November 2009 Archives

Codie Elaine Brooks, a fellow Life After Film School co-host, recently blogged about our interview with Brad Falchuk, the co-creator and executive producer of the new Fox series Glee.  As Codie mentioned, he's also the co-founder of the Young Storytellers Foundation.

The Young Storytellers Foundation (YSF) teams adults - writers, filmmakers, actors, film students - with 4th and 5th graders from targeted schools who (per the YSF website) "have little or no access to the arts."  For one hour each week, for seven weeks, the mentors "guide and encourage the students as they imagine and develop their own short screenplay."

Hey, let's hop into this conveniently placed time machine for a quick, thematically relevant detour!

When I was three-years-old, my dad and I would sit on the carpeted floor of our family's townhouse and write stories.  Rather, I would tell stories to my dad, and he would type them out on his typewriter.

I don't have many memories from that period, and if you asked me what color my dad's shirt was on the day we wrote my sequel to Superman, I couldn't tell you.  But I recall with crisp clarity the way I felt when he read my stories aloud.  Hearing my words spoken in someone else's voice somehow validated their existence.  I had created something real.

I joined YSF with that memory in mind.

YSF starts each hour-long session with a series of activities that teach the fundamentals of storytelling in engaging ways.  Take, for example, "Three Things."  Everybody is randomly paired up with someone else, and each person studies the appearance of his or her partner, from hairstyle to shoe color.  Everyone turns around and changes three things about their appearance, then flips back around and must identify the three differences in their partner's appearance.

It was a huge hit, and if the kids had their way we would have played Three Things for the rest of the hour.  But amidst the tugging of socks, twisting of hats and flipping of collars, the children learned how even the smallest details - a crooked shoelace, an un-tucked shirt - matter to a story.

I was mentor to a 10-year-old girl named Michaelle.  She was extremely shy at the start of the program, slow to offer her opinion and quick to defer to mine.  My job as a mentor wasn't to help her think of ideas; what little I could initially get out of Michaelle burst with creativity.  No, most of my job was simply repeating a variation of the phrase, "That is a wonderful idea."

We fleshed out her story over a five-week period, and the change that took place in Michaelle was palpable.  By the fifth week my encouragement was no longer required, and at times I couldn't type her words on my laptop as quickly as she came up with them.

The young storytellers completed their screenplays by the end of Week 7, and Week 8 - the final week - brought with it 'The Big Show.'  Per the YSF website: "In the eighth week, professional Hollywood actors perform the students' scripts for a live audience. We call these performances the "Big Show" because for the students watching their creation come to life, it is a very big moment."

Mentors and mentees arrived early to the elementary school's auditorium this past Tuesday to prepare.  Posters were drawn, colored, and put up.  Much pizza was consumed.  The talented actors arrived, auditioned for the children, and were cast.

The auditorium filled to capacity with students, and the performances began.  Soon it was time for Michaelle's story, 'Keep Dreaming,' about a 10-year-old girl's dream to travel to the moon.  I stole glances her way as the actors ran about the stage, morphing into astronauts, principals, and even, on occasion, spaceships.  

An earthquake couldn't have shaken Michaelle's gaze from the stage.  She laughed at the jokes she had written, and tensed up at the moments she intended to be suspenseful.  It was a story she had spent five weeks preparing, but you'd have thought she was experiencing it for the first time.  

It's easy to become jaded in film school, when writing can sometimes feel like a never-ending turnstile of feedback and revision.  Seeing Michaelle's reaction as her script was brought to life reminded me of the raw, awe-inspiring power of storytelling.  Corny as it sounds, I have gotten more out of YSF than I have put in.

Perhaps it's too poetically convenient to say that the look on Michaelle's face was similar to the one I wore when my dad read my first story back to me.  Maybe, in a subconscious desire to have my YSF experience play out a certain way, I saw only what I wanted to see.  All the same, as the auditorium emptied and the scattered pizza boxes were thrown away, Michaelle asked a final question before she ran off to class.

"Can I do this again?"

News flash: No one hands you a Post Film School Survival Handbook when you graduate.  You have to wing it.  But wouldn't it be nice?  Not just for financial and job search issues, but for the emotional dilemmas too.  This is an entirely new and odd phase.  Expect a few existential ponderings.  Seriously.

I have to remember that I did not just graduate from film school.  I graduated from my academic existence.  Twenty-two years of school in the fall and work or play in the summer.  Well, it's fall again.  And it's still a bit strange for me that I am not sitting in a classroom, fervently writing notes or dreading the upcoming cram session for an impending midterm.  There are no more midterms!  (Which I can deal with).  

But that also means that there are no more professors -- professors who are incredible, unique people with different backgrounds and experiences in the industry.  In film school, professors are your organizational and motivational gurus.  They give you deadlines - forcing that creative chaos to become something comprehensible - within a time frame.  They are at the head of the table full of film geeks who, at each second, feel even more compelled to cross into "No Man's Land" A.K.A Hollywood - to get their voice out there and be heard.  

As a screenwriting student at USC, all the writing courses were pretty similar in terms of the way they were run.  Every week, we wrote pages for an original screenplay or television pilot or whatever it was that we were writing, and every week, our peers and professors provided us with comments and criticisms and sometimes amusing or brilliant ideas.  The stability and consistency of this writing routine are responsible for most of my sanity throughout college.    

When I first graduated, a part of me felt like I was leaving that stability behind.  How would I make it without film school, professors, and my peers' comments?  And then it hit me.  Ah, it's so simple.  At film school, they teach us the skills we need to write once we are out of school, on our own, forging a career path rather than an academic one.  Okay, so USC has provided me with the skills, but what about the deadlines?  Now this is where the work comes in.  Everyone knows that writing is most fun when you've first conceived of an idea.  You're elated, running purely on the fuel provided by your psyche.  When you're developing an idea, it's like time and sleep have no bearing on your life.  Time truly flies and you don't need sleep because you've got a great idea!  But then reality slowly rears its ugly, but necessary head.  You haven't quite got the ending worked out.  Was the first-choice setting the right one?  Is this kick-ass element really integral to the story and theme or just a fun visual?  Well, now the idea seems less thrilling and maybe your own thoughts and criticisms about your work take you down a peg.  With a few creative hiccups, your energy has somehow disappeared. There's this temptation to stop writing.  DON'T.  I recommend joining a writer's group.  With a writer's group, you can continue the "classroom experience" without the classroom.

If there were a Post Film School Survival Handbook, the Writer's Group section would probably go something like this: Assemble together a small group of trusted and diligent writers (no less than three and no more than ten).  Decide when and where you would like to meet (weekly, bi-weekly, tri-weekly).  Establish a deadline.  Write.  Write.  Write.  Email your pages to other members.  Read everyone's work that was sent.  Show up prepared to offer your thoughts and comments.  Discuss.  Go home.  Repeat.  Even big name writers like Diablo Cody (the screenwriter of Juno and Jennifer's Body) participate in writers' groups.  When she appeared on Life After Film School to give us student hosts great advice sprinkled with her own brand of wit, she discussed how important it is to have a creative support group.

  

As I think about film school and how the writing courses provided me with structure and stability, I have a new perspective.  Yes, the consistent classes provided valuable training and enriched my craft and my ability to discuss and critique others' work.  But it wasn't just the stability that kept me sane during the craziness of college.  It was the writing that kept me sane.  Just the act of writing--creating characters, developing stories, and following through until the stories became the scripts I was content with and proud of--was what got me through.  So sanity doesn't just lie in structure and consistency.  It lies in the act of writing itself.  So if you love to write, just write.  And repeat.  

Today, I'm starting over. When Fox Movie Channel first asked us to post for a blog, I didn't really know where to begin, so I figured I'd start at the beginning. Well, today I shot my last episode of Life After Film School and though it feels like an end, it also seems like the perfect place to begin. I mean, the show is called "Life After Film School" and we've spent the last year asking our guests what we should learn before we graduate and what to expect from "life" after.

For all five of you who have actually read my previous post and are eagerly awaiting the second half of my "to be continued..." first entry, I hate to disappoint, but you'll live. The truth is everyone who makes it in Hollywood has a story, everyone has a path, and everyone's path is different. I guarantee they are all equally interesting. I will say, I've had some pretty amazing experiences in the six years I've lived and worked in Hollywood, but I'll save those for another post.

Right now, all I want to think about is today and how you couldn't have asked for a better last day. It was great because we only had one episode to shoot (normally we have two or three) which makes for a much more relaxed production. Then, the fact that our guest, Jon Landau (co-producer of AVATAR) was equally, if not more mellow, made for a fun and natural interview. Because there was no rush, we got to ask all the questions we wanted and he even heckled our producer, Josh, anytime he gave us a hard time. We also got to meet the new cast of student hosts for season three of Life After Film School. They came in specifically to meet us, ask questions and spend the day watching to see how the show is made. Though their presence brought great energy and excitement to the set, it was also confirmation that our time at LAFS was up.

So now, as I re-start this blog, I give my very best to the new cast; especially my AFI replacements. I'm pledging now to not worry so much about my past, but focus on my present and future. There are so many different ideas and possibilities swirling in my head, sometimes it's hard to keep anything straight. The only thing I know for sure is that tomorrow really is the first day of the rest of my Life After Film School.

P.S. I just want to say thank you Chuck, Josh, Adam, Maureen, , C.J., Tom, Oren, Jesse and especially the crew behind lighting, sound, makeup and crafty. Thanks to this blog, getting rid of me won't be as easy as expected!

Distinct memory: I am four, maybe five years old. It's past dark, and I sit in front of the TV on the bland gray carpeting of my suburban home as my older brother enters the house. He's old enough to drive, and brought something back with him from the night. It's a rectangular black case with a red insignia in the center. Joe holds it up and tells me that I'm going to watch it. It's Steven Spielberg's Jurassic Park, and from here on I will tell every teacher, family member, friend, and friend's parent that, when I grow up, I will become either an actor or a paleontologist.
                I'm kneeling on linoleum in a brightly lit hallway. Across from me is my roommate, Josh. He looks up at me and asks, "How long have you been here?" After a moment's consideration I reply that it's been exactly twenty years and eleven months. I want to pursue this strand of thought but my attention is intercepted by the director's voice as the crew goes for another take. I am not acting in this film, nor am I excavating dinosaur bones. I am the producer, and the past two weeks have been two of the more stressful of my life. This is the last day of shooting, meaning most (but not all of) the largest opportunities for me to ruin my friend's 3,000 dollar investment have passed. Now I just need to make sure my crew doesn't destroy our location which I acquired permission to film at only a week earlier, and that the film is developed and transferred. I need to make sure the thousands of dollars of equipment which we are renting for a fraction of that cost is all returned to the four or five rental houses we visited in the greater Los Angeles area. It has to be returned before a certain hour on Monday (different for each rental house) after which we will be charged twice as much for our weekend rental. I need to make sure the art team, sound team, wardrobe team, and any other various persons or teams all give me the receipts for various purchases they made for the film so that the director can reimburse them. Of course, I need to make sure the director remembers to reimburse them, and will probably have to sit with him as he writes the checks to make sure they're written to the right people and for the right amounts. I have to give the camera operator his slate back which we borrowed from him for the shoot. I think he lent us ratchet-straps too; I'll have to double-check on that with the director of photography. I have six voice mails waiting; at least one of them will probably inform me that we returned the wrong equipment to the wrong rental house. I also have a presentation on Film Noir due Monday.
                I'm a filmmaker. Half of my friends are filmmakers; all of my roommates are filmmakers. We study our art/craft/future source of income at Chapman University, but most of our time set aside for studying is usurped by time spent making films. Films for Chapman, films for ourselves, films for each other. Last weekend I was supposed to be producing one film, but instead I was setting up lights for another film as a favor to a friend.  Last month I was trying to write my own film while acting as concept artist for my roommate's, and I might be starring in another film next semester. It won't be a glamorous kind of "starring in" - it will be a late-nights-spent-in-dorm-rooms-and-parking-lots-during-mid-terms kind of "starring in." But I'm okay with that, because we're filmmakers, and that's what we do. I say filmmakers, not film students, because the latter is redundant once you've said the former. We will always be film students. There is a life after film school, I'm sure, but I don't think anyone graduates from the study of film. It is a school I forever submit to because it excites me and I don't ever want that excitement to end. I do all the things I do - the missions across campus trying to convince deans and department chairs to let me film in their buildings, the emergency late-night battery runs to CVS - not because I gave up on my 5-year-old dreams of ancient worlds and fantasies I could live in, but because I am a strong believer in the power of those dreams, and because I want to be one of the sleep-deprived, beard-and-baseball-cap-wearing guys who give those dreams to kids on bland gray carpets in tract homes.
                I'm not quite there yet, so in the meantime I produce and I run electricity and I explain to my parents why my bank account is emptier than it was yesterday, because I don't think I'll ever be a director unless I spend as much time being a filmmaker as I can, even if that means running to Quizno's fifteen minutes before lunch is called for a 35 man cast and crew or driving two hours to Burbank three times a week. I auditioned for Life After Film School for exactly the same reason; I saw it as another chance to better myself as a filmmaker, which meant another step closer to my dream of actually getting paid to make dreams for other people. Getting the opportunity to sit with established filmmakers and soak up their knowledge, on a sound stage surrounded by veterans of the business who chat with each other at lunch about the Seinfeld wrap party, and then to have that experience televised for I don't even know how many total strangers who will maybe remember me one day when I'm fetching them coffee - that is the kind of chance that few people ever get, and for me it was a milestone that marked the beginning of the realization of a dream more than fifteen years in the making. Until that dream actually comes true and I get to make the kind of film that inspired me when I was very young, I will continue to work and stress; I will print out business cards at Kinkos and go to industry mixers, and I will write until my fingers bleed. I am ready for life after film school. And until the day I die or stop making movies, I'm ready to be a film student.