i'm dragging a dead deer up a hill

Sorry about the lack of new content on this site (wait, who am I apologizing to?)...

I've been snowed in for a few weeks, downloading/sorting new music daily. There exists this network of file-sharers who operate black market blogs, each one posting full albums for download through anonymous link hosting sites (RapidShare/MediaFire/Megaupload). In the short time I've been at it, culling blog archives and what not, I've seen a few die off. But whatever, while the system's viable, I'll continue to take and take...and take...

With my film, I believe I've pushed the conceptualizing as far as I can. Aside from some specific scene tweaks, the basic layout is more or less set. Now it's all about mastering the equipment, experimenting with sound/light, etc. Once I slow down on the downloading (yes, it's equally crucial) and start working again, I"ll portion out some time to play with my camera. In the interim, I'll try to maintain a regular posting schedule...

Over the last few years, I've contributed intermittently to something that is now around twenty pages of rambling sketches and empty musings. I've never been quite sure about what it is exactly (short story/novel/fiction/nonfiction), but I'm fairly happy with what I have so far. I could limit it by describing the broad strokes but, keep in mind, anything I say about the story pales in comparison to what I see in my head. I suppose it's a postmodern analysis of possibilities, incorporating explorations of transhumanist ideals and personal philosophies in a fictional narrative. At the same time, the writer-creator merges with his work and ejects reality in all directions. Yes, something like that...

I've spent a long time trying to arrive at a definitive style of writing that I would champion as my own. The best approximation of what I wanted can be found in The Gormenghast Novels. Each page is rife with highly detailed descriptions and abstract approximations of reality, to the point where entire chapters could be devoted to a character sitting in a room, thinking (it's a ridiculously beautiful set of books, by the way). I remember raging, furious that what I had planned to do had already been done, and been taken to such a level that I had no chance to improve upon it. So I gave up and tried to move on to something new (namely, the movie). But I found I couldn't let go completely. Maybe I had a problem with watching it slowly rotting on my desktop. Or I needed to assuage my frustrations about my abilities as a writer. Regardless, I forced myself to back off, to treat the text as something already existent. By reclassifying it as a recursive study of humanity, I was able to salvage most of the material and start over again. The new "story" focuses on a single, unnamed character (a generally lacking figure meant to be distinct from me) who lives in a place out of time, where art (specifically, literature) has become something entirely strange and new: "writers" construct sweeping realities that are experienced through technological/biological enhancements. The "reader" becomes an omnipresent/omniscient being, at once every character and every linguistic nuance in a virtual world that closely mimics (but never replaces) the real thing. Within the external frame, my character moves through interconnected stories that blend and clash, in a real-time link transfer setting akin to the internet.

What this means for my book is that the fiction loses its permanence, yet stays somewhat grounded by my desire to carry the protagonist (and those still reading) forward in a certain way with individual character/object interactions, which range from stereotypical to idiosyncratic to symbolic. To give you some idea of what I mean, my first section is devoted to a pitched sea battle, where I spend pages exploring all facets of what is at work in that world, only to throw it all away after reaching a particular character (whose own story begins from that point on, eschewing the original set/setting for the trappings of a mystery novel, one devoid of any clues or solutions - and so on from there). Commonalities shared by most novels/short stories (climaxes, chapters, narrative sequences, etc.) are cast aside, replaced by a need to explore, to build textures and layers from evolving, disparate elements. The idea is that the character/reader is the one who chooses to go down the different paths, while the outside audience members (you) find no bearing in the progression, and so have to approach my work in a new way (one without the aspect of control fundamental to the process of reading). Eventually, the truth emerges (that of the individual in the midst of an extended experience) but by that point, the story is near its end. Then again, it seems unlikely that I'll be able to arrive at some denouement for this thing - who knows, maybe I can keep it going indefinitely...

I'm not looking to examine the breakdown of reality that occurs once the virtual is able to replace the real (ala eXistenZ). What I want to touch on (as always) is creation, not to mention the beauty inherent to the interplay of language and imagination (in this context, as the writer's forms made "material"). It's this idea of creating, nurturing, and then relinquishing control over all of existence that fascinates me to no end (even if it's in a limited form, on paper or on a movie screen). In essence, I am the reader exploring vicariously through my character, yet I continue on as the textual godhead creator figure, bombarded with emotions, thoughts and situations that are simultaneously alien and familiar to all aspects of a singular being...

I'm choking with glee just thinking about the possibilities...

Anyway, I doubt I'll get feedback about all this, but if you feel so inclined, I would appreciate it...

the endless plain of fortune

I've been debating whether or not to reveal any script details, but in the interest of raising this blog's value to me (in the future), I might as well try and parse some of it out...

To help you better understand my work (in its current form), I have to go into some key ideas that I've been tossing around for a while. One thing I've been struggling with is the depiction of emotion in film, the depth to which actors have to plumb in order to approximate realistic responses in a given fictional setting. While many of them try to submerge themselves in their characters (which I feel is the only way to go about the business), the whole process is a sham, however effective or moving the results might be. So I started working on a documentary where I would pick unsuspecting subjects to interrogate, ask them increasingly disconcerting questions, and let the camera catch the wide range of emotions that would play out, along with whatever valid responses I could extract from the debacle. I assumed I would have to interview my own friends, as that light layer of intimacy affords me more information about their habits, personalities, world-views, whatever (as opposed to having to construct a generic set of questions for a stranger). My intention was to "break" their comfortable hold on reality for a few minutes, release whatever monsters I could find in their subconscious (such a simple task), and let the friendships recuperate (or not) in the aftermath. I suppose that means I was (and still am) willing to give up on those friendships, on the off chance that things did not work out, for the sake of art. Not only that, the entire interview would have to be accomplished in a single take, as I doubt any of them would be willing to start over if a mistake was made during shooting (and even if they were, the element of surprise would be lost). Simply put, I wanted to touch on something pure, something horrid, something that I feel is lacking in film (probably the only medium that affords the artist a chance to capture such insight into humanity).

The problem was that I wasn't able to turn that simple idea into something coherent. I didn't just want two hours of interviews, I wanted to explore the reasons behind the reasons. I wanted to understand my point of view more fully, so I tabled the idea and started waiting for inspiration. I've been waiting ever since. Eventually, I gave up, and tried moving in other, more generic, directions. Aside from my GREAT idea, I wanted to explore another, simpler one: the notion of the artist, held firm by his/her own humanity. I've always believed that art (in any form) strives at the human psyche from an entirely different reality. How it's something removed from, yet intrinsically tied to, human existence. That's why I have to roll my eyes when I hear mention of "intellectual property" or "artists' rights". Any work of art, by its very definition, is immediately divested of its creator, floating freely in a strange, undulating ocean of creative expression, for all of humanity to examine. Whether repulsed, stricken, moved, the audience is brought to bear against an enormity they hate to truly consider, solely because its complexity and beauty dwarf any other pursuit of man. And while aspects of it do become tainted by greed, marketing, what have you, the concept of art, as creation from nothing, can never be tarnished. What amazes me most is how easily anyone can contribute to this blinding, chaotic tapestry, and how rarely it's done well.

Know the sublime and bare it to the world...

Anyway (oh yes, I rant like that all the time), I wanted to show how the inner artist fights a losing battle all his life. I myself am constantly lost in a creative funk, never exploring my ideas fully for fear of how derivative they seem. Not to mention the external pressures of wanting to pursue the role of an artist in a world built around a devotion to money and property. So this became the new focus of my movie: a study of the failed artist, society's lost cause, abandoned by the world he has come to abhor, yet cannot do without. But what would be the crux? I obsessed over this for weeks until I hit on it. I've now incorporated my original documentary into the mix, turning my movie into a fictional "biopic". Elements of the absurd and surreal abound, of course (I'll try to go into more detail in future posts). Blame such idiosyncrasies on my devotion to the works of Lynch, Cronenberg, Jarmusch, Fellini, et al. But underneath all the window dressing is a story of destruction, a story that is fundamentally mine. In the movie, my character, who is never seen fully on camera (which in turn switches from a third-person to first-person view intermittently), attempts to create the aforementioned documentary while suffering from the same sort of block that has plagued me for so long. "Scenes" from the documentary will be shown, which will be actual interviews I conduct in the vein mentioned above (so the movie telescopes into a never-ending tunnel of truth and fiction). The camera represents me as the artist (the one who cannot build from anything other than what he knows as a film "student") as my character represents all that is left of my human self. The movie progresses as he interacts with those around him in an extremely caustic manner, essentially working toward a complete separation from all things, while simultaneously editing his documentary into oblivion. Much of the film will be extremely somber and empty, devoid of dialogue, music, and shot in muted color schemes. While the brunt of the story relies on human interaction (or the lack thereof), I will also attempt to study the influence the film has on the reality it creates for the audience.

In short, a masterpiece that may become too complex for me to handle on my own...

six days at the bottom of the ocean

This is a window into creation...

I am attempting to make a film with no previous experience whatsoever. I have parts of a vague script, a general idea of the thematic elements I'm looking to explore, and a camera (along with some equipment "essentials"). I expect any actors I conscript will have to work tiresome hours for free, and that I'll have to employ guerrilla tactics for most of my external shots. None of this concerns me to any great degree, even though it probably should. I'll try to write as often as I can in order to fully flesh out the whole ordeal. And hopefully, months from now, I can tunnel back through my posts with a giddy nostalgia, as opposed to feelings of regret and shame.

I am a student of film theory, but not in any professional sense. I've spent the last six years forcing movie after movie onto my senses, into my brain, watching everything from big-budget blockbusters to canonic genre pieces to eye-opening art-house classics. Given enough time, I might be able to beat some worthwhile ideas out of my head and form them into something concrete. Will that give me enough to go about making something of my own? Of course not. But maybe all I really need to do is advance my practical knowledge to a level where I change from an audience member to a competent participant. This might just be an attempt to pay back the artists who moved me, or simply a way to excise this tumor of creative ramblings that hasn't stopped growing since I began my "studies." Either way...

The blog keeps track of my progress and serves as my venue to vent and babble incoherently. Regardless of how long it takes, or how many obstacles pop up, it seems I have no choice: This is the only option that makes sense or gives me any hope to do something worthwhile.

What do we have if not a voice to shout with?