What I Learned Underwater in Hanouma Bay

"I am challenged to estimate the esthetic value of, say, a drawer stuck into a canvas. But nothing I've ever seen can teach me how this is to be done. I am alone with this thing, and it is  up to me evaluate it in the absence of available standards. The value which I shall put on this painting tests my personal courage. Here I can discover whether I am prepared to sustain the collision with a novel experience. Am I escaping it by being overly analytical? Have I been eavesdropping on conversations? Trying to formulate certain meanings seen this art -- are they designed to demonstrate something about myself or are they authentic experience?" 

--Art critic, Leo Steinberg via his essay "Contemporary art and the Plight of its Public".

Not long ago I was blessed with the opportunity of snorkeling in Hanouma Bay, the Hawaiian cove formed in the mouth of an underwater volcano and home to thousands of fish, turtles, eels, and a massive coral reef. It was beautiful and the activity itself a great source of pleasure -- like going to a zoo without the sinking feeling that the animals are actually imprisoned. But, this major tourist site turned out to be an extremely profound experience.

I was in Hawaii as  part of a training trip. A training trip, for those who don't know, is when a swim team goes somewhere tropical to train for a week. To swimmers, it usually means a week of adventures and beaches in between hard work outs. To non swimmers, it usually doesn't make any sense.

Either way, I was the only guy who opted to go snorkeling in Hanouma Bay. Just me and a van load of chicks. So, naturally, I already felt alienated. Granted, I was comfortable with this group, I've known most of them for the better of three years and got a long well with the assistant coach brining us. But, there was still the feeling of being on the outside looking in that every guy gets when stuck with a group of girls. Their constant chatter of things so irrelevant and petty to male lives, it's almost like being in a foreign country.

When we arrived at Hanouma Bay it was hot and sunny. We got shoved into this little waiting area that looks out over the bay where you wait for your instructional video to start screening. You must do this in order to paddle around in the bay below. We then get ushered into -- like cattle covered in beachwear and sun screen -- a tiny movie theatre and forced to watch the campiest and most stereotypically Hawaiian instructional video out there.

View from waiting area.

Between the opening montage of hula dancers, Iz, Hawaiian music, volcanoes exploding, and the Sesame Street gone Hawaiian jingle about not stepping on the coral, I started feeling assaulted with a pre-packaged, processed, and FDA approved Hawaiian snorkeling experience. And then, looking at all the sun burnt tourists I was huddled with, I got the awful feeling that I was just another part of the millions of people that paddle, pee and, probably, poop in this bay while taking in these beautiful fish and extremely rare forms of life. This did not make me happy.

But, as we all mooed and shuffled our way out of the theatre I put these thoughts on the shelf. I was determined. This experience will be mine, whatever it may end up being.

Once we successfully traversed the steep slope and set up shop on the beach (hey, sorry girls, but can someone rub lotion on my back?) we proceeded to wade into the bright blue Pacific. We paddled around, already equipped with our own snorkels, goggles, and fins and pointed at various fish as they darted beneath us, completely indifferent to our enamored presence. We were in their world and they knew it.

There's a lot going on under those waters.

I, being of large and lanky stature, started to feel bad about my fins. When snorkeling, one will be paddling around and suddenly come to a massive reef. To swim around would be impossible, one must go over. But the water is already shallow and this reef that has just thrust itself upon you only gives you six inches to swim over it. My fins were dragging everywhere and I felt awful about it after that beautiful jingle.

So, I went back and took my fins off.

I spotted my crew of female swimmers -- they're not hard to spot -- and paddled back out, much more comfortable and confident in traversing the reefs. But, I soon lost them, unable to keep up with their kicking abilities.

At first I was worried. The video informs us to always have a buddy, but I was a DI swimmer and only a hundred yards from a beach full of tourists and lifeguards. What's the worse that could happen?

So, I went solo.

Then, as I started paddling around, I started to feel more and more vulnerable.

Ever since I watched Jaws at an age much too young to comprehend -- and appreciate -- it, I've had a very deep fear of water that I can't see the bottom of -- especially if it's over my head. And, after watching a DateLine episode when I was -- again -- far too young, I've also been afraid of rip currents and being too far from shore. Naturally, in a world where it's just myself and my thoughts, these demons started working their way into my consciousness.

It wasn't long after climbing over coral for a while that I found myself in a ravine. Completely lost, alone, and vulnerable, I sunk down into this ravine, about six or seven feet underwater, and looked around.

I was surrounded by beautiful fish. Colored and shining in the sun. They chewed on the coral reef -- you could even hear them munching. But unlike the annoying guy you on the subway eating his Ritz Crackers obnoxiously loud, their eating noises were endearing.

Here I was, alone and in a world that I was not evolved to be in, utterly vulnerable and going against all of my deep seated phobias. At any moment these fish could gang up and attack me, killing me off in seconds. The spiky coral reefs could shoot their spikes out at me, or emit some kind of poison that only these prehistoric fish have adapted to and end me right here. For once in my life, I was not in control, completely vulnerable, and at the will of Mother Nature, Fate, and God.

Then, one fish -- big, shiny, and striped, about a foot away from me -- turned from his meal of coral and looked directly at me. For five seconds that seemed like thirty minutes, there was a moment where it acknowledged my entirety. He acknowledged my vulnerability, my loneliness, every single insecurity and ridiculous thought my imagination could muster. It was as if he said, "I know you're here, Matt. I know you're scared. And that's perfectly fine."

Then he turned back to his coral and continued munching.

This was as much as I could take.

I pushed off the bottom and booked it for land, longing for something familiar, something human, something terrestrial. I spent the rest of the day surrounded by sun bathing women. I went in a couple more times, but nothing as intense.

I was clearly shaken. What happened down there? What had I experienced? These questions had stuck with me for the rest of the trip and remained unanswered. They just collected dust in the back of my mind, waiting for an answer to bring them off the shelf.

When I read Leo Steinberg's essay, I was immediately struck with this memory once I hit the passage above. At no point in my life had I been prepared for the moment that I experienced six feet underwater in the middle of a coral reef. I had no idea how to handle that situation, how to be so far out of my comfort zone and so vulnerable and human. It was as if being in a place so foreign made me realize what I am. This was a collision with a novel experience that happens very rarely, especially in such an undesigned and unplanned forum. It's in these experiences that we realize more about who we are than in any other.

I had never been so human.

I urge you, wholeheartedly, to embrace these experiences. I'm not saying to seek being thrusted out of your comfort zone, but when the occasion arises -- to embrace it, accept it, and deal with it honestly. I was scared shitless that day in Hanouma Bay, but I'm glad I was able to be put into such a position. I believe art's best, and most important, function is to put us in these situations.

To challenge us.

It's how we react to these challenges that shows us more about who we are than about the art that we've been experiencing. Art (including film) -- at its highest -- charms us, disarms us, and then challenges us. It's in these challenges that we find who we are.

Thank You Drive-By Truckers

I recently bought an excellent album called Go - Go Boots by a great band called Drive-By Truckers.

Drive-By Truckers have garnered quite the reputation as being this dark, intelligent, and story driven band of the South. They're the front runners in the Southern Gothic genre for the musically inclined. I've always been a fan of their brooding darkness with glaring hints of light trying to peel through their black canvas saturated with booze, blood, and tears. They're a really great band to get you in the mood to write, long drives home, and lazy lonely evenings during sultry summer nights.

But, their newest album, Go-Go Boots, is surprisingly... optimistic. It's as if something snapped and Patterson Hood (the brain of the group) said, "Hey. Life ain't so bad after all, is it?" This is evident from the Beatles-esqu "Everybody Needs Love" to the uplifting final song "Mercy Buckets" about the power of friendship and unconditional love.

And I'm glad they did. They still maintain the tone of of someone who has been through something disastrous -- but they emit the emotion that they came out of that disaster better than they were.

It's as if the Phoenix has finally burned the nest.

There are two great things about every DBT album and those are the music (obviously) and the album art. The album art for every DBT album has always been original paintings by artists whom they personally met along the way. One of whom, Bryon Wilkes, has unfortunately passed away recently.

But, one thing that separates Go-Go Boots from all the others is the first page of their liner notes (yes, artists still make albums, with album art and inside these albums they still have liner notes that they pay attention to) Patterson Hood has shared a poem with us:

The Movie Version


It's The Movie Version
Names were changed, storylines simplified, characters unified and plotlines streamlined.
It might have happened. 
Might even be a true story, but we're not calling it that.


It's The Movie Version
Real life might be stranger than fiction.
It's certainly messier.
A fact is a fact (or so I heard).
That might have been a lie.


But the lighting is impeccable and the camera angles sublime
and the Set Director did a stunning job.
The parts were all well cast and the dialogue was snappy.
The Actors all won Oscars and the Director was a sadistic tyrant
but the DP's bloodshot eyes were unfailing
and the audience was stunned and amazed.


It's The Movie Version.
It's not better than "real life". 
But for a couple of hours, "real life" stops and we get to tell this story.
Not quite how it really happened.
But hopefully a little more entertaining.


As a person who grew up loving movies of all types it can be hard for me to, sometimes, discern between why I love certain parts of life. Do I love the way something looks because it would look great in a movie? Or is it because the way the sky and the architecture of the buildings, street, and urban design mix together? Are all my pleasures in life derived from film -- would this look good in a movie? this is so cinematic! -- or from a mix of pure sensory perceptions that haven't gone through a cinematic filter first?

People with photographic memories have been known to have issues in separating imagination from reality (if you were to remember and think that much, wouldn't you?). Film lovers and filmmakers have been known to issues separating life from the cinema. Do I like this moment in my life because it's similar to what would happen in one of my favorite movies or because of actual, real, sensory perceptions creating an influx of happy chemicals? This poem, I believe, helps me discern this difference.

The difference, it seems, isn't from discerning between the two but in recognizing how they blend. Understanding and consciously shifting how we think.

"I recognize my affinity for this situation in my mortally inexplicable life and wish to weave into whatever creations I may make (stories, paintings, films, etc...). "

NOT

"This would look cool in a movie. I like it."

We don't exist in films -- nor do we exist in songs, or paintings, or novels -- but are certainly welcome to take what we may from this realm of our own reality and share it with everyone else via film. In fact, it's encouraged, so long as we do it right.

It's in recognizing this difference between the two, and the cognitive practice of copying and pasting, that we can create great art. And it's this practice that the Drive-By Truckers have mastered.

Color Composition (Movie Barcodes)

I recently ran across this fascinating blog called movie barcode through the wealth of information known as kottke.org. What the creator of movie barcode does (who is selling prints, by the way) is take all the various colors throughout a film and shove them all into a series of vertical lines, creating a colored barcode image.

That was, of course, a repeat of the obvious. I actually have no idea who does movie barcode, nor do I know anything about how they do it. But what I find interesting is what each of these bar codes says about the movies that get decoded (broken down into fascinating post-modern collages).

Another statement of the obvious: different movies have different tones. By tones I mean that one movie may be called dark because its content is centered around less than happy ideas or ideals. Others may be called bright or light because of their slightly more happy tone. Either way, every film has its own spot on the emotional spectrum.

This -- if the movie is any good -- is reflected in not just the soundtrack, (think Trent Reznor in The Social Network), the acting (think Jack Nicholson in The Shining), and the direction (Paul Thomas Anderson in There Will Be Blood) but also in the colors that flood and dilate our pupils based on their lightness or darkness. The colors should match the tone.

It's clear when you look at these great films below, that the filmmakers worked very carefully throughout their production to make sure the visual tone of the film matched the emotional tone of the narrative, thereby creating a very original, stylized, and harmonious film. Something very rare these days.

Enter The Void. Gaspar Noe is known for creating experiences rather than films. This is no exception. The dark story is clearly represented, but so aren't the hints of neon exposure that are also present in his film Irreversible. Most of his technical aspects -- his sound design and color schemes -- are psychologically based to make us feel uncomfortable. The contrast between the dark and the neon accomplishes such. Or, at least, makes feel lost and drunk in Manhattan (still disorienting).

The Lion King. A story that spans the entire spectrum of triumph to defeat is represented quite diversely on the color spectrum.

Fight Club. Need I say more? A film about the oppression of our primal urges for violence and destruction isn't going to be as bright and shiny as The Lion King. The abundance of night scenes, as well as the darkness of the soundtrack, acting, characters, and -- therefor -- color scheme are represented here.

Kitchen Conversations

Conversations that should never make it into any screenplay, or play, but are too good to not be written down.

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

Three girls and two guys sit around a coffee table. Drinks in hand and dressed to the T, these twenty-somethings are ready to conquer a Saturday night. The empty and half empty bottles of wine and spirits stand guard on the coffee table, forbidding the threat of boredom.

JANE, a tan brunette with a go-get-em attitude, is commanding the floor.

JANE:  No, here's how it happened: So, my brother used to play guitar in this band, like this complete bro jam band, like Dave Matthews Band or some shit. Anyway, so his band was playing at this festival, right? And my mom is the only one that can make it/is actually willing to go listen to my brother's shitty band at this ridiculous hippie ass festival. So my mom gets there, my brother's been there all fucking weekend, and she immediately starts texting me, "Jane, wish you were here! Free drinks! Yay!" And I'm like "Oh fuck. Already?" So I'm like, "Whatever, this is nothing new." And I move on with my day not thinking anything of it, right? A couple hours later I get this text from her that goes, like, "Oh my God it's so weird how you have to get down on your knees to smoke pot now!" And I'm just like "Uh, what?" So I call my brother and I'm like, "Where the fuck is Mom and what happened?" and he's like, "I don't know! She just got drunk backstage and ran off!" So, me, my other brothers, and my dad all fucking high tail to that damn festival and go searching for my mom. We end up finding her drunk off her ass with a blunt in her hand in this circle of fucking fat rednecks with no teeth and beer stains on their fucking wife beaters and we like pry her out of there and the whole ride home she's just giggling and telling these awkward stories about her and Dad in college while my Dad is trying to either shut her up or change the subject. It was easily one of the weirdest days of my life. And that's why I don't like smoking pot anymore.

All other persons in living room are nearly asphyxiated from laughing too hard for too long. 

Tarantino Chic

Any time someone creates something--especially a writer--what they're doing is presenting their version of the world they live in.

This especially rings true for film, considering it's intrinsically tied to our world and is the most literal example of a stylized presentation of our world. Whenever you watch a movie, what you're essentially getting is a processed rendition of life. It's like looking through a window within your window of the world outside both windows.

That being said, it's obvious that every writer (since it all starts with the writer) has a different view of the world than the other one.

This is why most movies can be so different. The world Judd Apatow creates is very different than the one Steve Zallian creates, and even that is very different than Eric Roth. But none of them are as unique, stylized, intelligent, original, and just plain cool as Quentin Tarantino's.

Car from Reservoir Dogs. Doesn't get much cooler. Photo by Annie Leibovitz.

Tarantino was born in Knoxville, Tennessee and then soon after was raised in Los Angeles, California. He was named after Burt Reynold's character in Gun Smoke. His mother was sixteen when she gave birth to him. His father split later on and he and his mom moved to LA. When Tarantino was sixteen he dropped out of high school to "pursue filmmaking". Apparently he had an IQ of 160 at the time--which is genius level--so I guess he knew what he was doing. He started working at a video store, back when they were relevant and VHS tapes still existed, where he had infinite access to hundreds of films and film lovers to network with.

Clearly, Tarantino has lived a very colorful life with an obvious level of intelligence, complete disregard of what is expected,  and an extreme lack of formality. After watching and reading multiple interviews, it seems like he's lead this singular life in a way that's worked for the better (his career also suggests this). Instead of being a total weirdo, he's become a very entertaining and enlightened man.

This comes through without a doubt in the films he writes.

Although his most popular films like Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill 1-2, and Inglorious Basterds do a great job at displaying his unique and entrancing view of the world, I believe his most personal film, Deathproof, is the best example.

Unlike the previous movies listed, Deathproof is essentially plotless. It's a complete homage to seventies car movies, beautiful woman, brilliant conversation, libations, and some of the best music south of the Mason-Dixon Line (it takes place in Austin, Texas and Lebanon, Tennessee. Tarantino usually always mentions his home state and one of his favorite cities). It even has an eighteen minute, epic, car chase at the end. It is, in other words, Tarantino's fantasy movie where he was given free reign to put whatever he wants on film.

It's obvious that by 2007, when Deathproof came out, Tarantino had been successful long enough that his name being put on a project was enough for producers to start throwing money at him--regardless of content and commercial capabilities.

But, his earlier films were a huge risk. Natural Born Killers, his first sold feature script, was an ordeal which lead to Tarantino physically assaulting producer Don Murphy in a restaurant resulting in a $5,000,000 lawsuit. All Murphy did was attempt to change Tarantino's script.

Reservoir Dogs was his first break out. A film about a robbery gone wrong, we can't  help but watch as the train wreck unfolds in front of our eyes, resulting in a bloody climax that is one of the best scenes in film history.

And then he shocked the world with Pulp Fiction, a film that could have been good going in chronological order but got propelled to greatness when Tarantino decided to cut up the story. Once again, a gutsy move.

Photo by Annie Leibovitz.

Tarantino's films may be based on a stylized view of the world combined with his own brilliant art of conversation, but his career is marked by an uncompromising determination to make his film. To write the movies that he wants to see about the world that he sees and experiences. He certainly has the chops to pull it off. Thank God he's got the balls to share it with us.

The Business of One-Sheets

I was introduced, a little while ago, to one-sheets by John August. Well, the official name I was introduced to. I was already familiar with what they are: movie posters.

Most of us cinemaphiles know that the one-sheets of old are much better and more sophisticated than the one-sheets of now. But, I was introduced to this website by amazing director Jon Favreau, which features artists' modern, sophisticated, stylish, and incredibly original one-sheets of contemporary and classic films. This is not a new trend in the modern art world, in fact here's another source for what Mr. August calls "unsheets" at My Modern Metropolis and also here.

Less this.

As you can see, the graphics of these posters are all driven by the content of the movie. These artists consume these films, get to the heart of them, and use that as a way to represent the film in one image. For example, if you had one image to express, what you feel, is the most important aspect of the film, what would you choose?

More this.

The resulting product are images that say things about our culture on multiple levels. One of them is how deep of an affect films have on us. Clearly these artists have spent considerable time not only creating these posters, but also in watching and analyzing the films. They break down the tone, the camera angles, and the meaning of certain poignant images in these films and mashed them all together in one image that is designed to get to the core of the film.

In a simple sense, what I'm getting at here, is that the posters linked to above are all examples of what the motion picture industry is missing: class, sophistication, taste, and style.

Now, obviously, these posters are infinitely better than what studios are pumping out as ways to collect our hard earned dollars. My conundrum is why doesn't the studio use these as advertisements for their films?

Faye Dunaway as beautiful as ever.

Granted, they are not for every demographic. This much is true. But they are for the biggest and wealthiest demographic: 18 to 25 year olds at metropolitan colleges.

My proposal: The studios distributing, and therefore advertising, these major Hollywood releases, should commission works by local artists in Boston, New York, Chicago, San Francisco and LA to create "unsheets" like these to be posted and used as advertisements in these cities. That way they not only add a local feel and flavor to the promotion of their films, but also play towards the abundance of "creative" 18 to 25 year olds coming out of progressive, WASPy, suburban schools.

Imagine in this in the halls of NYU's Tisch, promoting an alumni's next film and maybe made by an alumnus as well.

On top of that, if they're feeling generous, they can cut a deal with the local artists to split the profits from all poster sales 50/50. That's pretty good. If my recently post-grad graphic design friend got commissioned by Warner Brothers to do the posters for their next release I'd buy a few. Wouldn't you? The "buy local" movement is still holding strong.

Either way, how we present what we create stands a lot for what we believe in. Clearly, the film industry doesn't believe much in style and class. Unfortunately, though, the film industry is also a major taste-maker for our culture. It's important that every once and a while our culture tears down and starts anew with what we idolize. Rebirth is growth, and if you look at every truly successful artist (the "true" coming from longevity) image regeneration has played a major part in their success.

I would see this movie in a heartbeat. I didn't even like No Country for Old Men.

The film industry isn't just the last industry that wants to fall behind the curve of what's popular, it's the industry that absolutely can not afford to. And, right now, these are pretty damn trendy.

Think about it, Hollywood.

The Noir of  The Social Network.

Paramount aspect of the story. Titanic as a thriller.

Why Everyone Should See HappyThankYouMorePlease

About a week ago I posted an analysis of my top three scripts. Josh Radnor's HappyThankYouMorePlease is a close fourth.

Go get yourself some lovin'.

HappyThankYouMorePlease is an ensemble piece--probably the first good one in ages--about a couple twenty-something New Yorkers struggling to find direction and meaning in our modern culture. Written in 2007--where it was voted on to the Black List--it took years of work by Radnor (who wrote, directed, edited, produced, and is starring in it) for it to come to fruition. It was premiered at Sundance this year and just opened to a limited audience in New York last weekend.

I don't normally read the Huffington Post, but I was just directed to a great article by Cate from C is for Cinema on Huffington that was written by Radnor.

Radnor in HTYMP and his new best friend.

In summary, the article stipulates why, in a time of post-post-modern-existential speed of thought, where trends and ideas last a good two weeks and we all seem to be incredibly pessimistic, doubtful, or just thoroughly lost, that he chose to spend years slaving over something so...happy.

His answer is very well written and very intelligent. The normal stigma we give to "happy" films is that they're less intellectually fulfilling. My experience in reading HTYMP was the exact opposite. It's an extremely smart script, that challenges our modern thoughts and beliefs on happiness and success. And so does Radnor's article.

I highly recommend you go view this movie when it's available at a theatre near you. And, if it already is, than go see it on this rainy weekend. It'll make you so Happy that you'll say Thank You and come back for More saying Please.

That last joke was pretty bad but in all honesty this is required viewing for twenty-somethings everywhere.