they were shot in the ugly classrooms around them (and, correct me if I'm wrong: all classrooms in this city are ugly), or, perhaps, the aesthetically bankrupt apartments of an older sibling. I took the stage with Janet, to facilitate her hour. But she could have done it well enough without my occasionally gabby asides.

We broke for lunch. George had bought a bunch of tacos from Farolitos across the street. And he and Catherine laid out a great spread, along with loads of fruit and a huge container of aguas frescas. Everyone loaded up their plates and took a seat to watch the 1929 Soviet masterpiece, “The Man with a Camera,” by Dziga Vertov. The DVD we watched was recently scored by the Alloy Orchestra. The Urban-15 sound system was put to effective use. The version we watched was 68 minutes. And even though I had to step out to answer my phone to keep tabs with workshop folks, I was able to see about 3/4 of the film. It's an amazing work of avant-garde movie-making. And with great chagrin I have to admit that not only had I never before seen the film, I hadn't even heard of it. I need to own this. It's extraordinary.

After lunch, Lisa McWilliams, of the Mobile Film School, walked to the front. She began by engaging the kids in a discussion of the film we had just watched. It's always a joy for me to watch brilliant teachers do their thing. Lisa, like Victor, had the kids thinking and talking. (I wonder if I would be so agog by teachers like Victor and Lisa had I not suffered through some of the worst teachers that the Dallas ISD had to offer back in the 1970s.) As Lisa segued from “The Man with a Camera” to her work with the Mobile Film School, I found myself out of the room, and on the phone. I had several Josiah-related calls going on back-to-back-to-back. This was really a shame. I'm very interested in the work that the Mobile Film School is doing. They are a new educational outreach program, headquartered in Austin. They provide their services to under-served schools. And eventually, they want to have all their equipment and editing suites housed in mobile vans. The film that won the Josiah Youth Media Fest's best documentary, “In a Place Like This,” was their very first project. It's a superb work by filmmakers of any age.

Next we had Nikki Young (of PrimaDonna Productions) and Michael Druck (who works for Calliope Talent). They tag-teamed their way through a very involved workshop on casting. George and Catherine were impressed in their professionalism, and that they never talked down to the kids. And, hey, they're both excellent actors, so they were very watchable, entertaining, and effective. As Catherine said: “They're very good together.” You bet. If anyone wants to do a San Antonio version of American Idol (Alamo City Aspirants, I'll call it), it's obvious that we only need two judges — Nikki and Druck.

Then we had Sergio and Manny from The Darkness. They are the past-masters of Central Texas special effects make-up. Do you need 17 zombies? A man whose head explodes? Perhaps a two-headed basset hound? The Darkness, my friend. The Darkness. As the guys began unpacking their stuff, I asked who in the audience might enjoy being transformed into, let's say, a zombie? I scanned a predictable stonewall of shy teens. As I'd hoped. I turned on Raul Flores. He's a student in George Ozuna's film program over at Harlandale. He is also a perennial volunteer at Urban-15. And, let us not forget his short film, “Attack of the Killer Burgers 3” that screened at the Josiah Fest on Friday night. Before he could think it through, we had the lad up in the chair. As Sergio gave us a talk about what he and his team does, Manny began Raul's transformation. We also watched a short video (Sam Lerma's promo piece for SAL — the San Antonio Local Film Festival — which featured grotty street people made-up by The Darkness), as well as a slide show of a wide range of what The Darkness does.

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And then we brought out Bryan Ortiz. He's just finished principal photography on his first feature film, what I'm calling he “zombie opus.” It's entitled “Doctor S Battles the Sex Crazed Reefer Zombies.” When I speak with him he seems rather shy and reserved. I was wondering if I should ask Michael or Nikki if they'd like to interview him. I didn't get around to doing that. But that was fine. If you took two dozen rabid pitbulls and put them through Green Beret training … and then if you were to boil down that frothing, intense madness into a 22-year-old five foot four film-fanatical young man, you'd be getting close to Bryan Ortiz. Slap on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a skinny tie, and, man, you're almost there. He fired up the kids with his Tarantino / Rodriguez “just get a camera and make your movie” screed. I wish we had a video camera on him. The guy needs a grant to visit every middle-school and high-school in this county.

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And all the while, Raul was getting zombied-up.

It was a wonderful series of workshops. And when I heard that Raul Flores had gone to Taco Haven (a somewhat up-market taqueria in this neighborhood) with his parents … while still in zombie make-up, well, let's just say I think I've found a new hero. Way to go, Raul!

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Saturday night ended with the grand prize (a $500 line of credit at B&H photo and video) awarded to the students from the Manor ISD who wrote, shot, and edited “In a Place Like This.” And, yep, it really is that good. One of the directors and the camera man were their to accept. Lisa McWilliams, their teacher, was there grinning. She leaned in to be the first person to give congratulatory hugs to the two kids.

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The other three winners received $200 apiece from B&H.

LaShae Brooks from Minnesota won best experimental film with her “The Spirit Within Us.”

The seven students from the advanced digital video class at St. Mary's Hall won best animation film with their “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.”

And the best narrative film was won by Remington Dewan for his “First Day at the Firm.” This amazing comedy was written, directed, shot, and edited by a precocious 14-year-old kid from Austin. He's well on his way to a successful career.

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And then Sunday.

I met Russ, Christy, and Kristen out at Comal Park, on the shores of Canyon Lake.

It was the first time I had seen the costumes and the wig for the lighter side of “Melancholy.” Kristen plays the role of Joy, so it had better be lighter.

The day was hot and humid, but it was beautiful with puffy clouds and just enough of a breeze to flap the red drapery used as a prop. Kristen looked angelic in her white bob wig. And Christy, as always, was beautiful and graceful. The costumes (which I made some lame joke as looking like we were filming Heaven's Gate conscripts frolicking on the shoreline) actually came out powerfully in photos and in the video camera monitor. Christy and Kristen were wonderful together. I know they were suffering terribly under the heat. But even by the final shot, they moved smoothly and projected expressions of joyous play.

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When we got around to the bit where Christy (as Eve) emerges from the water, I couldn't help but think of Baptism. Especially that sublime scene in “Oh, Brother….” I'm sure the jackasses zooming about on their jet-skies thought we were some religious freaks purifying sacrificial babes in time for the next full moon. By the final take, poor Christy had choked on a good amount of lake water. But it's over.

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Just needs to be edited….

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A Pic-N-Pull Wednesday Followed by a Secular Film Festival

I've been on a constant run these last few days. The Josiah Youth Media Festival begins tomorrow evening. We've been dropping, on occasion, the “youth” part in some of the promotional material. The idea of a student film festival puts some people off. This is sad. We've got some damn fine short videos to screen. This isn't three evenings of works just to be viewed by kids. I've personally found many of the pieces inspiring. Makes me wanna … oh, I don't know — maybe stop promoting film events and get back to making the stuff. Yeah, that's it.


This afternoon George Cisneros was over at Radio Shack getting some sort of video adaptor plug to use on one of his video switchers (so we can cue up each DVD like a DJ with two turntables, for a flowing, seamless show). When he mentioned the Josiah Festival to the man waiting on him, the guy said he'd heard of the event. But when George asked if he would be attending, the shackman said he wasn't all that keen on religious films. George had to explain that the festival had nothing to do with religion — it's just named after a young man whose very distinctive name happened to make more than a few appearances in the Old Testament.

So, to clear up confusion: The Josiah Youth Media Festival is not specifically religious. That's not to say it's irreligious. But wait a minute — now that I think about it, there is no nudity, foul language, drug references, or adult situations (though I'll admit to not really knowing what that means). We may well have a G rated event. Hmmm…. How did that happen? What's wrong with the kids today? But, wait! Now that I think about it, there's a piece that implies suicide. And another one where rape plays an important (off-camera) part. Let's call this PG-13.

Yeah, baby, yeah. It's practically filthy!

But I digress.

We had maybe 12 volunteers show up today to help prepare the place. Urban-15 is a rambling, labyrinthine space. It used to be a church, with an adjacent building that housed dormitories and a kitchen. At some point the two buildings became connected. It has about 45 rooms, spread out over three semi-attached buildings.

We needed to make about ten of those rooms presentable to the public. We still have loads of work to do tomorrow (anyone want to volunteer in the morning or early afternoon, call me at 210.482.0273).

Two filmmakers from the San Antonio Film School (the magnet school at Harlandale High School) were there to help out. Raul Flores and Frank Romo. Both have works which will screen.

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Around noon Pete came by and helped Hector (recently returned from some sort of Native American vision-quest retreat in Arizona) — they swept and mopped the sanctuary, where we will be having the screenings. And the place looks great!

And around three in the afternoon, I found myself wondering what to do with about half a ton of scaffolding sitting on the second story landing. The high-school volunteers were certainly enthusiastic, but, well, they lacked that brute strength needed. Pete had already headed out. So I thought of who else I knew strapping enough to help out on this task. Russ was a possibility, but I think I might have rubbed him the wrong way earlier in the day when, over the phone, I muttered some dismissive opinions about an idea he had concerning intellectual property — opinions that weren't mine to make. (Russ, if you do it, man, get the cash up front … at least enough for that new light kit you want). But, of course! Carlos. His daughter is visiting the grandparents down in the Valley this week. He's usually flexible with his time. And he's strong, competent, and dependable. I pulled out my cell phone. When Carlos answered, he explained that he was in a Pic-N-Pull on the southside. For those gentle souls reading this blog, a Pic-N-Pull (and, yes, there are variant spellings) is basically a car junk yard. You pick the part you need, and you pull it out. Sometimes the employees do it for you, sometimes you have to do it yourself.

I thought Carlos was getting the starter he need for his Camaro. But he explained that he'd already replaced the starter. Nope. He was there just for the hell of it.

“It's just something I do to unwind,” he explained.

I understood.

But could be help out some, I asked. He said he could.

An hour later he showed up at Urban-15. He and Hector made short work of the scaffolding.

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Herman and George were working hard in the sanctuary trying to get all the kinks worked out of the video switcher. The tech demands are a bit dicey. The sanctuary isn't wheelchair accessible. So we need to send video and audio signals over to a room in the dormitory wing. And maybe we'll also provide a third line down to the basement for a third screening room. The signal-splitting is one challenge. The video switching between two different DVD players is another challenge. But we should be able to rise above this. George and Herman created the Somos video mural for the Alameda Museo by adapting a cutting-edge innovative software to run in a hardware environment which the software developers had never considered. And the video mural works just dandy. I know these fellows will get the equipment to do what is needed.

I'm exhausted. It's midnight. I have to get up tomorrow and make this event happen. I'm going to sleep now.

And, really, everyone, come see the films. You'll be glad you did.

My Descent Into Rain Madness

If this monsoon season doesn't pack up and head out, I'm afraid I will no longer be responsible for my actions. I'm sick of rarely seeing the sun. And I can't stand that I'm constantly dripping with sweat. In the last month the rains have forced me to cancel more plans more than I can count. And on top of all this hot, humid bullshit, the breaker that controls the outlet beneath my single window AC unit is fried. It tripped last night while I was asleep. And I can't get it to click back. I guess I'll have to run a fat, grounded extension cord from another room.

I need to get to the desert before I began to run amuck.

On a positive note, the Josiah judges have made their decisions. We've actually decided to increase the number of prizes. The original idea was to have a prize in each genera: Narrative, Documentary, and Experimental. But we got several animation pieces. In fact, we received an extraordinary animation piece. So, we have four prize-winners. Best narrative, doc, experimental, and animation. Each wins a $200 line a credit at B&H Photo & Video. One of these four will be bumped up to a “best of show” prize, which will actually be $500. So, the breakdown: One $500 prize, three $200 prizes. Once we notify all the winners, I'll list them here. But the grand-prize winner won't be announced until the final night, Saturday, July 14.

The judges met again tonight. They looked at the tabulations, and the judges all agreed with the highest scoring works in each category. But the judging got a bit dicey when it came to the grand prize — that $500 best of show. Each of the four winners had its champions. Each of the four winners had its strengths. We couldn't rely on the raw scores from the previous bout of judging. Some of the scoring points didn't carry the same weight within each category. Such as acting. It's not such an important criteria for documentary of animation. So, what we did was we screened all the four winners and then assigned an over-all score to each. These were tabulated. All the judges were prepared to use another method if this one didn't result in a winner that wasn't unanimously agreed upon. And the judges were pretty impassioned about their favorites. But after that fresh re-screening, and the new scoring, all the judges agreed without dissent that the highest scoring piece was the one.

I couldn't be happier with the four winners. And the piece that rose above them all — it's a damn fine piece of work.

And so, I'll say this again to the readers of this blog. The Josiah fest may indeed be a film festival featuring only work by artists 21 years or younger, but the quality of the pieces are quite extraordinary. The stuff you've seen at Short Ends or IFMASA screenings — yeah, I feel for you. Most all of that stuff leans towards torturous crap (including a few pieces I've produced, I'm sure). But, I guess what I'm trying to say is that you don't have to be a kid to appreciate these pieces. Some of them are shockingly sophisticated. A few are admittedly are mediocre. None are crap. We filtered those out.

In an interview with the press, George Cisneros (co-honcho at Urban-15, along with wife Catherine Cisneros) made an important statement. In essence, he said that the works which will screen at this first annual Josiah Media Festival are a wake-up call for San Antonio. Of the 95 works submitted, probably 80% are from Bexar County. And a huge percent of these local works submitted demonstrate a great deal of skill and talent. So where, George muses, are they to go? Many can't afford to attend film school out of state or even out of town. What do we offer this kids in San Antonio? None of the colleges or universities are prepared to deal with the kids from NESA, Say Si, Edgewood, Harlandale, San Anto, St, Mary's Hall, etc. Many of the kids from these high-school or after-school programs will find themselves in a college program that would be a step back for these kids.

The students of George, Konise, Gisha, Adam, et al, have no college or university program in this city that could challenge them. This is a huge problem. Unless these students get full scholarships to colleges out of town, they have little to look forward to in San Antonio.

The Patriot Smooches Prozac Kittens Under a Fireworks Sky

It's pushing midnight on the 4th of July. I have nothing patriotic to say. This is one of those holidays that just screws up my plans. Yesterday I had several things I needed to do — pay some over-due bills, contact some folks about the film events I'm planning, yeah, stuff like that. And then someone reminded me that Wednesday was the 4th. The fireworks are nice. Other than that, I don't get it. Nationalism (like religion) is a pestilence that seems to do little more than spread misery. And when's the last time an American, with both hemispheres intact of his or her brain, felt proud of this country? But the fireworks are nice.

I guess I'm pissier than usual because I'm so far behind in all of my projects.

I decided to take a gander at the short film me and Russ shot months ago for Short Ends. And then I realized why I'd pulled away from it. My editing software was having issues with the fact that we shot it in 24pa, and in that dreaded “squeeze mode.” And then there is the mDV deck Russ loaned me. It's great for capturing (which helped, because my camcorder has been ailing). But I can't get it to send out-going video and audio signals. I've grown used to editing with audio fed into my stereo, and video plugged into my JVC monitor. But it was time — past time — to get on the stick. I stripped my tiny office down, trashing all the clutter, disconnecting all my computer peripherals, and then I put it all back together. I tried returning to my camcorder as a deck — so I could use my monitor and my stereo to enhance the editing process. And then I realized something I had suppressed from my memory. The AV input/output of my GL2 apparently has a minor short. The picture jitters and often goes to black.

The problem with being poor and working freelance is that you never make the sort of money that will allow you to replace the machines you're wearing out doing the work that puts food on the table and keeps the landlady at bay … and little else. All those cheapo or pro bono video gigs I worked with the hope that someday, someday … maybe I'd get a serious day rate. Start repairing old equipment or buying new equipment. And now, I'm fucked. I can't carp about how I've been taken advantage of, I made a decision on every one of these projects. And I can't say I didn't have fun.

Ah, hell, I'd go get a regular job, but I don't know what they are or how to do 'em.

If this 48 Hour Film Project plays out the way it should, I should have all my event coordinating gigs out of the way. And what then? My biannual car insurance will no doubt devastate what little savings these jobs might generate.

This is a quandary I could have taken in stride in my 20s or 30s. But I can't pretend to be a kid any more. In the words of my good friend Enrique Madrid, when the enormity of life's problems become apparent: “What a mess.”

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Okay, so he's holding a kitten. And maybe that mitigates 90% of life's bullshit. Maybe I need to find a way to move back to Redford …

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… where life moves a bit slower, and so many problems can be resolved with cuddly kittens.

And, dammit, I can't feel so low, because I'm listening online to KEXP out of Seattle, and they're playing the song “USA” by The Beat (and not that English Beat — I'm talking the US Beat ( Paul Collins, in his heyday, rocked the power pop ass like nobody else).

And, yeah yeah I know, maybe I also need to recognize that I have been able to cruise through this summer without working a traditional job because I HAVE seen a return on my investment of working this city and making myself known to those in the film and video industries. Alright, my whining does seem a bit lame. I'll shut up for awhile.

I hope folks enjoyed their fireworks, barbecue, booze, day at the dog track, and whatever else we celebrate on this day.

Bottled Grasshoppers and Heavenly Blizzards

I stopped at Alston's place this morning. She's been working on a painting that I can use as a logo, poster, and general image for promotion of the up-coming 48 Hour Film Project. I love the iconic film projector — it is, I believe, a 1940s era Bell & Howell 16mm.

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The “Coming this August” bit is something I did with a basic graphic program. The rest is on the canvas. Alston's painting has developed in some wonderful directions in the few short years I've known her. She's been really busy lately, and her little studio room has some very striking canvases in various stages of completion. I can't wait for her next show.

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Yesterday I was anticipating our final day of shooting on Christy's Melancholy dance film. Everyone's schedule seemed to fit together. And around 2:30, Kristen (the dancer who will be portraying Joy) stopped by to pick me up. We car-pooled to Canyon Lake. The sky seemed fairly friendly. But the further north we moved, the darker things got. As we passed the Snake Farm on I-35 we began to get some rain. Throughout the rest of the drive, it was off and on. I decided to remain optimistic. These sorts of weather patterns are so often on the march, and as such, subject to change.

But by the time we reached Comal Park on the shores of Canyon Lake, it was hard to remain optimistic. When everyone had arrived, we began setting up equipment. And just when it was all set for our wide cover shot, we could no longer pretend that the mist lightly falling had not turned to rain. We gathered up all our equipment, props, and wardrobe, and headed back to the cars.

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As we waited, Christy broke out the snacks, and Kristen and Martin headed out to the nearby Dairy Queen. We took our basecamp to a covered picnic table. And when Kristen and Martin returned, they were lugging a couple of beverage carry-cases filled with Blizzards. As I reached for mine, I wondered aloud just what a Blizzard was. Martin gasped, flabbergasted that I could be so ignorant. “It's simply heaven, that's what it is!” And as he removed the lid from his cup, he sighed, and whispered to himself: “Simply heaven.” It wasn't too bad. It's like an ice cream shake, but thick so you need a spoon. They grind up treats to make it more rich … or, perhaps, more heavenly. In our case, it was Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. A nice combo.

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Just as we finished our picnic, the skies began to clear. We moved fast (well, was fast as possible — there were those blizzards weighing us down).

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When me and Russ had re-set the camera and found a nice composition for the wide master shot, some motorboat assholes (two big boats) swung into anchor not sixty feet offshore from us. That wouldn't have been so bad (I understand, folks are curious when they see a film crew), but these boisterous sots were listening to dinosaur rock from the seventies. Loud. Crap that sucked back then. Boston and Rod Stewart. They were shouting to each other over the music. Because we were shooting without sound, we tried to ignore them. But it was hard because, once we began shooting, I realized they were making peanut gallery comments about Christy and Andrew going through their dance moves. Stuff like: “Oh, yeah, that's what I'm taking about!”

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Eventually Russ couldn't take it anymore. They were fucking with his concentration. He yelled out to them. They pretended to ignore him. So he started screaming, and eventually they had to acknowledge him. The group on the two boats was maybe about eight, guys and girls. And the more obnoxious of the guys didn't want to look like wimps around the girls, so they finally had to respond to Russ.

He was rather polite. They weren't. And when the “it's a free country” came out from the speed boats, I began laughing. That's the best they can do? They made a few bitchy comments — including a belligerent explanation as to their pathetic behavior: “Hey, man, we're drunk!” — but finally a modicum of shame crept into their collective consciousness, and they motored off … to bedevil some poor saps elsewhere on the lake. We went back to work.

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All the scenes with Andrew have been shot. But, sadly, we weren't able to get Kristen's scenes. The rain stole our daylight. We'll just have to reschedule.

Once the sun was gone, we began to pack up equipment. Martin made sure to get his water bottle which he had filled with live grasshoppers so he could feed the spider who lives on his porch.

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And then, Russ had us all line up for a group photo. He finally got to use the timer feature on his new Canon point and shoot digital camera. After a few of these shots, we all got to see Martin grab his stomach and mutter something about how he should have avoided that heavenly blizzard because of his lactose intolerance. Kristen, Russ, and myself — we all exchanged glances — mentioned how we felt so sorry for Christy and Andrew driving back to San Antonio with Martin's emerging intestinal disturbances, and got the hell out of there.

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This afternoon I stopped by Urban-15, and me and Herman went over all the judging forms from Saturday. We're at the second phase of a three-stage film festival judging format. By tomorrow or Wednesday we'll have a list of which films will screen on which days. The nice thing is that each of the three days of the festival will offer a unique program of films.

As I was shuffling through the judging forms, I got a call from Jessica Belasco. She's doing a piece for a new San Antonio weekly free tabloid. It's called 210SA. (The same publication did a piece on the last film event I organized.) She asked quite a few questions, and I hope I gave her something to work with. I offered her George Ozuna's phone number. George was Josiah's high-school film teacher — and George's students at Harlandale are well represented in this first annual Josiah Youth Media Festival.

It's definitely coming together.

Exquisite Moon-Lit Tableaux Await the Midnight Dog-Walker

Friday

Tomorrow me and five other judges will spend a good chunk of our Saturday watching and evaluating the DVDs submitted for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. One of the judges (who will remain nameless) asked if alcohol was allowed. And another judge (also protected by my discretion) was quick with a reply. “Well, all the judges are above drinking age ….” I assured them that there were some wonderful and engaging pieces. I had already previewed every submission. And it's true. There's some great work being produced by kids 21 and under.

I've already spoken with one reporter about the festival. And I have an appointment with another on Monday. It's weird doing phone interviews. I've given a few before, and because when someone from the press gets you on the phone, it seems to me that the wisest course of action is to give them something then and there. I would rather be seated with loads of notes spread out around me, but that's not how things usually work. Thursday I got a call on my cell from a reporter. I was standing in the lobby of the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center's theater. They were holding rehearsals, and so I retreated outside. The noon-time traffic was fairly noisy, but I did my best. And then there was an interview I did for the Meet the Maker Film Series. The call came just as I had finished pouring a cup of coffee in my kitchen. And because I knew the info about the two filmmakers I was promoting inside and out, I was able enjoy my coffee as well as the interview. (Although I'm sure the guy on the other end of the phone must have been cringing at my gassy blathering.) And then there was a phone interview I did for a story on the Short Ends Project — it was a perfect San Antonio moment. I was heading home (probably from Pete or Alston's), and as I cruised through downtown, the phone began to beep. I was in mid-pontification as I rolled past the Alamo.

Today I was roaming the aisles of OfficeDepot looking for “neck badges.” At least that's what their website calls them. We need some ID badges for the festival so that the filmmakers as well as the staff can feel important (and move about unimpeded). I thought they'd be pretty cheap. But when you want a hundred plus of most anything, the cost begins to add up. I bought a bunch of the plastic pouches, but the neck cords with the swivel hooks or the hinged clippers seem really steep. I even looked for some wholesale prices on-line. Same story. I guess it's time to get creative.

As I was driving back, this guy in the lane beside me began waving. It was Bryan Ramirez, one of my favorite local filmmakers. He lives in my neighborhood, but I hadn't seen him in a couple of months. I rolled down my window, and, for the duration of a red light, we had a quick chat. His wife Amanda gave birth, I believe just yesterday. They have a brand new daughter. Congratulations Bryan and Amanda!

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Saturday

This morning I brewed up three pots of coffee and filled up the big airpot coffee urn (a cast-off from the Aldredge Book Store). After a pit-stop at El Sol bakery for an assortment of pan dolce, I headed down S. Presa to Urban-15. I met George at nine, and we began setting up the large upstairs performance space as a screening room for the judging of about 45 student films for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. By ten we had everything set up. All six judges had arrived.

A preliminary round had cut fifty percent of the submissions, so we were watching the best of the crop.

A little over four and a half hours of material. It's really some extraordinary stuff. The categories were “narrative,” “documentary,” and “experimental.” Within these categories we had maybe five animated pieces (yes, we even had an excellent documentary with a good chunk of animation within it). The distribution of the three categories leans perhaps more strongly towards narrative, but we have a solid offering from all three.

I think all the judges agreed that the documentaries were the more powerful. We wondered if that was because the filmmakers, all quite young, had not amassed enough life experiences to create clear, sophisticated narratives.

Just to give a glimpse of themes dealt with in the documentary division (pulled at random from my memory), we had: a piece from a young woman who had traveled to South Africa with her camera and put together an excellent doc on apartheid; a piece about a woman who escaped from WWII-era Dresden; the stories of a man and his wife who traveled from Laos to America; life on a Native American reservation in Minnesota; Jehovah's Witness persecuted by the Nazis; a strong great piece about a farm house near Austin (and the family who owns it) which had been featured in What's Eating Gilbert Grape, as well as the Simple Life; and, well, there are just so many great videos.

But it's not just docs. So many of the narratives and experimental pieces also stand out.

I'm hoping we'll have a good turnout for the festival. I know people can often be dismissive of any film event featuring works labeled “student” or “youth.” But so much of what we viewed today can stand up against work done by adults with, supposedly, more experience.

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There's a full moon out tonight which is heart-breaking in it's beauty. This is when I have to stand down from my gushing praise of my little digital point-and-shoot camera. Film is where these exquisite low-light tableaux really come to life. I need a good, long exposure. I'm pretty sure my GL2 camcorder wouldn't pick it up well either. Canons just don't do well with a paucity of light. I just hope a certain someone with a Panasonic DVX (a camera which loves these sorts of low-light conditions) goes out tonight or tomorrow night and shoots some b-roll of the full moon with little scraps of gossamer clouds sliding across the lunar disk.

As I was out walking my neighbor's dog, I found that perfect composition. The moon, still low to the horizon, splashed a reflection along the path of the San Antonio River. Palm trees, etched in silhouette, framed the foreground. And across the river, along the levee-top, the old corrugated iron silos illuminated by dusty, orangy mercury vapor lights, framed the upper right of the composition.

If I've learned anything from watching a shit load of works by young, precocious filmmakers, it's the wisdom of collecting beautiful, lingering establishing shoots; or, well, anything beautiful that can be used effectively as inserts of cutaways.

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Ah, hell. I just walked back to the corner of Crofton and Constance. The moon was up higher then my perfect composition. And armed with my camcorder, a tripod, and my little Nikon Coolpix, well, I tried my best. The GL2 couldn't handle it in either video or photo without pumping up the visual gain (and that always results in a picture that's unacceptable to me).

The pocket-sized Nikon fared slightly better. But, as you can see by this crappy picture, it's going into an automatic gain apparently just to spite me.

The difficulty (if not outright impossibility) or getting certain shots for film and video results in a level of frustration beyond the thresholds of most mortals. It's rough, guys. What the eye sees, the camera can't always capture.

Pipsquawk Lost in the Big City

As I was getting out of my truck this evening, I dropped the grocery bag holding a bottle of primo Hernandez Salsa. The red fluid oozed across the concrete like blood pooling in front of the Biograph Theater back in '34. But, sadly, my jar of festive condiment was not the public's enemy numero uno. I guess whatever I decide to make for dinner will be bland and grey.d.

Mini tragedies like this have been plaguing me of late. The more irritating one has been the disappearance of my jump-drive. It's a red sporty quarter gig fellow. Catherine Cisneros (who gives all the hard-drives at Urban-15 dance-related names (Tango, Minuet, Merengue, etc.)) decided to christen mine while it was attached to her computer. “It says Unnamed,” she said, perplexed. I shrugged. “Everything must have a name,” she told me. After a second of furrowed brows, she opened up the drive and typed in the name. I looked over her shoulder at the monitor screen. “Pipsquawk?” She looked up at me and said something about a typo. But before she could correct it to Pipsqueak, we both smiled. Pipsquawk was much better, and so it remaineBut my little Pipsquawk is gone! If you see the critter, let me know. I don't think there is anything crucial on it that I don't have on another drive. Nor to I believe there is anything incriminating or embarrassing (like my luddite manifesto or my spanking videos). But I hope it turns up. I already checked the usual places. Refrigerator, ashtray in the truck, laundry basket. And when I checked under the seats of my sofa, I discovered an unopened package of candy called Sour Punch Straws. (I've narrowed my culprits down to either Cooper Barnstrom or Rockie Pina. So, Pete or Carlos, come pick up your young'un's treats before, in a moment of weakness, I scarf it all down — and they look really awful.)

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This week has been a strange and compressed series of days.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,m that is. Monday I mostly dicked around. Well, I did eventually head to the Gemini Ink free monthly writer workshop. 6:30 to 8:30 p.m., the final Monday of each month. I hadn't a chance to write anything new, so I polished up a piece I'd written a few months back. Russ, who'd expressed interest, came along with a work in progress. Sadly, two of the stronger writers who usually show up, were no-shows this Monday. I guess the reason I try and make the group (though I'd missed out the previous two months because of scheduling conflicts) is because I like having a deadline to poke me to write something new. Motivation. I need it. So I feel I failed myself, dragging out something I had sitting around. But, when Jim, the gentleman who hosts the event, explained that he'd be in New Mexico during the final Monday in July, he asked if I would like to run the workshop next month. I told him I'd check my schedule. He sent me an email yesterday, and, well, it looks like I'll be hopping in as a guest host. So, if you're reading this blog, fancy yourself a writer, and want me to rip you a fresh one, come on down. Gemini Ink, 513 S. Presa. Show up with no more than 4 pages, doubled spaced. At least ten copies. And if you're a poet, keep the page count about the same. Multiple poems are fine, but because the critique can last for awhile, rarely more than two poems are allowed because of time constraints … though it always depends on how many folks show up. So, come on down!

But back to Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Me and Herman have been canvassing the city with postcards and posters for the Josiah Festival. It's a blast, really. Tooling around town, hitting the arty, cultural, or kid-friendly places. Everyone has been receptive. Well, everyone except HEB. Again, for those blog-readers outside of San Antonio, HEB is the local supermarket chains which has a virtual monopoly on this city. They also own Central Market, a fru fru supermarket for “foodies” where one can find Chilean sea bass, TVP (textured vegetable protein) in bulk, exotic cream sodas, shade grown coffee beans, and organic tamarindo pods. We here in the Alamo City call the Central Market on Broadway the Gucci HEB. It seems all new-agey, touchy-feely, socially responsible … but try and place a poster about a cultural event, and you get: “I'm sorry, but we only post HEB-related information. However, we do allow this sort of stuff on the employee bulletin board in the break-room.” I flashed a fake thanks-but-no-thanks smile and walked away. I was almost out the door, but Gloria Vasquez spied me and shouted out my name. She was there shopping. She's looking great. Retirement seems to be treating her well. When I explained what me and Herman were doing, she immediately asked for a flyer. When I handed her one, I think I noticed the woman at the information desk stiffen. We'd just handed one of our non-HEB statements to one of her HEB customers. But me and Herman managed to move on out before that crabby woman got around to alerting security.

We got a lesser amount of run-around at Borders, but it was far from the red-carpet treatment. The woman at the info desk looked over her bifocals at the poster we held out to her. She made a point not to touch it.

“We have a bulletin board back towards the restrooms,” she said, waving her hand in some vague direction. Before I could thank her, she wandered away through a swinging door to the back of the store. Damn, and I never got a chance to ask when her hopes and dreams finally perished. Me and Herman found the restrooms. They were up on the second floor. (Behind a door with a sign that read “Beware of leopard.”) We put up a poster and a few postcards. I wish we had brought along some aerosol dry-mount adhesive spray. I'd sure like to have glued some posters to the underside of the toilet seats. And that will be the next stage of policy at Borders. “Why, yes. We'd love to help you promote the event. If you head upstairs you'll find the men's room. Feel free to tape your flyers to the backboards of the urinals — oh, I do hope the ink is waterproof and color-fast.”

But otherwise we had nothing but enthusiastic people more than happy to help us out. I also found some great places I'd never visited before. Allow me to promote two coffee houses.

Jupiter Java and Jazz at 726 S Alamo has damn good coffee at decent prices. It's a small place with several tables, a cozy sofa area, a couple of tables on the sidewalk, and some very tempting gelato (I intend to try some on my next visit).

Olmos Perk. You can find it at 5223 McCullough in Olmos Park, north of the traffic circle. My friend Alston told me that they had the best coffee in town. Me and Herman both ordered cappuccinos. And, yeah, it might be the best coffee in town. Not convenient for me, but if you live in Olmos Park or Alamo Heights, it's the place to go. The funny thing is that as Herman and I were walking across the parking-lot, this kid on a bicycle, who was leaving the coffee house, circled around and stopped in front of us. “You're with the student film festival, right?” he asked me. I nodded, approving of the lad's psychic abilities. “Oh,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “I'm a film student at NESA — you came to our class.” We spoke to him, and he seemed excited about attending the event. And once inside, we discovered that the young man making our cappuccinos is involved with a local film. He's a theater student at UIW (University of the Incarnate Word), and he's part of the art department on Bryan Ortiz's feature film which is currently in production.

What I discovered is that a shit-load of folks in this city are working on film and video projects. More than I would have guessed.

All part of the digital revolution, I guess.

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Time to get back to work on that luddite manifesto.

New Video Blog

I've posted a new video blog.

Visit my vlog:

http://eyewashpictures.blogspot.com/

Or go right to the video:

http://blip.tv/file/283113

Problems? Take it to the public commons with YouTube!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qe5jvaufyb8

The video is poet Eduardo Garza doing his piece “Earthling” with musical accompaniment. Check it out!

From Jazzy Poetry to Dada Badmiton — Just Another Sunday in SA

Sunday I had an appointment with nine poets at Luna, a jazz club on San Pedro. It's that stretch of San Pedro a bit further north than I care to go — not too far inside the highway 410 loop.

The rains had been hammering down for some time. And even though the skies were clear and sunny, the roads around the iconic Rollercade (where the Alamo City Roller Girls call home) were impressive rivers. The obvious run-off from the Olmos Basin. Sometimes it's good to own a truck.

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Luna is in a fairly new strip shopping mall. But inside it possess a definite charm. Low lights, muted reds, tables with comfy chairs, and, on the walls, huge reproductions of classic Blue Note albums from an era of timeless bebop. I got there about thirty minutes before the show began, but there was already a good amount of people milling about. I set my camera on a tripod near the stage. I used a wireless lavaliere microphone to pull audio off the soundboard. I left the microphone itself in my audio case, and placed the transmitter box on a shelf beside the soundboard. It uses a mini plug, but I added a 1/4 inch adapter and tied in to the main line out. I rigged the receiver box onto my camera and plugged it into my microphone input. Checked it all with my headphones. Not bad — for a pro bono gig.

Nora, the owners' mother, was buzzing about. She was our MC. Her sons were playing with the house band, Azul. They're a trio, sometimes a quartet. And tonight, a quintet. An accordion player from the band Bombasta, and an upright bass player displaced from New Orleans, were sitting in. But the center of attention is, of course, Azul. A beautiful young singer. She also plays guitar. The music is a deep, aching post-modern Cumbia. Somewhere between Calexico and Lila Downs. Every Wednesday Azul plays Luna. Check it out. Definitely the good stuff.

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I think I'll post some of the poets' works a bit at a time. I want to get their permission first.

The first I'm sticking on the web is Eduardo Garza. He's something of a local legend. Actor, musician, poet, and etc. He did a piece titled, I believe, “Earthling.” He had the band come up and accompany him. It reminding me of some wonderful melange of Alice Coltrane, Gil Scott-Heron, and Los Lobos at their most sedate.

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The whole show was a perfect balance of music and poetry.

After I packed up, I headed to San Pedro Park. Christy Walsh was holding her second monthly traveling Dada food-related event. A Dada Picnic … with bad badminton playing, selective readings from the San Antonio telephone book, and discordant sandwiches.

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I knew I would be too late for most of the festivities, but I hoped to at least bat (badly) at a shuttlecock. No such luck. Adelle had already packed up her badminton set. And the handful of remaining folk were about to head out to get dinner (the sandwiches — no surprise there — failed to assuage any normal appetite). I helped load some items into Christy's car, but didn't feel like joining them at the Cove. I'd already spent enough time among people.

His Beard, Pointy and Luciferian

I was driving back home from a trip to the grocery store early Saturday evening. On Roosevelt there is an iconic gritty neighborhood beer joint called Vaqueros. In the parking-lot every Friday they set up a wrestling ring and have lucha libre matches. I really should check it out. And as I was passing Vaqueros I saw a middle-aged guy on a beautiful Harley with those fringed saddle bags festooned with buckles and ornaments in silver. He was waiting for me to pass before he pulled out of the parking-lot. As I passed, he nodded my way. He wore a black jockey style helmet, black leather chaps, and a denim jacket. The white reflection of my pickup truck wiped across the mirrored surface of his shades. And not half a block further, I passed a man waiting for a bus. He was lean as a racehorse in a leather jacket, jeans, and close-cropped grey hair. He wore black horn-rimmed glasses and a van dyke with the beard pointy and luciferian. He stood patient and with perfect military posture. I saw a flash of light off him that made me think of the cyclist with the silver on the saddlebags and the high polish of the bike's chromework. But on the mexicano waiting for the bus, the gleam came from the prosthetic hook at the end of his left arm.

I think I have an idea to push through development. Though this is getting me into the Barnstromian territory. But put the one-armed guy in a sidecar, slap the UFW logo on our intrepid duo, and call them La Huelga Brothers. They're “striking” out against crime. Yeah, something like that. Hell, lace them up in Lucha Libre masks and they're ready for a tag-team match Friday night in Vaquero's parking-lot.

Hmmm, maybe I've careened too far into that Tom of Finland territory….

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Friday night I took the bus downtown for the opening night of the San Antonio Underground Film Festival. The problem when events are held downtown is that parking is hard to find. Sure, there are parking-lots and a few parking garages, but they tend to be pretty steep. One of the things Fort Worth did right when revitalizing their downtown was to create a huge parking garage which was free in the evenings. And the parking meters are also free after five or six. Even on weekends. I guess the differences is that downtown San Antonio has always been active. But I live close enough to walk. Or I can take the buses or trolleys.

When I climbed on the bus, I asked the driver how much the fare was. I get confused. It's either 80 or 85 cents. But I was prepared — I had three quarters, a dime, and a nickel in my hand. “A dollar,” he said.

“What? I thought it was eighty-something.”

“Not anymore.”

Okay …. I dug out another quarter and ran four quarters into the coin contraption. The driver handed me a transfer and he pulled away from the curb.

Perplexed, I took a seat in the back. I didn't ask for a transfer. Maybe they're forcing everyone to take a 15 cent transfer, even if they don't need it. I'll have to look into this. I knew I'd not be able to use a transfer. The buses wouldn't be running when I got out of the theater.

But I'm glad I didn't drive — the bus took me to one block from the Aztec Theater. There are at least four old theaters in downtown San Antonio that have been renovated or are in the process of such: the Majestic, the Empire, the Alameda, and the Aztec (I've also heard of the Texas Theater, but I don't know if the building is still in existence). The Aztec opened for business last year. It's incredible. I had my camera with me, but I only took one picture. The chandelier. I had hoped to meet some people I knew, and photograph them with the place as a backdrop, but I never got around to it.

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I'd bought my ticket online (this seemed to confuse the volunteers working the box office), but I made it inside. Because the bus was so dependable, I found myself twenty minutes early. The screenings are broken into blocks. There was an afternoon block still screening. So I had to wait for them to exit. I was there to see the second block, 7 to 11.

This gave me ample opportunity to tour the huge lobby, complete with an encircling mezzanine. I over-heard one of the guys who works for the Aztec gushingly tell an impressed cute girl that: “We opened last year. Yeah, this is all renovated from the original look of the place which was built back in the '40s. It's all authentic Aztec, Mayan, and Toltec.”

I smiled to myself, glad I hadn't been drinking a refreshing beverage at the moment he said that. However, I distinctly felt the subterranean tremors of thousands of Mesoamerican archeologists spinning wildly in their graves (wrap 'em in wire and place supermagnets around their corpses, we may indeed solve our energy needs). Calling the decor of the Aztec authentic anything is to grossly diminish the wonderful corny fantasy of the whole place. You gotta check it out.

Before the doors opened for the 7 p.m. screenings, I saw Brant Bumpers. He is one of the reasons I decided that if I only attended one block of screenings for the festivals, it'd be the one that featured his work. He was with his mother. She excitedly told me that Brant has just posted a music video on YouTube for the band Type O Negative. I tracked it down today. Not bad. I'm not a fan of the band. I find their music flat and samey. It's a sort of dark metal with enough of a punk underbelly to keep it from being too tiresome. Anyway, I'm not sure what Brant did on the video, but he's playing Rasputin (which, for anyone who's seen Brant, is an obvious casting choice — he agreed with me when I told him that he as the Mad Monk was just a matter of time).

The evening started off with “Broken.” I'd seen this (or part of it) before. The Seguin Film Fest? I don't care for it. It's pretty slick and well-produced. Good acting. But it's a pompous, formulaic action piece. The surprise ending is far from original. I hope the folks involved in this production are able to use it as a launchpad to go on to making large budget Hollywood action films. They have oodles of talent. Just very little inspiration.

“Ghosts of New York” screened next. I loved the concept from the start. Yuppies who have freshly moved to New York City are haunted by the ghost of GG Allin (punk's great self-destructive shock-rocker). It's a very fun short. The filmmaker had traveled to San Antonio. She surprised me when, in response to a question as to what sort of camera she used, answered, “An Arri BL.” I had assumed she shot the piece on digital video. It sure didn't look like film. The problem was that the piece was flatly lit. Oh, well, it was a student film.

“Teen Queen” was a great music video of the band Triple Creme. A busy rock-and-roll-high-school kind of thing with gender ambiguity and a killer art department.

“Cheap Date” was a short film with puppets masturbating. Need I say more? I loved it.

“Boxcar Satan's: No One At the Wheel.” This was a block of, I believe, three music video's of the sadly defunct band, Boxcar Satan. (They were somewhat psychobilly in the Birthday Party or Beasts of Bourbon kind of sound.) It was nice to see them on such a large screen. I love Brant's editing. Especially “Pig in a Dress.” He answered a few questions. Apparently the El Montan Motor Hotel is film-friendly. “They never ask questions. Never!” A great endorsement.

“Pillow Girl” was an 8 minute series of cheesecake covers of dime novels and pulp magazines depicting disheveled women as seductresses or victims. The images dissolved one to the next, but the point at with the pictures would morph was always the women's faces. Because the music that accompanied the film possessed something of a dark trance-like quality, I assumed that this was a film deriding the commodification of women. If so, the point seemed to be lost on a lesbian couple I saw get up and walk out. But maybe it was my interpretation that was wrong. But I really like the film. I'm a sucker for those sorts of book covers.

“Zombie Love.” This is when the night took a grim turn for me. I'm looking at the festival's website, and I've having a hard time believing that this film was only 37 minutes. I could have sworn it was an hour. First off, it's a zombie film. I'm fucking sick of this glut of zombification! The second strike it had was that it's a musical. My violent disdain for musicals is second only to my unbounded contempt for sports. And I'm beginning to find camp fairly tiresome. “Zombie Love.” Hmm? “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” it ain't. But it was shot and lit well; the editing and audio, spot on. Great acting. Praises et cetera. But what a tedious little waste of time.

Followed by a much longer tedious waste of time. “Love Hollywood Style.” Four vaguely interconnected shorts about, um, love? This is far from “underground.” It's packed with Hollywood stalwarts. Faye Dunaway, Andy Dick, Stephen Tobolowsky, Robert Picardo, and Coolio (as, no surprise here, himself). The writing struck me as what would happen is Bruce Wagner were given a prefrontal lobotomy and the resulting screenplay were then turned over to one of the Hallmark Card stringers for re-writes.

I have to come clean here. I was so put off by the tripe of “Zombie Love” and “Love Hollywood Style,” that I made good my escape before the final film screened. It was Ya’Ke Smith's excellent short, “The Second Coming.” But in my defense, I'd already seen it twice. Also, I really didn't want to see another film — good or bad — because there was a speaker in the theater that was poorly connected and spiting static throughout the whole damn night. And if the Aztec didn't have someone on staff for a major film festival who could fix that intolerable audio issue, I can't imagine anyone feeling good about forking over the shitload of $$$$ that the venue charges.

But the place looks great ….