Out of Focus

A Moth That Still Can't Find Its Light: Root Beer Drinking & Driving

Last night, I went to the Moth StorySlam and made my third attempt at telling a story. Preparing for and attending most of the NYC Moths was one of my New Year's goals, mostly in an attempt to force me to do a bit more thematic free writing on a regular basis. The performing is kind of fun, but not my primary impetus. Rather, I wanted/want to use it as a writing exercise. But this topic should be relegated to a later time, if ever.

I'm now one-for-three. Before last night, I was one-for-two. In January, the first StorySlam after New Year's had the theme "Deadlines." I went to Union Hall and wanted to tell a story that started with the line, "I am an anal procrastinator,". In retrospect, that theme and story are more ironic than ever. Anyway, The Moth had gotten super-popular by that point, and I didn't even get in the building.

In August 2007, I went to my first Moth StorySlam. The theme that evening was "Money," and I had this story about a prank played on me by my best friend. I called it "$18 Million". It was my first time, and I got selected. I performed, it was fun. 'Nuff said.

Now that I've started Aaron's New (Personal) Year – running on the fiscal year model; more on that some other time (maybe) – I'm trying to get back into the StorySlam habit, and so last night, I trekked over to the Nuyorican Poets Café in the East Village for The Moth. The theme was "Wheels." This time, I got in the door, got my sign-up slip in the bag, but out of the 26 people who hoped to tell their stories, I was not one of the 10 selected.

However, a good story should never go to waste, and by the time I walked into the Nuyorican last night, I was pretty happy with it. Sure, I may still be able to use it for some other theme some time, and while this one was definitely meant to be performed more than read, why should I hide it for now. So, without further ado and for your reading pleasure, I invite you to enjoy The Root Beer Accident after the jump:

A Hole in the Night: The Dead Moth at the Deadline

One of my goals in the New Year has been to not flake on myself. Another goal is to create habits for myself, especially in terms of writing. One of the things I have planned to use as a tool in creating my habits are The Moth Storyslams. I first went to a Moth Storyslam in August 2007, and I was selected to tell a story that night. I have repeatedly intended to go to more, but I haven't. This year, however, with four per month, I plan to use the themes as a sort of weekly writing workshop: a bit of structure to force me to create some sort of story for each Storyslam. I may not actually always go, and I'm sure that even if I made it to each one, I wouldn't be picked to perform every time. But it's a habit I plan to create.

While I did my part Monday evening, sadly The Moth did not play along. The first Monday of each month includes a Storyslam at Union Hall in Park Slope. The theme for last night was "Deadlines," and I was struggling with how to approach it. On more than one occasion, I've had a great idea (I thought) for a story that I simply never got around to developing into something that I would be comfortable trying to perform, and so, I didn't go at all. (Even though you by no means have to have a story in order to attend.) But I was determined not to do that last night. I was going to prepare something, even if it wasn't perfect. I invited a bunch of different friends, not because I wanted people to see me if I got selected, but just because I knew if I had people planning to show up with me, I wouldn't flake on going.

So I spent some time earlier today putting everything that had coalesced inside my brain down onto paper. My process with writing a story for the Moth is to first, write it; second, edit it; third, copy it by hand from computer into a journal, writing at least a bit from memory; and fourth, determining from memory larger topic bullet points that I can use later to recall the broad strokes I don't want to forget for in the realm of storytelling, it's keeping those larger story points that is most important.

I did all this on Monday. I came up with a story with which I was reasonably satisfied. And I didn't get to tell it. But actually, that wasn't the problem with the evening because when it comes to going to a Moth Storyslam, there is never a guarantee that you'll get to tell your story. However, what was disappointing at Union Hall tonight was that it's obvious the organizers are still a) not used to Union Hall and/or b) don't monitor the line to get in at all.

The event was scheduled to have doors open at 7:30 and stories beginning at 8. When I arrived at 7:30, my friend Jess was already in line. She was outside Union Hall with maybe 30 people in front of her. As we waited without moving at all until close to 7:45, the line behind us kept getting longer, eventually (I believe) reaching the corner of 5th and Union. There had to be at least 100 people behind us.

At about 8:05, people suddenly started coming back upstairs and saying, "It's sold out." I'm glad The Moth is becoming so popular that they're selling out and have added two new regular shows in NYC per week, but if you're going to become that popular and work in really small comedy/music club-type rooms, you have to monitor your lines better. When they said sold out and nobody else would get in, there were still at least 30-40 people ahead of me and the aforementioned 100 behind. There is no reason I should have even been allowed to wait in line. There is no reason that at some point, some one from The Moth didn't come up to us and say, "I'm sorry, but we're never going to be able to get everyone in, and chances are, we'll have to cut it off before it gets to you." Even if that doesn't make me leave, it certainly would let me know that I was waiting at my own risk.

This is no remarkably new idea. The Public Theater does it for Shakespeare in the Park every summer. We do it with our Rush lines at Tribeca as well. Sometimes people choose not to leave, just in case. But to know that you likely won't get in, at least then, it's your own fault.

Regardless, considering what my story wound up being about, it's a bit of Alanis-Morrisette-ironic (i.e., really, more of just a bummer) that I didn't even make it in, let alone have a chance to actually tell my story. In fact, my closing sentence might even qualify the evening for full-fledged irony. But along with all the rest of the new-for-2009 things I'm trying, I won't let this discourage me. Or something. I don't know.

Regardless, here's a written version of the story I would have told had I made it in and been selected. Hopefully, I'll get to the Nuyorican early enough next Tuesday.

When you don't get selected to tell your story, they usually call out your name at the end of the evening and ask you to yell out your first line. Mine is, "I am an anal procrastinator." The whole thing, after the jump.

Happy 2009 - Resolved to Be a Better Focus Puller

I had a pretty low-key New Year's. I was invited to a couple parties, but I realized that I simply wasn't that into going to any of them, which in its own way, made perfect sense in terms of how I felt about much of 2008.

I decided to stay home and get to work on a few of my resolutions early. I also decided to pop Singin' in the Rain into my DVD player. I needed to make sure it would be done before midnight (had to catch some Kathy/Anderson and/or Dick/Ryan action, of course) to fit in with one of my annual traditions/obsessive compulsions in which the first feature film I see in the new year must be my choice for top film of the previous year. Considering that means that some time this afternoon I'll be heading to the Sunshine to watch Synecdoche, New York, it seemed like a great idea to finish 2008 - a not particularly happy year for yours truly - on a high note. (I literally don't allow myself to watch any other films until I've started the year off right; last year I went to an early afternoon screening of There Will Be Blood and then the door was opened to watch anything else.)

Singin' in the Rain is one of my all-time favorite movies, and by saying that, I do mean I also think it is one of the all-time best films every made. It regularly sits in my top five pantheon, and as I watched it again last night (for probably the 40th or 50th time, but first in well over a year), I was reminded exactly why. The best decision I made in all of 2008 might have been simply choosing to wrap-up the year watching Singin' in the Rain, grinning virtually non-stop for 100 minutes, and singing along here-and-there with nobody to hear me. Watching that film is always an experience of pure joy mixed with that weird feeling of nostalgia I often have for times and places that I've never actually known myself.

Nostalgia is an odd thing, and more recently, I've been feeling the nostalgic pull of Out of Focus. It's been nearly five years since I started this blog, but more importantly, it's been over a year since I've treated it as a regular part of my life, and (give or take a few moments of hardcore attention), over two years since I've made this a place that anyone would truly want to check-out on a regular basis.

So why do I care now? Or do I? Part of me would like to say no.

OOF Year-in-Review 2008: Top 10 Films of the Year

Nothing like a non-self-imposed deadline to get those Top 10 lists agoing. Somehow, I never even wound-up publishing my list for 2007, and I figure, it’s a little late now, even for me. And while 2008 is not yet complete and there are a slew of films I still plan to see over the holidays (I’m currently trying to program my annual Christmas day and weekend movie marathon, but the online sites don’t yet have all the theater schedules updated), I’m fairly confident that the 10 films I’ll mention below (and more over the next several days) will remain my choices as the best of 2008.

The process of these lists and their importance is regularly discussed, debated and derided, year-in and year-out. Everyone who considers oneself a critic, reviewer, blogger, cinephile or all-of-the-above spends plenty of time dismissing the process before tossing his/her own choices into the morass of opinions. We all know that such lists are purely subjective, and we all wholeheartedly believe that our subjective ideas are objectively truer than anyone else’s. And we’re all happy that everyone else is simply wrong.

I couldn’t have been happier to be participate in this year’s indieWIRE Critics’ Poll. On the list are several opinions I wholeheartedly respect even as I may disagree with them. To me, like every year, 2008 was anything but a poor one for film. That’s not to say that there were more or less great films this year than previous ones; just that when I truly think about the year in cinema, it is still not difficult for me to identify plenty of titles that not only have stuck with me, but were also tremendous movie-watching experiences. Culling the number of exceptional titles down to a list of 10 was as difficult as ever, and there are plenty of films that didn’t make my list, yet the experiences of seeing each of them are ones I still treasure.

While I did add a comment to my indieWIRE poll ballot, every choice I made comes with a specific reason behind its inclusion, and it is in this space now that I would like to further explain. I'll write about the near misses and other categories on the ballot some other time, but for now, you can find detail on the top 10 after the jump; click below to go directly to any individual title:

Top 10 Films of 2008

1. Synecdoche, New York
   
2. A Christmas Tale
   
3. Wendy and Lucy
   
4. Hunger
   
5. WALL*E
   
6. My Father, My Lord
   
7. In the City of Sylvia
   
8. The Secret of the Grain
   
9. Waltz With Bashir
   
10. Happy-Go-Lucky

The Polls Have Closed

I had the opportunity to participate in indieWIRE's annual critics' poll this year, and just submitted my ballot about 20 minutes ago. I assume my choices will be posted over at indieWIRE some time today, and after they are, I'll post more detailed explanations for my list here. Nobody will be surprised by my ultimate worshipful love for Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, but there's certainly more to say about everything else, and so ...

MORE TK!

How does Jeff Zucker keep failing upwards? NBC and the pending Leno debacle

That's right, kids. All it takes is a major multi-million dollar corporate executive to make one of the biggest bonehead moves in television history to at least momentarily get me out of this writing funk. Here's a question for you: let's say you somehow managed to executive produce the most profitable morning news show in television history, and that lands you a cushy little promotion to be the big cheese, in charge of all of one of the big three's entertainment programming. Funny thing though ... you have a surprise hit here and there, but for the most part, your ascendancy to that top entertainment chair (from the news division, mind you) helps your network begin and continue its slide from the #1 network overall right down to the bottom. So what happens next? Dammit ... you get promoted. And promoted again. And again. And I'm pretty sure one more time. At least four times, I believe. Welcome to the charmed life of Jeff Zucker, the President & CEO of NBC Universal.

Now comes the coup de grace: as everyone has heard by now, NBC has recently decided that since they promised Conan O'Brien The Tonight Show starting in mid-2009, and they didn't want to risk losing current late-night ratings leader Jay Leno to another network, they would make the next (il)logical choice - hand over the 10 PM (9 Central, dontcha forget) time slot every weeknight to Leno so that he may continue essentially his version of The Tonight Show under a different moniker.

You may not be reading it here first, but I'd be willing to place every single dollar I have (or these days, don't have) that this is potentially the worst move in television history. Yes, worse than CBS giving up the NFL to Fox with nary a fight. (Don't laugh ... that single move helped contribute to years of CBS in the desert and to Fox rising up high enough to make people say the "Big Four" rather than "Big Three.") Yes, significantly worse than Katie Couric to the CBS Evening News or Deborah Norville replacing Jane Pauley on Today. Far, far, FAR worse than giving the Geico cavemen a sitcom or even the disastrous (and costly) "Chevy Chase Show" on Fox.

There isn't just one reason why this is a terrible strategic move for NBC. And before anyone simply calls me a "Leno hater," the quality of Leno's show is probably the least important factor as to why by this time next year (if there's any justice) this colossal flop will lead to Zucker's demise. For the recent successes at NBC -- and there have been a few, most notably the revival of the Thursday night comedy line-up and the decision to give over Sunday night to football -- have truly been in spite of some downright stupid strategic decisions by Zucker, both in terms of his hiring of subordinate management and specific programming.

Way Scarier Than Any of the Saw Movies

Fox News: Palin didn't know Africa was a continent

I mean ... really?

SYNECDOCHE, NEW YORK: A Reaction, Not Yet a Review via an open letter to Charlie Kaufman

Dear Charlie Kaufman,

You don't know me, and yet, you have created a film that touched the inside of my brain, heart and soul. I have never had as emotional a reaction to any of the thousands of movies I have watched in my lifetime as I had to Synecdoche, New York at a press screening this past Friday. In fact, by some cosmic convergence that – especially in consideration of your work, past and present – seems utterly appropriate, said screening was just the beginning of an entire weekend of film, theater and music that launched me into an experiential examination of self that shocked, excited, depressed and perplexed me. Thank you. Fuck you. Who the hell are you?

I'm sure I can't answer that question simply from admiring your accumulated writings. The emotional spectrum of your works – from the dreamy, beautiful, hopeful Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind to the fleeting, wholly fantastic yet somehow realistic and seemingly hopeless yet ultimately accepting world(s) of Synecdoche, New York -- has repeatedly left me in awe and (all evidence to the contrary) speechless. The experience of living in Synecdoche for two hours has certainly been the apex even as said encounter was at times one of the most painful of my life. But as someone who has often struggled with the simple idea of "feeling," (and apologies for my venturing into TMI), this pain was … good? It was something I long to experience by revisiting your world again and again and again. And ultimately, with a reaction like that, one so visceral and active, can an argument be made that any work which elicits such reaction is anything less than a true masterpiece in the pantheon of arts?

This weekend's journey proved fascinating. I left Synecdoche for a hunting preserve in Southern Illinois where -- during Craig Wright's play Lady -- I watched a completely different look at love, friendship and relationships complicated and potentially destroyed thanks to something as elemental as political disagreement .The next day, still thoroughly affected by your film, I stayed in Manhattan, watching a foursome of New York theater dreamers simultaneously develop and perform in the ultra-meta-musical experience of [title of show], 90 minutes made even more bittersweet by the fact that this little-show-that-could had already become the little-show-that-could-until-it-couldn't as it was closing on Sunday after just over 100 Broadway performances. But, in a very different way than my gratitude to you, I was ever-so-grateful to have experience [title of show], an absolutely hysterical musical, that managed to be so much more as I saw it take the time to once again reinforce that the only thing stopping my creativity and dream pursuits is the lifeblood-sucking vampire of self-doubt.

But back to your film which I have no doubt will completely divide critics and audiences alike. (As this has already happened, I don't pretend to prognosticate.) I found myself asking so many questions as I continued to dry my tears and left the screening room, many of which had very little to do with the most basic question requiring answers from a film reviewer (as well as, but maybe less so, a critic): is it good? Is it well-made? Does the filmmaking and the story and the movie succeed?

Personally, I can't think of any way to say no, but at the same time, I can't yet critique your film because I am still way too focused on analyzing my own reaction to it. My opinion that Synecdoche may enter my canon of greatest films I've ever seen in no way contradicts my complete understanding as to why some (many?) people will downright hate it or at the very least not get it. I don't say that with any feeling of superiority nor condescension; if you had made and I had seen Synecdoche as 25-year-old Aaron – just four years removed from UCLA, about to embark on the beginning of his dream of a great job bringing him to New York – rather than as 37-year-old Aaron -- with a completely different perspective on life (in general as well as his own) – I may have appreciated it, but I doubt that I would have actually gotten it. And, obviously, this is just me utilizing my experience; my happiness and bitterness; my optimism and despair; my hypochondria and masochism; my dashed hopes and realized failures; my fleeting memories and permanent record; my moments of euphoric elation and aching sadness …. All mine; all mine that I bring to share in the life Caden Cotard as I watch a week turn into six years and certain inexplicable death thanks to unexplained illness elongate into an elderly life; as I see Caden's continual striving for absolute truth and some degree of artistic and creative perfection turn into a play never performed for an audience. Is it karmic or coincidental that I saw your film and [title of show] within 24 hours of each other. I know it's no coincidence that you chose to make a film about a director of theater, a living and breathing art form that, unlike cinema, has a definitive lifespan – when that performance ends, it can never be exactly repeated, and when the run of a show ends, it's gone for good regardless of future tours and revivals. When I walked out of the Lyceum Theatre on Saturday afternoon, there were only three more performances of [title of show] remaining, and for that show in particular – one that literally has seen its script evolve throughout every stage and stop of its existence to include the most recent events of its development in the show itself – that last show was, in fact, certain death.

I can't expect anyone else to have my reaction, and yet, I know that my reaction can in no way be unique because, much as you show in your film, even with all our differences from each other, on some level, we're all the same and can be played and replayed by others. The people who were our entire lives can suddenly be gone, just a memory, and yet our lives don't stop for even a second, and the world around us, the one that exists and the one which keeps growing and building on top of itself along with our experiences and knowledge and world view … it just keeps going and going longer than any bunny ever could.

Now here I am, two-and-a-half days later, and I still can't stop thinking about your film. As much as I want to see it again, I don't know how soon I can. What will the second viewing and deeper probing illuminate? I eagerly anticipate it and am thoroughly afraid of it.

I do have one question for you, however. It's been bothering me since the final white screen of your film: I'm not certain that anguish, gloom, hopelessness and despair are the only things in Synecdoche. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're not, even if they were, for me, the overarching ideas that go along with the seeming lack of control Caden has over his life as well as everyone else's. But as someone who has been an "aspiring" for longer and more consistently than he has ever managed to be a "professional," I couldn't help but wonder what seems to me to be a very basic point: How is all this in you? I mean, is chemical? Is it depression? Is it the dark side of the human condition that we seem to find seems to be a primary link between so many of the world's greatest artists across all fields throughout history? Because dammit man – maybe not monetarily, but can you get any more successful than you? I mean, look at your cast! You don't get a cast comprised of so many of the most talented actors of our generation when they don't desperately want to work with you, especially when the script they read couldn't have been anything less than terribly confusing. How can being so respected in your field that you can make a film like this your feature directing debut with a cast like that not allow you to be happy? Maybe the writer of critical successes that aren't Hollywood blockbusters doesn't make the bank of the top stars, directors and even some executives, but I gather you've done pretty well for yourself?

I almost feel like the question is naïve, and maybe it is. And maybe it's the problem so many of us have, depending on some sort of hope and dream to create a happiness that simply can't be dependent on anything other than one's ability to find contentment and joy within oneself, but it's got to help, no? And when you have achieved a working and successful and respected life through your own creativity and art, why the despondency? Because those of us who do hold out hope that if we could just push ourselves over that wall and get to a point where we're doing what we really want and others are letting us do it – clamoring for us to do it, in fact – believe that's when we will have found our personal Jerusalem, Mecca or Xanadu. Sure, maybe that alone is the point; it doesn't have to be hopeless, but reality is never perfect, and I have achieved enough of my own successes – grossly minor or personally major – to recognize that there's always something else … always something next. But those who achieve what we want to achieve are supposed to be those we strive to emulate.

And yet, here lies the brilliance of Synecdoche, New York. The specifics don't matter; the reaction does. And my reaction has been one that has already provoked endless hours of conversation within my own head, rants to friends over a drink, and even a few emails all before these 1700-odd words.

Hundreds of people will be writing about why your film is good or bad, and you'll get stars and thumbs and little clapping men and letter grades, and at some point, I may get around to reviewing and/or critiquing some of the more formal merits of Synecdoche, New York, but for the time being, I'm still just reacting. I have the feeling I will be reacting for quite some time, and for that I say thank you. And fuck you! But again, mostly … thank you.

Admiringly,

Aaron

No, I have not been thinking about it forever, and no, I'm not a fan of Point Break

I now have conclusive proof (anecdotal, sure, but personally true) that drinking is more dangerous than skydiving. You see, Monday night, at a party for the opening of IFP Independent Film Week, while drinking a beer from a bottle, I somehow managed to chip the bottom of my front tooth, which also happens to be a crown from a biking accident when I was about 12. Meanwhile, last Saturday (Sept. 13), I jumped out of an airplane and landed with no injuries whatsoever. Jumping might actually be a misnomer. Rather, I fell (deliberately) out of an airplane. There wasn't much actual jumping involved. And the falling happened from roughly 11,500 feet.

Few people were more surprised than I that I chose to partake in such an activity. I'm not what I would consider the extreme sports type, and skydiving was neither a lifelong dream nor even a huge fear I decided I needed to overcome. I don't have problems with heights or airplanes, in general.

The first question most people asked me when I explained that I was planning to do/had done this was, "Were you planning to do so for a long time?" Nope. In fact, I vividly remember one of many San Francisco to Los Angeles drives down Highway 5, this one with my younger cousin David. It was probably about 15 years ago, give or take, when I was in my early-to-mid 20s. Somehow, the topic came up, and David (four years younger than I) mentioned that he had gone skydiving. He told me all about it and how great it was, but my response was essentially, "Wow, that is something I seriously don't ever see myself having any interest in doing."

And then, out of nowhere, a year or two ago (probably due to way too many episodes of The Amazing Race), I suddenly had this urge to jump out of an airplane. This year, kind of out of nowhere, as people began asking me about my summer plans, I found myself responding, "I'm not sure, but I'm thinking of going skydiving." Of course, that was easy to say, especially without any plans or any friends who might go with me. And then, suddenly one day in the midst of an IM chat with my friend Jill (which one of us brought up the topic is an ongoing debate), we both realized that we had been thinking of doing it.

That was in May. The entire summer went by with no action but plenty of threats to each other: "Are we going to do this?" "Yeah, of course." "When?" "I don't know. You tell me." Labor Day approached; Time Out New York listed skydiving as one of the 25 things to do before the end of the summer; Jill had her birthday dinner; and we picked a date (along with a third jumper, her friend Jess.) But we waited too long to make our reservation, and our original date was all filled up. We chose Sept. 13 instead, the weekend after I would return from the Toronto Film Festival and before my birthday.

I came home from Toronto with a horrible cold. Thursday and Friday, I barely got out of bed, hoping that I would feel better enough to drive 90 minutes out to Calverton, Long Island, sign away all liability, step into a harness that would make me look waaaaay heavier than I am, attach myself to a person who has jumped out of planes thousands (probably tens-of-thousands) of times, and then see what it was like to fly, or at least fall.

Below, with somewhat cheesy music and plenty of proof that I should never ever ever give thumbs-up or devil horns with my hands again, is what happened:

Obviously, I survived. A more complete description after the jump ....

The 5th Annual Birthday Post

That's right ... regardless of how often I write, I can always be counted on to mention that I've become a year older. There was the first one in 2004 when this blog was still a newborn (and I included photos of me as the same), and each year since, without fail, I've included another one. This year, the day is almost over, and wow ... I can't wait. It wasn't my favorite birthday. I guess if I celebrated at all, I did that last weekend (more on that in the next post, tomorrow). It's nice of Hollywood and the TV Academy to throw a party for me and all, but looking at all those who share this date with me, I'm starting to think maybe it wasn't just for me at all. I mean, it's not like I got to unwrap Heidi Klum myself, you know.

I had a different experience this year as I turned 37. The life of this blog has seen me go from early-30s to late-30s, and I've never been 100% celebratory during any of those. I've always hesitated with the "getting older" thing. And yet this year, as far back as April, I believe, when people would ask my age, I would for some reason answer, "I'll be 37 in September." 36, itself, had a very brief shelf-life. Last weekend, as I was signing in to jump out of a plane (video TK), the sheet asked for name, age and weight, and I had become so used to stating, "I'll be 37 in September," I actually wrote 37 before realizing I wasn't quite there yet.

This year, I had enough excitement with the skydiving, so I decided against any actual celebration. Besides, I guess I tend to prefer people when they don't feel obligated to treat me special cause it's my day. And that way, I get to guarantee my occasional misanthropic reputation at least one day per year. Being Jewish, Christmas wouldn't work, so every now and then for my birthday, I simply say, "Bah humbug."

But you know what? Let's celebrate all the other birthdays today. There are quite a few. There are my birthdaTE-mates, Luke Wilson and Alfonso Ribeiro, for example, all three of us entering the late-30s today. There's Stephen King, Ethan Coen and Bill Murray; Bridget Moynahan, Ricki Lake, Faith Hill, Liam Gallagher, Leonard Cohen, Chuck Jones, Nancy Travis, Angus Macfadyen, Cheryl Hines, Caleb Deschanel, Vanessa Grigoriadis, Cecil Fielder, Rob Morrow, Larry Hagman, Jerry Bruckheimer, Henry Gibson, Bill Kurtis, Dave Coulier, Nicole Richie (!), Rick Mahorn, and (how cool is this?), the long-late H.G. Wells who would be 142 today. Oh, and of course, my boss Jane.

So why should I care ... there are plenty of people hopefully actually having HAPPY birthdays today. I'll settle for happy every-other-days-of-the-year. Too much to ask? Ah well .... maybe I'll just go skydiving again.

Off to Toronto (In case anyone was wondering ...)

I'm heading off to the Toronto Film Festival today for a week's worth of sitting in the dark. Well, not completely. I actually don't plan to duplicate my six-to-seven films per day schedule from last year, not because I can't handle that many or there aren't enough films I want to see, but for too many reasons to list here, I have to focus more on the other elements of festival-going this time. I plan to mostly stay away from the New York Film Festival titles (as I can see them here in the coming weeks) and focus a lot more on the films that otherwise may not be coming to a theater near you in NYC, unless maybe we have some room for it in the Spring.

It's a busy September ahead -- Toronto, Independent Film Week and New York Film Festival press screenings, skydiving (uh huh), my birthday giving me official late-30s status, some parental visits ... I'm already exhausted and wish it was October.

Meanwhile, assuming there is some content that pops-up here as I stubbornly keep telling myself there will be, not everything over the next week will be Toronto related ... but we'll see how much time I have. Either way ... stay tuned ... if you want ... or something.

And if you're in Toronto too, give me a holler!

SPEEDY with Alloy: If only it was outside like Chaplin's Mutuals

Last Friday night, I had the extreme pleasure of going to Celebrate Brooklyn! to see Carl Davis conduct the 16-piece orchestra The Knights as they played his new original scores to three fantastic Charlie Chaplin shorts from his post-Keystone, Mutual Film days: The Immigrant, The Rink and The Adventurer. It was a truly fantastic evening -- a beautiful and eminently comfortable summer night, a not too overcrowded Prospect Park Bandshell, and three really fun and often hysterical silent films accompanied by some really great music. As I've mentioned frequently, I love watching silent films with live accompaniment. It brings an element to the experience -- whether the accompaniment is a simple single piano or a full orchestra -- that somehow is utterly different than even hearing the same score via recorded methods.I hadn't watched any silent comedies in a while, though, and seeing Chaplin in his early two-reeler glory presented a tremendous reminder of how great these stars of silent comedy truly were, not simply as performers and comedians, but as stuntmen. In The Rink, in particular, Chaplin performs these multiple stumbling moments on roller skates that look funny, especially in their slightly sped-up manner, but upon reflection simply make me say, "How the hell did he do that? How is he that strong?"

I don't think I had actually ever seen any of those Chaplin films even though The Immigrant and The Rink are two of his most famous from his pre-United Artists days. One silent film I have seen many times -- and mentioned repeatedly -- is Speedy, the genius 1928 comedy starring Harold Lloyd. I love this film. I can watch it and rewatch it. Much of it was shot on location in New York. It features the original House That Ruth Built as well as The Babe himself. It has a great subway sequence showing what dating was like in the early 1920s when Coney Island was a destination spot. It has one of my all-time favorite movie chase scenes which includes a shot of a horse-drawn trolley car driving through Washington Square Park, under the arch and around the fountain because at the time, that was a through-road.

Lloyd always gets third billing (if any) when mentioned along with Chaplin and Buster Keaton, but he certainly deserves to always be included in the same breath. He played a very different character from either Chaplin's mischievous Little Tramp or Keaton's wide-eyed, somewhat more oblivious, or rather casual to the situation around him, characters. There's something about Lloyd's physical comedy that always feels more athletic even if simultaneously a little less elegant. In comedy terms, he's Gene Kelly to Chaplin's Fred Astaire. And Speedy -- a lovely little story about a boy wanting a girl and needing to impress her father by saving his trolley route from being taken over by the big bad railroads (read: coming subway system) -- is one of his best.

Why am I talking Speedy right now? Because even though I've seen it several times -- in theaters and on my own DVD set; with live accompaniment and without -- I'm sad that I can't make it to BAM tonight as they'll be showing the film with the how-does-that-small-group-of-three-guys-make-such-a-big-sound-Alloy Orchestra. I've seen Alloy perform several of their scores with other films, but I don't believe I've ever seen them do Speedy, and that's just a shame. They're really great, and if I didn't have a play ticket tonight, I would certainly be at BAM. If you've never seen Speedy or never seen it with live music, I whole-heartedly encourage you to go and experience a whole different kind of movie magic than that to which we've now become accustomed -- for better or worse.

The People I See -- Volume II: Cat stroller

Today's edition: The Woman with a Cat in a stroller at the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket

I beat the rain this morning to the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket. At just after 10 AM, the place was pretty crowded. There were long lines at the Ronnybrook Dairy Farm and Blue Moon Fish booths -- the fish one had me waiting about 10 minutes!

About half-way through the fish line, I ran into a little bit of stroller gridlock, but it was understandable because one stroller didn't have a baby in it. Instead, its inhabitant was making all the passing babies stare. It was a cat. A big cat. A big fat cat. Maybe not a 44 pound cat, but pretty big nonetheless. And this wasn't any ordinary bucket-seat stroller. This thing was first class: fully covered part-mesh enclosure, reclinable so this cat could splay out flat.

The owner was an older woman, my guess is mid-to-late 50s. She wasn't actually in the fish line. She wasn't actually in any line. She and her stroller were essentially just standing in the middle of what is otherwise supposed to be free-flowing traffic. Who knows why? Maybe she was waiting for someone. Maybe she was looking around deciding where to go. But she was there when I got into line and she was there when I left the line. And her cat looked comfortable as hell.

The People I See -- Volume I: Spandex and CB

And now to institute a new feature here on Out of Focus: "The People I see." Even the title is part of my attempt to say more with less, as a longer description could be, "The people I see who make my jaw drop, say to myself, 'What the hell?' and find me spending more than an idle second imagining the life and the world (or worldS) they inhabit." Pretty self-explanatory, no?

Today's edition: "Spandex and CB at Starbucks"

It is 2008, right? I'm not sure that I ever remember seeing people walk around with CB radio units on shoulder straps, but especially in 2008? I've watched enough Ice Road Truckers (which means about two minutes) to know they're still in use, and that's not surprising. Then of course there are the police, etc. I'm sure they're used a lot in places without cell service, but even during my Sprint Wireless days, Sheridan Square never seemed like such a dead spot. And if you're walking around with a CB radio slung over your shoulder, doesn't that mean someone else is doing the same, or sitting somewhere or something. I don't know ... maybe I'm overthinking ... but that was the last post.

Anyway, I'm sitting here typing when a guy sits down at a table near mine. He's wearing a fitted workout sleeveless shirt, skin tight, as well as a pair of spandex shorts that are way too short. If not for the fanny pack placed run under his navel as opposed to his fanny, the circumcised or not question would be answered. He would take smoke breaks by going outside but would leave the pack on the table along with a poster packing tube -- empty/filled? no idea. The cigarettes were an Asian brand I assume since the writing was either Japanese or Chinese. He was not Asian. Important? Probably not. Maybe. Who knows? He sat and drank a Venti something -- with his sunglasses on. He read nothing. He wrote nothing. He just sat. And he had this CB radio ... with a shoulder strap. When he went outside for his smoke breaks, he carried it with him. When he returned, he set the whole thing down on the table. I never heard it squak, but of course, I have my iPod on. I never saw him speak into it either though. He didn't come with anyone and didn't lleave with anyone, nor did he meet anybody here. Just killing time, I suppose.

Too Much Thinking

I think. A lot. Too much. I don't mind how much I opine, but the thinking ... the thinking doesn't stop. And the non-stop thinking sometimes, but not always, doesn't lead to realization. It just leads to more and more thinking. I think about believing and believe in what I'm thinking, but somewhere along the way, many things get missed. Feeling. Experience. Connection.

I spent last weekend at a retreat where all I did was try to stop thinking. I went to the Catskills, to a place in Haines Falls, NY (near Hunter Mountain). I didn't bring my computer, and I received virtually no cell service. I brought my iPod and reading material, but I vowed to utilize both only on the bus rides there and back. I wanted and needed to spend some time with myself. That's different from spending time alone. I already spend a lot of time alone. I'll go through waves of time where even when I go into my office, I won't necessarily interact with that many people.

But as I wrote (hell, how did it get to be) two weeks ago, I'm good at distracting myself. I don't only distract myself from things I should do, but I somehow to manage to distract myself from things I actually want to do. It makes no rational sense since, as part of my thinking and overthinking, I'm always looking for the "why" and the logic and the rationality. But instead, I've created blocks, and many of the blocks have been ... well ... calling them counterproductive or even detrimental would be understatements. And the thing I probably distract myself from the most isn't a thing, but rather, it's just me.