Let's be careful out there.

One of my first projects as a baby director was a spot I offered to finance and shoot for a friend of a friend. It was a pretty ambitious production –– a post-apocalyptic story involving a golfer in a gyrocopter. 

At one point, I wanted to give some notes to the actor, so I walked from where I’d been standing by the camera toward the flying contraption he was sitting in. 

I didn’t notice that the blades were spinning. 

Okay, I did, but I was concentrating on my shots and the stuff I wanted to talk about with the actor. Between the angle of the blades and the speed they were turning, I was about to be decapitated. 

If you think walking into the spinning blades
is scary, imagine flying the damn thing.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t die. I got about ten feet before I was tackled to the ground by my Assistant Director. Among other things, the AD is the person who keeps the set safe. 

I’ve been thinking about this because I’ve been reading a bit about Randall Miller, the director of ‘Midnight Rider’, and how he pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter for the death of Sarah Jones, the camera assistant who was killed when a train unexpectedly plowed into the set they’d built on a train track. A lot of what's being written makes it sound as if filmmakers are cynical taskmasters who will put people’s lives at stake in order to get a shot.

I don’t know Randall Miller or any of the other people involved in making that film, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t want Sarah Jones to die. And no, not just because they had more filming to do. 

But here’s what happens. 

'Burning Passion', a pretty ambitious
(and kind of dangerous) short film I directed.

A film is a project. A gloriously fun and exciting project, full of potential and fraught with unexpected complications. 

If you hire well, everybody on the project –– even the people who really only stand to benefit financially, like the guy who drives the motor home and the people who put up the lights –– everybody gets excited about this thing you’re making. We all pull together. 

And so when it comes to making a shot a little better, heck yes we want to do that. 

"Should we shoot the dream sequence on the bridge?" Yes. "There’s a train coming. Can we get one more take?" Yes. If we take the rig down and put it back up, we’ll lose the light or fall behind. 

My brother hates flying. He once explained to me why he was more afraid of take offs than landings. “When you’re landing,” he says, "the pilot wants to be on the ground. So he’s less likely to pull up if something goes sideways.”

It’s the AD’s responsibility to not only be aware of the safety issues, but to make them clear to every single person on the set. We have what's called a Safety Meeting every time we’re doing anything that might put anyone in harm’s way, whether it’s working with a cat that might scratch an actor or a candle on a mantel that might fall over and set fire to the chair. 

Yeah, when you're not shooting real bikers wielding real knives or creating a gag to look like flaming ejaculate (both of which I'm proud to say I've done) the safety meetings can be pretty annoying. We’re excited to make this thing. We don’t want to freak out because we’re filming a five-year-old holding a sparkler, but you know what? Somebody needs to. 

I wanted real bikers. I got real bikers.

That’s why when you hire an AD, yes, you want the person who’s going to be excited to work on your masterpiece and do everything possible to make it better. But if your plane is headed for the ground, you want the pilot who’s going to get it onto the ground, quickly and safely. Even better, you want an AD who does the things that keep the plane from going out of control in the first place.

I suppose I was fortunate to have learned that lesson early on when my AD quite literally saved my life. I hope my writing is dramatic enough to make you think seriously about it.

Brian Belefant is a copywriter turned director currently rooting around for his next assignment. Please call (503) 715 2852 or email belefant@me.com. 

Post Script: I sent a draft of this blog post to Laura Nisbet Peters, one of the finest (and funniest) Assistant Directors I know. She offered the following thought: 

"I’ve been in situations like that. The weirdness of it all is that the guy who hires you, and who may or may not hire you later, is the guy to whom you have to say no. Yes, the AD is the safety rep, but the director and the producers are his/her bosses. Accidents that shouldn’t have happened serve as the ammo you need for when you are alone standing your ground with only your tiny sling shot.”

Are you listening?

More proof I have no clue what I'm talking about.

Not long ago I judged the Student Academy Awards. Which is a pretty prestigious honor, by the way, but not the point here.

One film in particular captivated me. I don't think I'm supposed to reveal which one because the awards haven't been announced.

The thing was, it didn't captivate most of the other judges.

One of the other judges liked it as much as I did, but she had to leave before we were finished, so it was up to me to fight for the film. Which I did. I managed to get it a second shot, to have it screened in front of the entire judging panel at the finals.

Where it went down to defeat.

The films that were selected weren't bad, but frankly, they didn't have something that this one did. They all had heart, story, and craft, but this one also had something extra. It broke ground. The filmmaker understood the potential of the medium and told her story (I think I'm allowed to reveal that she was a her) in a way that could only have been told on film.

Unfortunately, at the finals, I couldn't make that case. All we could do was vote.

So what's my point?

It's not that I don't know what I'm talking about. And it's not that the other judges were idiots. It's that my opinion is just that. My opinion.

This is a tough lesson to learn, especially when you're starting out. But most people you show your work to aren't going to get it. Those that do will never –– and by never I mean really, really rarely –– like it as much as you do.

I wish I could talk to the filmmaker of that film that isn't going to win a Student Academy Award. I'd tell her that she's a prodigy. That her audience, in spite of being a prestigious panel of filmmakers, wasn't sophisticated enough to understand what she accomplished.

And I'd tell her to keep working. Because the only way she'll ever find an audience is to create stuff and put it out there.

A story about a fish. Let it be a lesson to you.

A couple of years ago my parents, like a lot of elderly people, suddenly took to cruises. And in order to share their new-found love, they insisted that my wife and I join them on one.

My wife and I, just so you know, are more accustomed to kayaking the headwaters of the Amazon than standing in line at the floating buffet, so when we got an opportunity to take part in one of the "activities", we jumped.

We went snorkeling.

It's not that I'm bragging, but I've done my share of SCUBA diving. So the buoys they put up to mark the edge of the 12-foot-deep "safe zone" didn't keep us in. Before you knew it, we were free diving out past the jetty.

It must have been about 35 feet deep, but I have pretty good lungs so I had no trouble making it to the bottom and spending some time there. And that's where I saw the fish.

The fish was huge. About six and a half feet long, just hanging out above a depression in the sand. And he was beautiful.

So beautiful that I couldn't help but swim up at him, taunting him with silly "fishy fishy fishy!" grippy motions I made with my fingers as I came at him.

After the second time, I made my wife come down and take a look.

And this, among other reasons, is why I love my wife. She came. And not just as an observer, either. She came at the fish as enthusiastically as I did. Both of us coming at him broadside, our arms out in front of us, crunching up our little fingers over and over like we were aiming to tickle a two-year-old.

When we got about five feet of Mr. Fish, I had a sudden realization. I recognized him. I'd seen his kin, although they'd never been quite that monstrous.

Barracuda.

I gasped, grabbed my wife by the hand –– being sure to cover the engagement ring that –– even at that depth –– sparkled in a way that only a really expensive, flawless, colorless, perfect cut diamond could, and hauled her to the surface.

The barracuda never moved.

It could have. It could have taken off my wife's hand in an instant. It could have reamed me for having dared to enter its world. I think it was stunned by our –– my –– utter, complete ignorance of its power.

You're probably wondering what my point is. Well, I'll tell you.

This is my story. It's typical of the stories I tell, which often involve my doing something completely boneheaded but somehow managing to survive, whether it's hunting for an ATM in the slums of Buenos Aires or hiking up Half Dome with nothing more than a biscuit and a camera or climbing over the 20-foot fence at the Italian embassy in Tel Aviv to play tennis on their court.

We all have our stories. My father's stories all come down to how clever he is. My wife's stories are all about how people turn out to be surprisingly good.

I can't tell my wife's stories –– at least not with the authenticity that she can. And I don't want to tell my father's stories because I'd feel like an asshole for trying.

And here comes the part where this is relevant to film: You tell the stories you tell because they have meaning for you. And film is nothing more than pre-planned, structured, extraordinarily expensive storytelling.

What has meaning for me is the intersection of naive belief and responsibility. And if you look closely, everything I do –– every screenplay I write, every film I shoot, every story I tell –– is about that. Even my little tale about my exploits with the fish.

You don't need a dozen film credits to find out what turns you on, story wise. Think of your stories, the ones you tell the girl you're hoping to sleep with, the boss you want to let you off the hook for being late.

I'll bet that once you think of a half-dozen, you'll see a pattern.

Where do themes come from, anyway?

Remember my really smart friend Bill? He's the one going off on postmodernism and how striking a non-judgmental pose is what accounts for the dearth of good films.

I've been corresponding with him about themes and we've come to a bit of a disagreement.

First, a little background. Both Bill and I started our lives as writers. For what it's worth, I happen to think he's quite talented. And the feeling is reciprocated.

Bill's contention is that a theme is crafted from the very beginning. Or to quote a quote he quoted to me, "People want to read your point of view. Otherwise reading your (piece) has been a waste of time."

I'm not so sure. I mean, yeah, when you're writing an essay, you need to know what point you're making. But when it comes to fiction, you're telling a story first and foremost, teaching a lesson is way –– and I mean way –– secondary.

When I first write, I actually make an effort not to think about a theme. Something compels me to tell a story and I just go with it.

Once the first draft is complete, I read it over and several themes generally present themselves. The most poignant example of that was a screenplay I wrote about six years ago about a kid who's so good at hide and seek that nobody finds him for 20 years. It didn't occur to me while I was writing it, but the story came to me as a response to my circumstances. I had just discovered in a very sudden and spectacular way that I was an idiot for trusting my financial affairs to someone else, and the theme that emerged as dominant in the story was that sooner or later, we all have to act like grownups and take responsibility for our own lives.

When I rewrite, that's when I'm aware that I'm working with a particular theme or themes. A lot of times I find that my subconscious has presented imagery, story lines, and characters that support the theme, but once I'm aware that the theme is there, I can often sharpen its message.

As a director, there's no rewriting. If you don't shoot an image, you can't exactly rework your piece to include it. The story themes have to be present in the writing, but visual themes are often a matter of some Zen kind of hyper-awareness that makes you go, "I don't know why, but I think it would be a good idea to grab a shot of that."

I used to go in with a thematic intention, but as with my writing I've come to discover that doing so is actually counterproductive. If I'm looking for a particular image, I make myself blind to the opportunities that present themselves. It's a weird kind of trust that you have to have, but if I'm prepared in every other way, the universe provides.

Does that help?

My report from the Student Academy Awards judging.

I just spent two days judging the Student Academy Awards.

Back when I was in film school, there were student films and there were real films. You could tell the student films because they had lousy sound, inconsistent lighting, terrible acting, and stories involving the trials and tribulations of student life.

You were supposed to see past all that to the undiscovered genius, the raw talent that, in the real world, might have what it takes to create something that was both important and watchable.

Judging by those standards, you'd be hard pressed to tell that the films I watched were made by students.

These were stories about poets and day laborers and security guards and ex-wives, told with confidence, skill, and individual style. They were, almost without exception, productions. Real, legitimate productions.

I'm not talking about the amount of money thrown at them, even though there were several with crane shots and steadicams and one even had helicopter shots of Los Angeles. (One film even had an Academy Award-nominated actor in the lead.) I'm talking about work of professional calibre across the board.

What's important here is that student films are no longer competing as student films. They're competing as films.

That's not to say they were all good. Some were extraordinary. Some were lousy. Just like in Hollywood.

I once met Brett Ratner at some Hollywood function. At the time I was quite proud because I'd written six screenplays that were tearing up the screenwriting competitions. I got something like 32 awards for them.

He was unimpressed. He gave me a bit of advice that I found –– and still find –– incredibly profound. He said (and I'm paraphrasing), "The only contest that matters is real life."

I never entered another screenwriting competition after that, which might have been an overreaction, but the lesson I took away was that you can't qualify your success. You can't just write a screenplay that's good in the context of screenwriting competitions. And you can't just make a film that's good film for a student film. Your work is either good or it's not.

If the people who made these films are smart and ambitious –– and I bet most of them are –– the films I judged in the Student Academy Awards will also play at film festivals. Right up there next to films by established, working directors. Like me.

They'll be holding their own. Even blowing my work away.

That's a good thing. A great thing.

The success of these films isn't qualified. And I'm looking over my shoulder.

What really matters, anyway?

Back when I was an advertising copywriter, I had the good fortune to work for an ad agency in a building designed by Frank Gehry.

When we first moved in, I hated the place. Didn't like the aesthetic. Couldn't understand how this Gehry guy could be so famous and have such abysmal taste in materials and colors.

But after a couple of months, I realized that I was more productive there than I'd been at any job I'd had. The place worked. It went beyond what an office is generally meant to do and created an energy that affected all of the employees. Or me, anyway.

When I left the job, I didn't like the aesthetic or the colors any better, but I had respect for what the architect had been able to accomplish. The agency soon moved into another building –– also designed by Gehry. The new building was much prettier, but it didn't work as well. When books are written about Frank Gehry's illustrious career, the second building gets a lot more ink than the first.

What's my point? My point is that stuff works on a lot of levels. And each person's estimation of the greatness of someone's work is a function of the areas that are relevant to the person. I was able to disregard the aesthetic of the Frank Gehry building I worked in because the energy was so wonderful. (And just so you know, I think a lot of Gehry's work is visually stunning. The one building I worked in just happened to be butt-ugly.)

The lesson? Two lessons. As a consumer, know what you're evaluating and disregard the stuff that's not important. if you go to restaurants to feel pampered, don't make a reservation at the place where you have to sit on a wooden bench and put up with surly waiters, even if the food is supposed to be amazing. If you like watching films with incredible character development, don't expect to be satisfied by a Quentin Tarantino movie.

And as a creator, understand that there are a lot of different areas on which you're going to be evaluated. And don't get pissed off when someone tears you apart for not nailing something you weren't aiming at. If you really really really care about special effects, so what if someone thinks your performances suck?

Sure, it would be nice if you could nail every area, 100%. But then you'd have nothing left to do but die.

Looks like somebody did their job.

Last night, I saw a trailer for a film. It takes place in Paris, the story of a guy who observes the environment around him.

Three quarters of the way through the trailer, I turned to my wife and said, "You know what's funny? They could have placed that same story in New York, but it would be a totally different movie."

My wife gave me one of those looks. The one that says, "You're still not over that flu, are you?"

But the point I was trying to make, without even realizing what I was saying, was that the trailer had made it look as if Paris wasn't just relevant to the film, but crucial. It had elevated Paris' status (and I'm only going by the trailer here) from mere setting to almost one of the characters.

Just as I turned back to the screen, the name of the film came up:

'Paris'.

Way to go, Cédric Klapisch. I hope the film is as good as the trailer makes it look.

Is Hollywood the next Detroit? (Part 2)

After having gone on extensively about why not to shoot overseas, a lot of people wonder what would possibly compel me to consider shooting anywhere but Hollywood.

Fair question.

Here's a list of the disadvantages to shooting in Hollywood:

1) Cost. This is the biggest one. If you want all those things that I listed in my last blog, you're going to have to pay for them. That's just the way it is. And these days, nobody has the kind of money that they used to have. Shooting overseas is sometimes the only way we can afford to do a project for the money.

2) Permitting. There are parts of LA that have a moratorium on shooting. Period. Meaning, no, you can’t shoot there. In Portland, I recently shot for two days downtown. The requirements were A) Inform the film office where and when I’d be shooting, B) Don’t block any businesses’ entries, and C) leave at least six feet on one side of any camera or equipment for handicap access. In Moncton, it was even less onerous.

3) Jaded citizenry. There’s something really wonderful about being welcomed into a community, rather than being given the stink eye everywhere you turn. When I shoot a job in, say, Halifax –– or even Vancouver, Washington –– it’s not unusual for people who own the locations we’re using to go out of their way to accommodate our needs. I’ve even had homeowners make cookies for us when we come to scout their back yards. That doesn’t happen in LA.

4) “Free” extras. Every time I shoot in LA, it becomes a festival of gardeners with leaf blowers, motorcyclists idling and revving, people jumping up and down behind whoever’s in front of the camera, and drivers of passing cars leaning on their horns.

5) Unfunded mandates. Where you can shoot in LA, a lot of rules make it difficult to get permission. Try getting 100% of the neighbors on a block to sign an agreement allowing you to film there.

6) Unions. SAG, IATSE, the Teamsters, and the DGA aren’t inherently bad, but they do have their own agendas which make shooting in LA or New York a bit more complicated than shooting elsewhere. You either follow their rules or run the risk that they’ll shut you down.

7) Overexposure. I once shot a car commercial in LA and thought I’d discovered a great location. As I was lining up a shot, I looked down and saw I was standing on tape marks from a previous production. Believe me, if it’s worth shooting in LA, somebody’s already shot it.

8) The Boondoggle Factor. Let's face it, it's more exciting to say you got to shoot in Bulgaria than on the backlot at Paramount. And for people who want to travel, but don't want to spend their own money doing it, taking a production overseas is perfect.

9) Being unavailable. An amazing thing happened when I shot a job hundreds of miles from the nearest cell tower in Namibia –– nobody could "check in" with some higher up to validate their decisions. Everything we did, we did without help. It was one of the most pleasant production experiences I've ever had. Of course, that's not the kind of thing I'd advertise to the higher-ups...

10) The look. LA looks like, well, LA. Even in the areas that can play for someplace else, you're not going to have snow. And it's going to be hard to avoid seeing palm trees.

Here's the bottom line: you have to choose the correct solution for the project, not just give some knee-jerk reaction. Automatically choosing to shoot in LA is no better than automatically choosing to shoot in Argentina.

Frankly, no place is perfect. The trick is to calculate which place is likely to be the most perfect.

Is Hollywood the next Detroit?

An ad agency art director I know recently booked his first job in Argentina. He's having such a good experience that he wonders whether domestic film production –– like lots of other American industries –– is destined for oblivion, a victim of offshoring.

This question seems to come up every time somebody shoots their first production overseas –– and I mean always. Even back in 1992, when I shot my first overseas job, the old-timers rolled their eyes at my naive enthusiasm for the experience.

Back in 1992, the US dollar was incredibly strong. And even though a lot of productions took advantage of the bargains available, it wasn't tax incentives that kept the production communities in Hollywood and New York viable. Didn't hurt, of course, but there are plenty of other reasons people will pay a premium to shoot there.

1) The language barrier. You're not going to find an abundance of talented American-sounding performers. So if you have on-camera dialogue, you still have to cast in the States and travel them. (You can find actors who can sound American in Canada, of course –– arguably more than you can find in parts of LA.) This goes beyond actors, by the way. As a director, I need to be able to communicate seamlessly with my DP, Wardrobe, Makeup, Art Department, AD, and production team. I'm fortunate in that I speak Spanish, which makes working in a lot of places easier for me.

2) The look barrier. Sure, people in other countries can often look American. (The last time I was in Switzerland, I was stunned by how much more American they looked than Americans.) But that's just the white people. if you're looking for ethnic diversity, you might not find what you need. We couldn't find black people in any great numbers in Argentina. And there aren't a ton of Mexicans in Canada.

3) The look barrier, part 2. I once shot a job in Mallorca, part of which needed to look like an American suburb. How hard could that be, right? Turns out there's one house on the entire island that would play. We scouted Barcelona, too, to see if we could find other options there. Nothing. Thank God for the one house and some creative angles.

4) Believable performances. Most American directors don't speak Spanish, Portuguese, Czech, Bulgarian, or Russian; most Argentine, Spanish, Mexican, Brazilian, Czech, Bulgarian, and Russian actors don't speak English. It's funny how being able to communicate directly with your actors generally results in a better performance.

5) A dearth of equipment. Sure, you can find most of what you need, but if you get into specialized stuff, you have to bring it in.

6) Travel costs. This applies to commercials more than films. For a four-day shoot or more, it can be very economical, but when you're talking a one- or two-day job, your travel costs become disproportionate to your overall budget.

7) Fear. I can't believe how difficult it can be to convince a lot of the people who have to okay your decisions that the world beyond our borders is "civilized."

8) Convenience. For clients or investors with other things to deal with than the masterpiece you're working on, getting on a plane for nine hours is a deal-killer. Hell, it's hard to convince some people to seriously consider taking a 2 1/2 commuter flight to Portland, Oregon, where the costs are lower, the crews are extraordinary, the talent pool is extensive, and the native population speaks English.

9) The US dollar. Right now it's ridiculously low. I can still get a bargain when I take productions to certain parts of Canada, Spain, Argentina, Mexico, etc., but frankly, I save almost as much by shooting in Portland and by the way, I get to ride my bike to the set.

8) Habit. Same thing that keeps ad agencies and studios shooting with (INSSERT DIFFICULT A-LIST DIRECTOR'S NAME HERE), even though they could get a much better piece, and have a much more pleasant experience, trying out someone less famous and more enthusiastic.

10) Specific issues with regard to look. Sure, you can bring in light switches, bathroom fixtures, elevator buttons, traffic signs, electrical outlets, appliances, license plates, all the things that are subtle giveaways that the piece you're looking at isn't quite American, but I once had a box of T-shirts held by Canadian customs for eight months because they were convinced I was importing them for resale. You really want to take that chance?

11) Efficiency of production. Yep, there are great crews and production teams everywhere in the world. But you can't touch the depth, knowledge, efficiency, and speed of the teams in Hollywood and New York.

12) Insurance. If your camera goes down in Hollywood, you can have another one on your set in the time it takes to drive from point A to point B. Sure, with traffic that can be more than an hour. But try that in most of the other destinations we like to shoot in. And then think about your more specialized stuff, which there might be one of in the entire country, with no backup to be had at any price.

13) Extensive secondary resources. Hollywood and New York have entire ecosystems dedicated to the stuff that we're familiar with. Any craft service person knows to put a plastic tub of Twizzlers on the table. Any hair stylist knows what a flat-top looks like. And any wardrobe person understands the subtle distinctions between a Patagonia jacket and a Columbia Sportswear one. Sure, a breakfast burrito isn't a reason, in itself, to keep productions in Hollywood. But the little things add up.

14) Stupid bureaucrats with weapons. I've had more than my share of arguments with armed airport personnel who insisted that my cans of film were not going to cross their border until each one was opened up and inspected by hand. Even in the age of digital production, there are still plenty of opportunities for some low-level bureaucrat to exert power in a way that costs you tens of thousands of dollars.

15) Hidden costs. In lots of places around the world, an outstretched hand isn't an offer to shake. And I'm not just talking about guys with leaf blowers who show up as soon as the camera truck pulls to a stop. In Morocco, for instance, it was amazing how many people claimed to be the king's brother-in-law.

I'm sure there are other reasons, but these are the ones that came to mind immediately. Anybody care to add to the list?

I'm actually going to say something nice about 'The Time Traveler's Wife'.

I just rented 'The Time Traveler's Wife', or rather, my wife did. It's not the kind of title that tends to appeal to me –– it sounds like a chick flick –– and while some chick flicks are actually good ('Bridget Jones' Diary' comes to mind, but if you tell my wife I said that, I'll deny it), most drive down the same deeply rutted path of "woman-remarkable-only-because-she's-played-by-attractive-movie-star-survives-misplaced-affection-for-cad-only-to-find-true-love-with-secret-prince/millionaire-who-ultimately-spurns-all-others-and-declares-undying-love-for-her-because-she's-distinguished-by-being-the-story's-protagonist."

Which in its defense, this film didn't. Instead, we have a creepy story about a middle-aged man who over the course of years brainwashes an impressionable girl into thinking he's the love of her life. Or maybe I'm just sensitive because I have a daughter.

Anyway.

The film had some huge problems (your five-year-old daughter unintentionally travels through time and space, landing buck naked God-knows-where-and-when and you're okay with it because she tells you she's "learning to control it?"). Okay, I am sensitive. There are other problems, too, and if you want I'll go into them, but that's not what I'm here to write about today.

I'm here to write about how the film actually managed to succeed in one small way. One performance really sticks out. It's a scene between Eric Bana –– who plays Henry, the guy who inadvertently travels through time –– and Michelle Nolden, who plays Henry's long dead mother.

He follows her onto the subway, stares at her for a while, and then tells her he loves her.

Michelle Nolden nails this scene.

What makes her performance so good is that it's so right. Henry's mom is a singer, and she has no idea that the guy she's talking to is her grown-up son, come back in time to try and assuage his guilt over her impending death. As far as she knows, she's being hit on by some good-looking guy her age, admired by an adoring fan, or accosted by a deranged stranger. She plays it with just the right level of appreciation, caution, and weirded-outness. When she delivers "I'm glad I met you, too," the amount of insincerity in her voice is just perfect.

And she gets huge bonus points because Eric Bana isn't much help. He plods through the lines opposite her without any focus at all.

I'm cringing as I write this, but I'm going to say it anyway: Rent the film. Just fast forward about 27 1/2 minutes in and watch the train scene. Then turn it off and put on something decent.

Even if it is a chick flick.

Do I owe Quentin Tarantino an apology or is it the other way around?

You don't read all the blogs I write. I never get around to posting a lot of them. Like the one I wrote last week, skewering Quentin Tarantino for the opening scene of 'Inglourious Basterds'.

After I wrote the blog, I gave the opening scene some thought. And I came to realize that I might have been overreacting. In fact, I might have been wrong. So I took another look at 'Inglourious Basterds' (Sorry, Nora, but I couldn't bring myself to give 'Julie and Julia' a second chance.)

Turns out, there are some fine aspects to 'Inglourious Basterds'. Some of the performances are unexpected and refreshing. One shot in particular is magnificent. And Tarantino did a really good job creating a believable place and time.

On the other hand, I'm disappointed in the story. The premise has so much promise –– a renegade group of Jews who slip behind enemy lines to kill Nazis. And yet none of the promise is realized. The only way we know these guys are Jews is because Tarantino tells us they are. They don't act like Jews, particularly. You could have substituted "vegetarians" or "plumbers" in describing them and none of the dialogue or action would have had to be changed.

As for the structure, Tarantino has a propensity for avoiding the single protagonist, which is fine. That's his deal. But both Lt. Aldo Raine (played, astonishingly badly, by Brad Pitt) and Shoshana (played astonishingly well by Mélanie Laurent) are pursuing the same goal. Structurally, that means that either of them can fail and yet still succeed.

Kind of hard to feel that there's a lot of stake there.

Sure enough, hi-jinx ensue. But the stuff that Tarantino spends so much time and effort crafting doesn't so much move the story forward as serve to show how clever he is. The Jews posing as Italians are caught out not able to speak Italian! And in a movie theater crammed fully of Nazis, no less. How funny! The Nazi Jew-hunter plays a courteous guest in the home of the French farmer sheltering Jews! How long can he keep up the excruciating facade?

It's almost like watching a prequel to 'Hogans Heroes', which if you're too young to remember the show, was a sitcom that took place in a Nazi concentration camp, complete with a lovable, bumbling guard and clever Americans who ran the resistance from behind the barbed wire and just around the corner from the gas chamber and no, I'm not making this up.

Tarantino was nominated for a DGA award, which I'm glad to say he didn't win. But he's also been nominated for an Oscar.

An Academy Award.

The best director –– if you ask me –– is not only the person who makes every aspect of the piece as good as it can be (and that means getting Brad Pitt to learn his lines so he can actually deliver them believably), but also makes the piece appropriate to the subject.

I'm not saying you can't make a comedy about Nazis killing Jews or vice-versa. As a matter of fact, I happen to think 'Life is Beautiful' is one of the greatest films I've seen. What I'm saying is that 'Inglourious Basterds' is a silly little comedy without the depth, pathos, or even character development of 'Dumb and Dumber'. It's a third-grade T-ball champion stepping up to the plate at Fenway and, knowing that he can't even swing at a pitch, deciding to entertain the crowd with a goofy dance.

Tarantino does a lot of things well. And I'd rather sit through any of his films than one of Nora Ephron's. But is this truly Oscar material?

Really?

Sometimes it pays to work with amateurs.

I just finished shooting a job in New Brunswick.

A lot of people I work with couldn't find New Brunswick on a map, which isn't to say anything negative about the place, just that it's not exactly giving Hollywood a run for its money as a hotbed of film production. Let's just put it this way: Ambitious filmmakers in New Brunswick generally move to the big city, and by that I mean Halifax.

I've worked in New Brunswick before, so I know how to adjust. The crews are great. But most of the people who come in for an audition don't bother putting together an acting resume because the only experience on it would be 'Football Player 3' in their high school production of 'Grease' twenty years ago. 

If that.

The spot I was working on called for four roles: a father, mother, son, and daughter.

The father I cast was an absolute pro. He'd worked in larger markets and moved back to New Brunswick because he preferred the lifestyle. But the rest? Two of them hadn't even been to an audition before.

For the son I cast a brash 11-year-old who tagged along to his brother's audition. He talked the casting director into letting him read –– sold her, really –– telling her that even though he was too young for the part, he'd work really hard and do a great job. Our mom had been on one shoot as an extra and thought acting might be fun. And the daughter had taken a few acting classes at the community theater.

Not that there weren't plenty of other, more "qualified" people. Actors with a ton of professional experience, some of it in huge markets like New York and LA. But what I saw in these three was magic. The boy's confidence; the girl's awkward innocence; the sparkle in the mom's eye. Of course, I'd have to work that much harder –– not just in directing each of them, but in educating them to the process.

But I was creating a family and a family –– at least a family of my creation –– is made up individuals who have personality.

Sure, there are times when a line needs to be delivered in 3.2 seconds or a mark hit precisely. But if I have a choice between personality and perfection, I'll take personality, thank you very much.

As it turns out, I got lots of both.

I win! Drinks are on me.

I just heard from the nice people at the Northwest Filmmakers Night. 'Burning Passion' was voted the best film of the competition, both by the judges and the audience.

Yippee!

It would have been nice if the voting had been tallied that night so that I could take my winnings ($200, American) over to the bar and buy beers for people who came out to see the show, but alas, they weren't.

So here's what I'm planning.

On Tuesday, February 2nd, I'm going to be at the Sapphire Hotel –– my newest favorite bar in Portland –– with $200 in my pocket. (The Sapphire Hotel is at Southeast 50th and Hawthorne and if you've never been there before, be prepared. The vibe is great, the staff is friendly, and the drinks are delicious.)

I'll get there around six. If you're in the neighborhood, come by. I'll be buying rounds for anybody who's nice enough to show up, introduce him- or herself, and tell me how much they like my film. That is, until my $200 is gone.

Even if you didn't vote for 'Burning Passion'. Even if you didn't see 'Burning Passion'. Hell, even if you're Nora Ephron.

See you there.

I can't put a price on my head, but I know it's worth more than $60.

I just got back from shooting in New Brunswick, where the temperature was a delightfully crisp minus 15 degrees. And do you hear me complaining?

No you don’t.

The reason? Well, okay, we were shooting inside. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have to walk from the hotel to the car or from the car to the location. One time, I even crossed an entire parking lot, plus a drive-through lane, to go into an A&W Root Beer Shop to use their washroom.

Hell, I was so comfortable that I walked the entire length of Main Street in Moncton one morning, from the traffic circle on one end almost all the way to the traffic circle at the other. And back.

I attribute it all to the hat you see in the picture. A shearling hat, with fuzzy sheep’s wool on the inside and ear flaps that –– to my eyes –– look a little like wings. Wings of mercy that come down and cradle my delicate ears.

Angel’s wings.

We were shooting interiors, but we could have shot exteriors. I wouldn’t have minded. I was comfortable.

The shoot went great, by the way. And that’s the lesson for today: Shoots go smoother when the director is comfortable.

Some directors take this to an extreme. They have a hard time concentrating if they don’t get exotic fare at the craft service table, nubile assistants of the appropriate gender and eagerness to please, and a coterie of fawning sycophants to stroke their very fragile egos.

For me, on this job, all it took was a hat.

'Burning Passion' lights up the big screen tonight.

This is just a reminder that tonight at 7:00 –– less than 2 1/2 hours from now –– 'Burning Passion' is going to screen at the Bagdad Theater in Portland, Oregon.

If you happen to be around and haven't been totally inundated by films about guys who ejaculate fire, stop by.

And please introduce yourself. Even if you don't like the film. Really.