The Rain People

Friday night, I watched Francis Ford Coppola's first personal film, one in which he wrote and directed. He made two films before - one, a Corman production and two, a musical - but this was his attempt at the Auteur, a European tradition of writing and directing personal stories that were, on some level, ripped from your heart and soul. This however, is not a marketable tradition. With that said, other than "The Conversation" (1974), Coppola didn't make another truly personal film until 2007 with "Youth Without Youth", a film that was literally liked by myself and five other people, in the world.

Where was he all that time? With "The Godfather", Coppola arguably became New American Cinema's first superstar director, and though he made numerous classics after this, he always felt he was never able to make the films he wanted to make. I had never seen "The Rain People" before viewing it Friday night, and I have to say, I was blown away. The screening was part of the San Francisco Film Festival honoring Coppola with its Directing Award. Coppola was in attendance, along with a few friends (George Lucas, Walter Murch, Carroll Ballard), and he stated himself, "Why a twenty-one year old kid was writing about a woman who was in love with her husband, but didn't feel ready or comfortable to be his wife, I'll never know..." It was personal. The film was beautiful, shot truly in an independent fashion. Coppola and crew loaded a large van up with everything they thought was needed to make a film, and they traveled across the country telling a story along the way. The idea still strikes me with uncontrollable salivations of artistic freedom.

And now we have him back, first with "Youth Without Youth" and now with "Tetro", a film that might be his most personal film yet. It deals with family rivalry, artistic loyalty, and everything in between; themes that are very close to Coppola's heart. I only hope, because of his fame, that these new personal films will expose to the greater public an artistic expression that has been buried with every blockbuster, action movie to hit the sprawling megaplexes.

There was a time when American Cinema produced more good films than bad films - 1970's, how I wish I was alive then - and hopefully another time such as that will come soon, but until then we'll have to rely on major cities and art house theaters to screen the emotions of America. Let's take "business" out of the "film business."

Couples

A short piece that is part of a larger short film that explores the different stages of intimate relationships:


Couples from Jordan Pearson on Vimeo.

theater experiences

Every once in a great while I have a perfect theatergoing experience. This means the film is epic, the setting is epic; basically the film was made for the big screen. A few that have reached this bar are "2001: A Space Odyssey," "Taxi Driver," "There Will Be Blood," "The Departed," but there are few others. Most of these had the advantage of being screened in the historic Castro Theatre in San Francisco. They just don't make them like they used to. This theatre is all class and old-fashioned glamour. This evening I once again experienced a worthy theater going experience. "Manhattan" was screened in all its black and white glory. Now, I'm a bit biased as Woody Allen is my favorite of all favorites, but even still, of all his films this one screamed "Big!" more than any other. This is Mr. Allen's love letter to his beloved city. Gordon Willis, the Director of Photography, captured this love in every frame. It's anamorphic, giving it an even more panoramic feel. The print was actually quite good; very few scratches. But, oh the shivers! The opening sequence, with Mr. Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" pulsating the very innards of the theater, brought celluloid tears to my eyes. This is why films are made! This is why we can never rid ourselves of the theater; a group of people experiencing the exact same thing with complete individuality; nothing can replace that. And when a film as brilliant as this flickers across a stretched-white screen we remember the power of the movies.

another walk home

Work kept me out late. I don't usually walk home this late. Yet it was one of the better experiences I've had as of recent. It had rained earlier but the sky was now clear with spots of clouds. The moon and stars shown bright, reflecting off the silent streets. A car passed occasionally, but it was mostly quiet. Now even when it's late, it's rarely quiet, but tonight was an exception. It was past the time when the trolley track ran, which meant an ear-piercing silence that made me smile. The air was clear with hints of fireplace smoke. The slight breeze was crisp and cut easily through my fleece. The trees moved playfully with the wind; and I could hear everything because there was nothing. The silence would be interrupted rarely by an obnoxious sanitary truck or the audible beeping of a delivery truck in reverse; but I kept looking at the sky and the empty streets resting beneath it. The setting was like a dream, everything slightly comfortable and yet still unknowable. The city slept as I watched and it made me happy to know that I was experiencing something most people missed out on. I sat on the steps of my apartment building and breathed deeply; and I could hear it all!

Now I'm listening to Bob Dylan's "Boots of Spanish Leather," and the lyrics only punctuate the scenes I had just experienced. The words comforted the sleeping and I comforted the words and the words comforted me.

Can I get a side of humor with my tragedy?

I just saw "Revolutionary Road" and it's a gem of a film; I can't think of a more brutally honest story of I've seen in some time. The two main characters, Frank and April Wheeler, are arrogant dreamers, using their fantasies to get through the day-to-day grind of reality. This is an all too familiar tactic that often ends tragically if not acted upon and fixed; I myself have used delusions of grandeur to get through a shift at one of the many meaningless job titles I've held over the years. It's America's answer to the heart-wrenching "Scenes From a Marriage" by Ingmar Bergman, though Sam Mendes, the brilliant director, shows a slightly different side of a marriage. 

Every step Frank and April take is an attempt to cover up a theoretical mistake. Their current existence is predicated on mishaps, which is realistic of so many marriages. How many people have you known that have gotten married because whatever birth contraception they were using didn't work? Oops, on with life. Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet do an exceptional job of conveying hopeless fear, something that is often "acted" onscreen instead of being genuinely felt. DiCaprio especially, who has been unfairly overshadowed by the brilliant Kate Winslet, was terrifying to watch. Something in his eyes made the audience feel the search for purpose and the revelation of fear. What does life mean? Apparently they can't figure it out.

But enough about the brilliant film; one could read a review like this anywhere and care less about it, I know I always do. Now to address the purpose of the title. Now I know most moviegoers are exactly this: someone who has a day job, a family, reads "People" and came to see this film because they wanted to see Kate and Leo reunite onscreen. These people are also often not theatergoers, which this film gives a bow to; Mendes is also a theater director. The emotions onscreen are raw, humbling, recognizable and often times terrifying; something most moviegoers aren't used to. And here's the problem: they occasionally laugh. Obviously there's a difference between a real laugh at bad acting or a funny situation but when this audience laughed they did so at odd times and I wondered why. This wasn't the first time. Once in a great while when a film comes around and tries to project something realistic I often find the audience chuckling, nervously. This isn't something they would laugh at in the confines of their own homes because it's really not funny, it's usually the opposite of funny. But why then? A friend of mine, Andrew, and I have often discussed this factor of a "regular" audience. They are confronted with such realism that they become claustrophobic of which emotions to express. Now you can shout "film elitist" at me but I'm not laughing, why would I? Embarrassment is the only thing I feel for the audience. How can you laugh at such appalling things? Has our society really come to that? We sit in a dark theater still self-conscience of how we react to certain things. I can only say to the audience, Grow up and I hope to never view "Scenes From a Marriage" with you in a dark theater, you'll think it's a laughing riot.

bo(re)dwalk days

In Santa Cruz. Interesting place; very quiet, too quiet I think. There's a difference between a peaceful calm (various country-sides) and an eerie quiet (Santa Cruz). One is serene while the other is creepy, respectively. But there are some perks, well one really: the beach, though the intense cold even makes that a little unbearable.

For me it's either vast nothingness (country-side) or sardine-packed urbanization (San Francisco, L.A. or New York). Anywhere in between is ultimately depressing and unfulfilling. With the former two there is at least the possibility of intellectual genius or playful insanity or a relative balance of both. But with suburbia there is sameness; a slow, unbearable feeling that eventually overwhelms you, kind of like a cricket making noise in the middle of the night. Regardless, it's tedious. Everything and everyone is differently the same. We accumulate material wealth to assess our own misfortunes in life only to be matched by our next-door neighbor who thinks and does exactly the same thing.

But that's okay, no one's really alike, because we try so hard to be different, which makes us all so similar.

Happy New Year.

dig...

free?

On any given weekday, when I walk through the Financial District of San Francisco, I receive more free stuff than a single mother on welfare with three tots. Candy bars, coupons, brochures, political propaganda, sexual favors ( no wait, that's Polk St.), Jamba Juice in a bottle, the new energy drink from Starbucks(?). Regardless, I grab it all; remember, it's free, a phrase that is never used in the Financial District, ever.

Today's loveliness that was mindlessly pilfered on to the unbeknownst population was Pepsi Max. I, of course, grabbed one and I am enjoying it at this very moment. Yum? Maybe, it kinda tastes like diet soda , which I hate, but the interesting thing is that it tastes more like Diet Coke than Diet Pepsi (I drank way too much soda in my adolescence). Anyway, what's the point you ask? What makes it different than Pepsi One or Coke Zero? Well, it supposedly has no calories, carbs, sugar or anything else for that matter. It basically doesn't exist. It's figment soda (Pepsi Figment?). 

Regardless, it makes me feel good, not because of its "health" benefits but because it makes me feel like the Neo who took the correct pill and now has the information to realize that the soda he's drinking isn't real. Pepsi to the Max indeed! 

film as art

Should it be any other way? As entertaining as many movies are I find them to be less and less rewarding in terms of genuine satisfaction. Sure, adrenaline-based satisfaction is aplenty, what with the Michael Bayesque explosions and the same sex scene we've all seen a few too many times (regardless of how well someone lights a sex scene or how beautiful the people are who are having the "sex," it's still not you and that sucks, doesn't it?). But really, what are we getting out of it? Mindless entertainment, a numbing sense of forgetfulness of any all-to-real life situation or an excuse to not converse with your date for two hours all come to mind, but why? People insist on seeing movies in groups. They find it to be a rewarding social experience, one that makes everyone feel good about nothing in particular. People also immediately frown when it's suggested they attend a film alone. "Alone? How sad..." they say with false conviction. They picture themselves sitting in a maroon chair picking at stale popcorn with no one nearby to complain to. I guess it's just too damn close to a pornographic movie theater experience.

The very fact that we refer to filmmaking as "the business" points to the problem like a brightly swollen, near-bursting pimple that's about to pop (or should be popped right away). I'm aware of the socialist overtones of filmmaking. Coppola has often stated that the job of the film director is one of the few communist positions still available in this great country, and he's right; there is a leader and the minions he controls. Filmmaking is a highly lucrative and job-creating empire that has only grown with greed and stock options.

And there's the problem: mainstream films have always scoffed at film as art because the financial backing of said films is created by men who believe a dutch tilt to be an archaic martial arts move perfected long ago by Mr. Miyagi, bless his soul.

Still, you ask, can films be artistically entertaining? Yes, of course, "The Dark Knight" being a perfect example of epic drama of Greek proportions. Yet, if you asked a regular Joe if he liked the film he'd reply with, "That shit was done and sweet!" Great, not only is the film well-cooked but also well-seasoned.

The ultimate test for an artist is to make something that is uncompromising to his or her own vision. Christopher Nolan, in my opinion, achieved this balance. Many auteurs have, but most have not.

Antonioni's images are playing out in front of my eyes as I type (I know, shut said lid and experience one of the greatest film experiences ever preserved on celluloid, but I've seen it many times before, so there) and I can't help but ponder perfection. Is there such a thing? Not on this planet, but this Italian is pretty damn close when it comes to filmmaking, but the average Joe wouldn't think so, which makes me sad, and I guess also makes the film a failure in terms of mainstream entertainment. But wait, Joe probably can't read, which means he'll just turn up the volume on what he calls entertainment.

godspeed, chuck! godspeed!

Finishing a book you love in an ideal setting is integral to the enjoyment factor. With that said, tonight was bliss tightly wrapped in a tortilla of ecstasy (I had a burrito for dinner). "Killing Yourself To Live" by Chuck Klosterman is an unsurpassed achievement of soul-baring pleasure bound between a front and back cover. It's definitely one of my 'Top Ten' favorite books of all time, and that's saying a lot. I've read this book twice now and can unquestionably say that it will not be my last. The last chapter is an especially succinct gem of brilliance. It hits you - HARD. And when coupled with the barren musical landscape of Godspeed! You Black Emperor and a great deal of wine after a nine hour day of production meetings it throws a mean sucker-punch of emotions at your soul. But here's the kicker: The last chapter is only seven pages and yet it directly explains my depressed subconscious of nostalgia for the not so distant past more than any other piece of writing or any other medium of art for that matter. This book defines me. Or maybe, my life so far defines this book. Either way, it makes me think about memories from growing up - ones you can't welcome into your everyday life lest you risk the chance of going APESHIT.

The clock just inched past 2 a.m. and I can't remember the last time I hit the hay before midnight; probably in high school when sleeping was less painful than staying awake (I'm so emo!) and I didn't have legal access to alcohol (no, I'm not an alcoholic). 

Regardless, living is only death in slow motion (thanks Chuck) and I can't seem to find the remote.

radiohead and subsequent feelings

It's obvious. Radiohead put on the best show I've ever seen; this did not surprise me. They have ways with light and sound. Their songs, for some reason, affect said listener in a way other music does not do often. It makes you want to be a better person but also commit suicide, all in the same drink. Above all though, it fuels your creative psyche to the point of annoyance. As I witnessed their performance the question of self-legitimacy constantly clouded my conscience though not my vision, thank the heavens. Their songs are deep and not just in the emotional sense. The technical savvy they marry with the lyrics and ideas of a song is breathtaking. 60,000 people were at the show and I bet my last whatever that the ones who weren't too drugged out on drugs they thought they needed to take to enjoy Radiohead would agree that the show was life altering. It presented a new perspective. The connection they showed to their music was humbling. Why haven't I tried that in some degree? Why haven't I risked everything for the sake of artistic expression? Two reasons: I need to occasionally eat and I'm not British. But the thought of it was planted again after this show and I can't help but relish in the reassuring thoughts of artistic ecstasy.  Who needs to eat anyway? All we really need is water. And apparently Radiohead.

chemtrails

Love Beck's new record, especially "Chemtrails," though this is not the subject of this post. However, the song title does pertain to the LSD-like dream I experienced this morning. Lately, I haven't really had too many dreams, good or bad, and it's been disappointing. But after waking up this morning and reading a bit of Philip Roth and nodding off again I concocted a doozy.

Started outside of Manteca Water Slides, a rundown water park that I used to frequent in the middle of nowhere that no longer exists.  But it did in my dream, and that's all that matters. In fact it was reincarnated as the country club of all water parks.  Just picture the coolest water park you've ever seen in a film and cross-breed it with the Coronado Hotel in San Diego (a kickback, classic resort reminiscent of the Sinatra years) and you have the water park I was slippin' and slidin' at. Anyway, it started with Cassie and I sitting outside waiting for the rest of the group (we were apparently a part of some family field trip with family I had never seen before - probably a family reunion). After a moment an old coworker from the GAP I used to work at came over and started hitting on her, which was weird because he's gay, not that there's anything wrong with that (Seinfeld reference). From there my mind shifted me within the water park with an inner tube and some other flotation device. I found it odd that they would give me two as I would probably lose one, which is what happened on the first slide I slid down. Plagued by the thought of any convenience charges that might occur due to my negligence with the lost flotation device I suddenly noticed that Cassie was nowhere to be found. Panicked, I ran to the check-in desk screaming her name.  Surprisingly, my mother was behind the desk ready to assist.  She acknowledged by a slight head nod the people behind me.  Turning, I discovered it was my ex-girlfriend and her recently obtained husband; not the person I was looking for. Being the asshole of a human people always make me to be, I quickly turned and jetted back to the water area, finding Cassie right where I left her; funny how that happens in the dream world, oh the convenience of the mind. After a few more tube floats I began to feel the Catholic guilt that is so deeply attached to my soul. I should go apologize and then congratulate my ex-girlfriend and her husband, said I. Running through the red-carpeted hallways in just my swim trunks I finally found her. Rightfully so, she did not want to speak to me. After convincing her husband, who was now foreign and couldn't speak a lick of English, and turning on some of the old world charm, I convinced her to let me treat to a drink (of course I had no wallet or any idea of where the bar was, but I got her out the door).

Once outside, I felt at ease. Here we are, in my court now, amongst the screaming children with mustard stained mouths and bloodshot, chlorine filled eyes. Walking around with her seemed odd; I had not seen her in some time, and things had changed. I was in a successful relationship, my self-loathing had diminished. I didn't know what to say. Should I open with a joke? Tell her congratulations? Apologize?  Knowing myself, and since it was a dream, I did none of the above. Instead, I watched her eat fish and chips from a discarded lunch tray left on a white, plastic table. Peculiar indeed. After a moment, I saw the owner of the fish and chips barreling our way. By his body language I could tell he wasn't finished with said entree. He also had a handful of apricots and was eating them one by one, spitting out the pits periodically. Looking for an escape route I grabbed the ex and moved in the opposite direction. We were now in a grassy field and close behind was the fish and chip owner and another man trailing us quite closely in an apricot canning truck. Apparently they were in the business though I couldn't confirm this thought.  After a Michael Bayesque car and foot chase sequence I was on the ground wrestling with the apricot man. None of his blows to my stomach caused any discomfort.  However, I was innately aware of the sticky apricot juice all over him, which was now subsequently all over me. The ex was nowhere to be found and this is when I woke up.

This dream may sound tame and not weird enough to warrant a blog post but when I sat up it felt as though I had been pummeled with a ton of bricks just like Marv from Home Alone 2, the poor sap.

Such dreams can often be traced to events that have happened in recent days; this one could not.  I haven't spoken to my ex in quite awhile.

And I don't even like apricots.

dumb problem

I'm sick, which is never fun. But the one thing that was going to make this day was the arrival of my Netflix DVD. They sent me an email yesterday stating that it would be here today, and they are almost never wrong. Case in point, this DVD did arrive today; the only problem is that it's in my next door neighbor's mailbox.  I can see it through the metal grate and it specifically says: Jordan Pearson, followed by my address, but the stupid mail man apparently cannot differentiate between the #1 and the #2.  This skill is hard, and obviously not one required by the USPS.  I wonder if Bukowski ever had this problem? Probably not.

I guess this scenario mirrors most of my, and probably many others, life. What I want to obtain is right in front of me (I can see it!) and yet there is no way, short of doing something illegal, that I can get it until my neighbor comes home from work and opens his stupid mail box.

first impressions

So I haven't blogged in quite some time.  I could blame it on finals, but I won't.  I could blame it on the gorgeous weather, but I can't; I've only been to the beach once since this bout of beautifulness, every other time I've been in a stuffy four story building selling paper with words printed on it.  So what should I blame it on, you may ask?  Nothing, I just didn't blog.  And since there are only a handful of people who read this (I'm picturing a baby's hand) I doubt I've caused much angst or disappointment.

Anyway, to bigger and far better things, and to explain this blog's title.  A year or so ago I purchased a HBO television series called "Unscripted."  It's about three "actors" in various stages of their respective careers failing and succeeding blah, blah, blah, and it's unscripted.  Ha, the irony.  My reason for purchase was that one of my acting teachers, Diane Baker, was supposedly in it playing herself.  I got three episodes in and disenchanted, I put it aside.  Didn't even get to the episodes with Ms. Baker starring.  Gave it to my brother, who said it was decent but different; a peculiar review.  Saw Ms. Baker a few weeks ago and figured, what the hell.  So I started it again and today, I just finished it.  Wow, was I wrong.  It was great.  So true to the actor's plight.  If you've ever taken an acting class or have thought about a career as an actor you must watch it.  Though it is sometimes depressing to see how many people fail, the series as a whole paints the craft with a very optimistic light.

Okay, I believe this blog to be sufficient enough to cover my aloof ass for the last couple of weeks.

4 hours of envy

I work at a bookstore, a big one.  It starts with a "B."  Anyway, yesterday while trying not to look at the clock, a man came up to me and asked about some SF restaurant book we didn't have.  He then asked me about "The 4 Hour Work Week," which is this hugely popular book that everybody wants.  It's on all the top sellers list etc.  Anyway, the book's popular and I've shown many a people where it is.  But then he says, "I'm the author."  Oh, well that's different.  So he wants to sign what we have which is around 25.  We round them up and he signs them.  His name is Timothy Ferris and he's actually a really cool guy, just moved to the city; to retire probably.  He mentioned it was his first book; some first book.  Anyway, after he left I became depressed/envious of this man.  Here he is, only 30 years old, and set for life.  Me, well I had to sticker the books with "Autographed Copy" on it and stick them back on the shelf.  This is my life.