(September 21,
2003)
L.A. JOAN
I spent an all-nighter preparing for my L.A. trip. I had no money of my own to
do it, but some kind friends made the difference. A quick 4 a.m. pit stop at my
friend Nobu’s apartment fattened my budget. This trip wouldn’t have been
possible without his help. The seed money came from him after I helped paint his
apartment. Prior to a few weeks ago, and for the previous seven years, his
entire apartment had been black. Yes, black. He painted his apartment black in
1996 after it was jokingly suggested he do so to make it look like the Korova
Milkbar. Being in that apartment, with the black absorbing all the light, was
like being inside a black hole. Now it’s like a roll of Life-Savers, with
walls painted blue, yellow and green.
After three subways and one bus, I got to LaGuardia in a state of exhaustive
hallucination. It didn’t help that I was recovering from a cold that I blame
on pre-trip stress. In order to pull this thing off I had to leave my part-time
job of two years. I knew it was coming – so did my boss, Norman – so it was
a mixed deal. It means hopefully I’m moving on, but at the same time, after
returning to New York, I’ll be unemployed heading into the rush of the New
York Film Festival, which will require 2 1/2 weeks of total commitment.
The point of the trip was to meet and interview John Roecker, the creator and
director of the upcoming movie Live Freaky Die Freaky, a puppet-animated
epic about the resurrection of Charles Manson 1000 years from now after humans
have destroyed the Earth. It’s being produced by Rancid’s legendary frontman
Tim Armstrong, and features the voices of Green Day’s Billy Joe Armstrong, the
Go-Go’s Jane Weidlin, NOFX’s Fat Mike, and a who’s who of punk rock
rockers.
I was stuck in a cramped Spirit Air seat in the back of the plane surrounded by
a family of about ten Hasidim. They wouldn’t sit still, like they whole thing
was a picnic. The mother kept walking around passing out snacks, and he kids
kept moving from window to window, side to side, looking down below at the
Rockies and the Grand Canyon.
The plane was right on time. I got in at 11 a.m. PT. My first impression of L.A.
(I had been here a few times as a kid), while driving through areas like
Inglewood on the share ride van, were the pretty bars on all the windows. These
prevalent house adornments had been brilliantly designed to feature baroque
swirls within their patterns. I even saw one that was a sun with the rays acting
as bars. Never underestimate humanity’s ability to dress pigs.
Upon arriving at the Motel 6 in Hollywood I saw a lovely lady leaving with a
bandaged forearm. Upon arriving at my room I heard a conversation from the
hallway between an employee and a guest. Apparently, the guest was two hours
late checking out. The employee was screaming, threatening to call the police or
medics to have the man removed.
I showered, then touched base with John. We decided to get together the
following afternoon. Next, it was naptime. After that I went for a walk along
Hollywood Boulevard, saw Grauman’s Chinese Theater and the other tourist
traps. I passed the recently deceased John Ritter’s star and also noticed one
for Reginald Denny. I didn’t know white trash Born-Again truck drivers were
important enough for such grandeur.
Eventually, exhausted from the trip and the cold, I passed out watching CNN and
slept in my clothes for the night. The next morning I hit Starbucks and,
contrary to my general opinion, accepted the benefits of chain stores.
I called John around noon and he gave me directions to his place. He said it
would take maybe seven minutes to get there. Now, I know that in New York
everybody walks and in L.A. everybody drives, so I probably put this upon myself
for no good reason. But I wound up walking easily a mile and a half, maybe more,
in the hot California sun with smog gray skies. I finally got to his house
drenched with sweat. He was convinced I had a car.
Some sets were being built in the garage, so we set up in the backyard. I
interviewed John and his editor Lorin Flemming for an hour, then we continued to
talk about life and movies off the record for another hour and a half or so. The
light was nice, with the trees offering shimmering patches. Afterward, John
kindly drove me back to the hotel in his red convertible.
I had a good time. For anybody who’s unwilling to compromise, you could do a
lot worse than hanging out with the punk rock scene. John’s been a part of
that since the ‘70s and ‘80s. He’s been around and he’s still here. Now
he’s directing his first feature and helping Tim Armstrong to get Hellcat
Films, the new movie division of his Hellcat Records, off the ground. Tim, a
mainstay since his days in Operation Ivy, is playing it right by giving back and
offering hands up to the next generation.
The rest of the day left me in limbo. I wanted to get work done, but my brain
was fried. CNN didn’t help.
Finally, Thursday arrived. Another hit of Starbuck’s Breakfast Blend, then I
was off in the ride share. I had a nice conversation in the van with a girl
named Lauren, a recent college grad working for EMI. We were a little concerned
that Isabel would screw up our flight plans (she was going to NY too). Luckily,
things worked out fine. No delays. And I sat on the plane next to a screenwriter
and watched Shallow Hal on her portable DVD player.
All in all, it was a good trip. It was great to get out of New York, though
outside of the interview, I can’t claim to have done much. And I basically
stayed within a narrow strip of the town. Next time I’m out there, it’ll be
for business. And on somebody else’s dime.
Now I’m back and preparing for the fall season. Without a job. And behind on
rent. Wouldn’t have it any other way.
BEWARE WHAT YOU “WILL”
So Leni Reifenstahl finally kicked the bucket. She was somebody I both admired
and mocked. My 2001 short film Triumph of the Will, Part II was a direct
reference to her best-known work, and also a commentary on how naïve goodwill
can often be contorted to grotesque ends.
Leni’s visual prominence as a filmmaker is impregnable. But she will never be
considered a great filmmaker because she served as an aesthetic engineer for the
Nazis. While most people refuse to separate her art from their politics –
which makes perfect sense – her art, if taken out of its context, is
brilliantly conceived and executed. There’s a reason it was so successful.
Thinking about her legacy in light of her death, I began wondering where that
line begins and ends – the line that separates an artist from their
contractor. For example, what about modern day commercial directors? What is
their responsibility? Should we hold them accountable for promoting shoe
companies that profit off of sweatshop labor? Or for promoting SUVs that guzzle
gas and destroy the environment? Or the oil companies that block efforts to up
gas mileage in those SUVs and spill oil all over the place? And so on?
Aside from the scope of Leni’s contribution toward disaster, where do these
other directors fit in, in the scheme of things? We all know commercials are
propaganda. Is the difference merely that these directors are only doing it for
money, but that Leni was an enthusiastic supporter of Adolph Hitler? DOES that
make them better? I don’t know. Or is it that like Germans 60 years ago,
we’re not in reality about what we’re doing?
Most of it is purely irresponsible and as Americans we continue to ignore these
things because they don’t directly affect us. The oil spills always happen to
other people. The sweatshops are always in Malaysia or some place – and in
America we have unions. As long as we look good…
Most people are dependent on some type of medication, regardless of whether
it’s really necessary, so why should we care that in the last few years the
pharmaceutical industry has not only obliterated a long-standing agreement not
to advertise their products, but also they’ve begun buying shares in the
advertising industry to better promote them?
I don’t know what the answer is. I’m simply asking the questions and
starting the argument. It’s a difficult situation. Like anything else, it has
positives and negatives. David Fincher, one of the most successful commercial
directors ever, started out with an anti-smoking spot of a fetus puffing away in
its mother’s womb. As well, in the flashy biz of music videos we were recently
graced with Mark Romanek’s clip for Johnny Cash’s Hurt – a video he
lobbied to do and a rare example of personal filmmaking in the form of a promo
spot.
Leni Riefenstahl is dead. The product she promoted is part of history’s
dustbin. The aesthetics she put forth are not. Is this the Triumph of
style over substance?
My
Weekly Ramble: September 7
My
Weekly Ramble: August 17
My Weekly
Ramble: August 3
My Weekly
Ramble: July 26
-Copyright
2003 by Jamie
Stuart