FAULT IN OUR STARS

   

     Yesterday was the anniversary of the death of my first love. It is normally a day that I find myself busying my way through a list that makes Santa’s pale in comparison, just to keep the thoughts at bay. But, instead, I burrowed in on my home world, and spent the entire day cuddling and talking with the true loves of my life, my children. Focusing upon them helped the thoughts of sadness that still trickle in, even after so very long, dissipate into the air. I pushed happiness of the now into all of the holes of emptiness from long ago. Then, like an intuitive little fairy who finds the path to your deepest feelings, my oldest, without knowing what day it was for the mommy, asked me to spend the evening with her at the movies. “Bring your Kleenex,” she said. It sounded like a perfect place to maybe burn off the excess emotional energy in a flourish, via a good old-fashioned sad ass love story.

      

 Once inside the theater, the buzz in the air sounded as though we'd been dropped into the core of a bee hive. Excited chatter gave way to a camaraderie that I only remember having witnessed during the initial screening of Sex In The City the movie. Looking around, we saw the hunormous movieplex audience of wall to wall girls and women, but for a stray male date here and there. Now, the Neilsen ratings folks handing out surveys at the entrance to the theater made sense. Twenty-one minutes of bad demographic-skewed previews later, we were dropped into the world of Hazel Grace Lancaster, a teen girl whose constant fashion accessories are an oxygen tank and her cancer. Hazel tells us right off the bat that this is not to be the happy-go-lucky love story we might be used to. She promises that what we will witness is The Truth. And it is assumed that is what we all want, and I like her for setting that out as the welcome mat. What unfolds over the next 125 minutes is the love story of Hazel and the plucky, cute boy, Augustus, who she meets after reluctantly attending a teen cancer support group. 

 

It’s based upon a book that flew off the shelves and into the hands of teen girls, and secretly, some teen boys, as well as a lot of women in the 18-55 demographic, and into the hearts of those very readers. Shailene Woodley expertly and sweetly worked her way into the hearts of her audience with a performance that was pitch perfect as she presented us with a girl who refused to fall into the sappy, maudlin mess that she was entitled to, given the fact that Hazel was dealing with Stage 4 cancer, and the inevitability of her death. That she falls in love with another cancer survivor,  makes it all the more impressive not to have fall into the maudlin.

It has been so widely read, and adored, that most of the people in the theater came in knowing that one of the young lovers would die. But that didn’t keep all of us from being swept up into the drama. Anyone who knows movies, or how scripts go, was able to predict the ups and downs of this particular ride before it ever began.

Plot Point 1:  Sick Girl is lonely. 

Plot Point 2:  Sick Girl meets Boy Who Used To Be Sick. 

Plot Point 3:  Sick Girl eschews Boy Who Used To Be Sick. 

Plot Point 4: Sick girl and Boy Who Used To Be Sick fall in 

                     love. 

Plot Point 5: Sick girl and Boy Who Used To Be Sick decide to 

                     just be friends. 

Plot Point 6:  Sick girl and Boy Who Used To Be Sick fall in 

                      love again. 

Plot Point 7:  One of them dies. 

Plot Point 8: Lesson learned--Love is worth the pain. 

The End.

With Robert McKee in my head, I saw the twists and turns before I even strapped on my seat belt. Even still, this movie got me. The universal language of young love and hope intertwined with our own ideas of love, either by personal experience, or dreams and hopes, and made everyone watching not mind so much that we all knew what was inevitable in the story of Hazel Grace and Augustus. This isn’t an “important” movie. It doesn’t deal with some looming geo-political issue. But it does say something about us. We crave stories of hope. We are willing to look into the abyss of sadness and pull out the love. Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber did a fine job on the script, but for the ending, that feels like an add-on once it was discovered that the story was taking too long to tell, and a Dave Chappelle Wrap-It-Up-Box was looming over Director John Green’s head. The ending lacked the depth or realness that the rest of the movie displayed. There’s a missed connection that I don’t think would have been there if they’d bothered to bring a woman on board to give some female juju to the very female-driven visual interpretation.

Final analysis is that it is a lovely story, and a lovely film that shows off the abilities of both Shailene Woodley, and Laura Dern as her mother. That they foot faulted in the final minutes, is a shame. But, I say it’s still worth it as a night at the movies. And for this particular moviegoer, it was a cathartic 4-Kleenex reminder that love is worth it, no matter what.

Take a look:  Fault In Our Stars Extended Trailer

 

I Am Love

I'm late to the party, I admit.  But, man oh man, was it worth circling back for.  I Am Love is so beautiful and lush in it's cinematography, that I had to step back and separate the feast for the eyes from the story, just to make sure I wasn't being falsely seduced by the pretty.  What I found was an operatic story, that in the hands of someone other than Director Luca Guadagnino, it would have turned into melodramatic mush.  But, along with the pitch-perfect reserve of Tilda Swinton, it truly delves into an inside look at the life of quiet desperation of a woman with everything and nothing.  She has wealth, a beautiful home in Milan, a house full of servants, three lovely children, and a successful husband.  But, again and again, she muses upon the fact that she traded in her identity and her passion for this privileged life.  She poignantly says to her lover that she doesn't even remember her Russian name, having lived so long with the name (and identity) that her husband christened her with when he chose her so long ago.

Many critics (especially those in the US) slammed the movie as melodramatic, and this was not meant as a compliment.  They noted the obvious wealth of the family as reason enough to dismiss the film as some fairytale having no meaning for the average soul, along with the super lush score and quasi-gothic coda.  I disagree with this take.  I think it hearkens back to the universal human quest for meaning in our lives, the concept of true love, and the costs of compromise and secrets.  While the setting of this film in Milan, Nice, and London may be well beyond the financial and socio-economic realities of most viewers, the emotions and conflicts can be found in any social stratum. The film is really old fashioned in this sense.  In fact, Guadagnino and Swinton co-produced the film together, and purposefully set out to make a film that would "modernize the old-fashioned melodrama," and somehow "rejuvenate the filmmaking style made famous in the 1940s and 1950s by the likes of Alfred Hitchcock ('Rebecca') and Douglas Sirk ('Magnificent Obsession')."  There were only a few moments where their efforts took me out of the moment of the story.  For most of the film, the John Adams score was amazing in lending the proper tone.  But, at other times it was a bit heavy-handed, such as the whole chase scene where Swinton's character is following her soon-to-be lover through the streets of Nice.  Similarly, the camera work was almost always beautiful and elegant, but when it wasn't, it was hugely distracting.  At one point, the two lovers are driving into the countryside, and oddly the POV is from the actual front bumper of the car, not the occupants.

It's interesting, story wise, that instead of the punitive cause and effect that is often the case in films where women follow their passions in lieu of duty, this piece deftly moves beyond that rut.  When tragedy comes after Swinton's character has found love outside of the stifling confines of her societal and familial ranks, she actually uses the pain of the loss of her son to launch her own freedom.  Likewise, when she discovers her daughter's secret love of a woman in lieu of the chosen young man she'd been with, she seems giddy at the thought that some spirit of individuality and passion that she instilled in her child has flourished.

Much has been made of the food porn nature of the cuisine, and of the beyond beautiful wardrobe.  Once again, Swinton and Guadagnino were deliberate in their choices in making these elements an integral part of the storytelling.  They brought in Carlo Cracco, the Milanese chef as an advisor to the director so that the food became "a tool to express the utter giving that a lover can display to the other without words."  The fashion was designed by Fendi and Jil Sander specifically for the film, and the red dress Swinton wears in the scene when her character falls in love is classic costume design success at it's best.  

Much has also been made of the explicit sex scenes in the film. Different than most American films, though, is the fact that it never feels gratuitous.  It is spot-on, and right in the moment, utilizing the characters' passion for one another, the nature surrounding them, and the music that fits perfectly.  It is a reminder of how un-real so many Hollywood "love scenes" are written and shot.  It is also a reminder of how the American "male gaze" has formed the norm for the depiction of sex in film.

A fun aside that, for me, ties together all of this ode to classic film, fashion, and la dolce vita was the addition of 70s fashion model/icon Marisa Berenson as the matriarch of the family.  Every time her character was onscreen, I was struck by the fact that her fabulosity seemed to allude to her character having lived in a previous life the real life of the actress playing her.  I've included a few shots from her from her heyday:

CHICAGO BLACK HARVEST FILM FESTIVAL

The Hands had the honor of being given a slot on the 2009 Opening Night roster of films a few weeks ago.  That, in itself, was an honor.  Then the countdown whirlwind began with everyone within a hundred mile radius trying to get their hands on a ticket for this event that was basically soldout before the programs were even back from the printer.  After sending out more "sorry" emails than I ever wanted, the reality hit that I was really bringing my project back to my home crowd.  Butterflies in my stomach doesn't begin to describe the nerves I was feeling.  After I figured out what to wear (I am a girlie-girl to my core), I was on my way with my dates--she who gave birth to me, and she to whom I gave birth.  

The Gene Siskel Film Center in Chicago was buzzing with energy and excitement.  It was the 15th Anniversary of the Black Harvest Festival, and there was a reverence in the air for what had been accomplished during that time.  Awards were bestowed.  One went to actor Hill Harper, who joined the festivities via a humorous and heartfelt recording, as he was stuck in NYC taping his hit show "CSI:  NY."  The other went to maverick local journalist Hermene Hartman.  The latter was given out by Chaz Ebert, noted Chicago attorney, and wife of Roger Ebert.  As I sat there in the room, witnessing these powerhouse women with whom I was sharing stage space, I was completely humbled.  As Chaz noted, this was an especially special night.  The festival has become known for launching and fostering wonderful new talent.  We were sitting in the house that Siskel and Ebert built watching films that were born of fresh, new voices...and then my film cued up to play.  When I was called up to the podium to speak about my project, I left my body and began to watch from  above.  The words I spoke were coming from the mouth of a new director who had somehow found her way to living and making good upon a dream that once had seemed only remotely possible.  The faces in the audience were engaged.  The energy still palpable.  I still don't recall what I said as coming from my own mouth.  I remember it as being from that woman up on the stage.

A few minutes later, The Hands was on the screen, in living color.  Thanks to the unbelievable technical powerhouse that is the projection and sound of the Siskel Center, I saw my film as it has never been seen before.  Crowd smiled when they were supposed to smile, winced when they were supposed to wince, and cried when they were supposed to cry.  Doesn't get much better than that.

Followed up the screening with a too-much-fun radio interview later in the week with the ever wise and ever funny Brian Babylon, http://vocalo.org/explore/content/46214.  We had so much fun, in fact, that he has invited me back to do some adlib media-talk.  Brought back the good 'ol days in the basement of the University of Wisconsin School of Journalism where my friends and I spent a summer running a daily radio news show.  Fun then.  Fun now.

Finished up the week with a little birthday celebration.  Thirty-three is a good place to be.  I think I'll stay.

LA SHORTS FEST--THE NAKED TRUTH

The L.A. Shorts Fest was a great festival.  The Hands screened on the opening Friday night, in the block after Demi Moore's directorial debut.  It was partnered with some really great films, which is high compliments for our work.  Very cool.  Got great feedback, and a few requests for screeners (screening copies) by a couple of studio people.  Always good.

Here's the part I wasn't expecting.  I received a little email with a pictorial gift that I could have done without...someone who felt the need to make his privates, well, public.  I have a friend who is an anchor at CNN who has been dealing with a few oddballs (no pun intended) of her own, and it all just leaves me perplexed.  I just don't get it.  Is this supposed to make someone more appealing to the recipient?  WTF?!  I have found new ways of screening my mail that will hopefully keep that from happening again.  One friend joked that receiving the x-rated fan mail means you have hit a new high in popularity.  I'd rather have a golden statue.

Next...

I have now been on the festival merry-go-round for three months.  The line that keeps coming to mind is, "Be careful what you wish for."  And, I don't mean for this to sound as though I am ungrateful.  I am anything but that.  I am simply experiencing what a lot of newbies discover.  You make this film that you are passionate about.  You hone the best writing you can muster.  You choose the most talented people to work with to make it shine.  You get on set, and the ups and downs are incredible. Passions flare, urging one another to do work that is better for it. When post-production time arrives, the excitement of dissecting and melding the initial vision with the reality of what was captured is at hand.  Editors call this part "polishing the turd."  Not very eloquent, but it must be what it feels like to be given hundreds, sometimes thousands, of tiny pieces to make one coherent whole.  It is said that a movie is written three times:  the screenplay by the writer, the shooting by the director (and cinematographer), and the final meld by the editor.  I always understood this.  The part I didn't really consider, albeit naive of me, is the running around the world to talk about it phase.  But it has to be done, especially in this age of YouTube.  Everybody and their brother, twice removed, feels that they are a filmmaker.  I have talked to folks who claim that they have done 8, 12, 20 movies.  Then I find out that they turned the digital cam upon themselves going to the loo, and called that "film." But, legit movies with rich stories and characters are still competing for the same viewers' attention.  And to do that, you have to run around the world talking about the film you put your heart and soul into.  All of the people who gave time and effort to the film deserve for me to give it that effort.  And, I owe that to myself so that I can continue to tell stories that otherwise wouldn't get told...kind of the mantra of Lotus Girl Films.

So, my days have shaken out like this:

•Joining a women's brainstorming group, as an offshoot to a networking group of women in the industry.  (More about this in the next post.)

•Research at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences on my next project, a political thriller

•Watching old suspense/thriller/political films as inspiration and research (maybe the best perk of the job)

•Supporting other women directors...go see "The Hurt Locker" directed by Kathryn Bigelow!

•Polishing a script for a table reading next week with actors

•Trying to make the moments that I spend with my kids happy and connected ones

•Trying not to rely too heavily on caffeine, even the green tea kind

•Trying not to freakout when my four-year-old lands us in the ER with a "broken chin" on the 4th of July  (four stitches and a few days out of the pool, and he's fine; mommy is still re-living watching the numbing of the wound--oy!)

•Talking to other writers and story people about new projects

•Talking to folks about money for the next projects

•Getting ready for two festivals coming up in the next 10 days

All in all, it has been a good couple of weeks.  A good night's sleep, or two, and I should be ready to talk it up some more.  At the end of the day, the whole scene is just a heap of "high level problems."  Like I said, be careful what you wish for.  You will probably get it.  And then some.