Expert Contrarian

On Sunday, I was yet again taped for a film by my friend Andy. This time, I had absolutely no connection to the subject, which is about Andy’s relationship with a much older man when he was just fifteen. I was asked to participate because, no kidding, I’m so contrary. My job was to add an element of highly sceptical argument to balance everyone else’s sympathy and moral indignation. When he asked, I was like, “Hey, no problem.”

I was expecting maybe a camera person to show up with Andy, but when I walked out of the house, there was a crew of six big guys bustling to unload piles of gear from the truck. A couple of them had been to my place before and lit the attic for “my” film; so they confidently surged into the house to find a good spot to set up. I sat outside in the sun chatting with Travis, while my roommate, who had been in the shower, was stepping naked into a hallway filled with strange men… and not in a good way.

Ultimately, the inside was deemed too boring to shoot. (Excuuuse me?) So we ended up on the front porch. Furniture was completely rearranged, and elaborate lighting was set up to achieve that natural look.

 Jon & Morgan set up. Travis & Andy get lit. Note dirt shadow from the sofa.

 Travis, my double, gets lit from various angles

Morgan, the sound guy, had a nice long boom, but he also needed to wire me with a hidden microphone. Very meekly he asked — and these were his first words to me, mind you — if I could put on an undershirt. He was hemming and hawing around the subject and couldn’t quite get out what he wanted from me and why. Andy stepped in and said, “It’s a chest hair issue. He doesn’t want to say it.” I needed another shirt to keep my hair from rustling against the mic. “You should have seen him with Dan Savage,” he added, referring to their previous interview. “You were so cute Morgan.”

Andy, who is never a help in such matters, gave me no particular instructions beforehand, but quickly took issue with my “wardrobe.” Could I also put on a shirt with a collar that wasn’t plaid? The little lines are a problem for the video camera. This was perhaps my greatest challenge of the day. Seriously. But I finally ended up in a black polo. Out of dozens of shirts in my closet, that was my one and only choice, which caused me to reflect thoughtfully on my sartorial choices.

Back downstairs, Morgan stood about one inch from my face and reached up between my shirts very, very carefully to tape the mic. He mumbled sheepishly about what was going on all throughout. I could smell his soap he was so close, and he struggled uncomfortably to make absolutely no physical contact whatsoever. That was especially difficult when he had to get behind me and then reach around my waist to latch a belt for the equipment, but he did indeed manage to avoid my skin entirely. When it later came time to take the belt off, I didn’t make him go through that ordeal, but I was tempted, both for his soap and the entertainment.

 Morgan wiring Andy’s back-up microphone

At this point, I know the routine. I am pretty comfortable in front of the camera, instinctively pausing whenever there is background noise and making concise, easy-to-edit, clearly spoken sound bites. So when everything was ready, we got right to work, and the whole discussion was over in about half an hour. Other than a distant leaf blower, there were no real problems, and the crew swiftly packed up and ran off for their third interview of the day.

 My view of the film crew just before we got started. Clint, Jon, Russ & Morgan.

 Morgan holds out his long boom

Andy tells me that this is just a preview and it’ll have to be done in a week, which is great. Won’t have to wait very long to see myself. I’m hoping that I will appear only briefly, my words trimmed down to the bare essence of their of pithy wisdom. I’d also like to look about ten pounds lighter. Is that really so much to ask?

Temple of Music

Last Saturday, in the early morning, I rode my bike through a light drizzle to far Northeast Portland. I was weighted with the responsibility of being quite possibly the most important person on a video shoot that day. I was going to be the Assistant Director of a music video for a Portland band called the ßabydollars.

We were filming at ßabydollars International HQ, which also just happens to be Ralf the drummer’s house. The first thing I noticed when I walked into the living room was the guitar — or actually, the guitars, plural. I had to snap a picture. In the photo above, you can see three guitars, a banjo, a Ukelele, an autoharp, a pair of claves, a pair of maracas, two pairs of bongos, a tamborine, and a conga drum. There are two people in the band.

 Toussaint DJ’s. Nice butt cleavage, T.

In the other corner of this same room, there was the stereo with a turntable (of course), sitting on shelves of actual record albums (of course). Toussaint, the other band member, also lives in the house. From the time I got there until I left after dinner, he DJ’ed the entire day. After a song or two, he’d get up quite unobtrusively and put on another completely different record. It seemed to be a deeply ingrained habit.

 Toussaint plays between takes

While he sat around the “set” between takes, waiting to do something, he would instinctively pick up whatever instrument was at hand and play it quietly. So throughout the day I heard him on all the guitars and the banjo too. There was never a moment without music.

 Andy and Travis taping in the basement studio

It was when we walked downstairs to shoot in the basement that I was truly wowed. Not only was there a drum set, but more guitars, several thousand amps, an infinity of mike stands, and at least five of everything you could ever want if you were in a band. Literally, I saw it all and said, “Wow.” And again, this is all for two guys. I was totally impressed; I always am by people who are serious about what they do.

Ralf told me they wanted a second drum set, and when I asked why, he seemed genuinely confused by my question. He and Toussaint gave each other uncomfortable looks, and both tried to answer.

“Uhhh… in case… somebody wants to… uhhhhhh… in case we want to, like… play drums at the same time.”

“Why,” I asked again, and this time they were truly nonplussed. Why would anybody not want to play drums at the same time?!?

 The sparkler scene. Crew at left, cast at right, groupie in the middle

After we had, ahem, wrapped for the day — that’s what us folks in the biz say when we’re done, kids — so anyway, after we had wrapped, Andy fed us all a giant, cheesy homemade lasagna. It was delicious, and he was justifiably proud. Andy’s minor duties as director left him plenty of time for craft services, his true calling.

Luckily, I didn’t have to ride home in the dark and rain. Ralf and Toussaint were nice enough to throw my bike in the truck and drop me off. They were on their way to see a live show, of course. Flamenco. They just had to get as much music as possible in every day.

The Heath Ledger Memorial Gold Tooth

I was quietly typing away this afternoon, listening to the Carter Family, when I got a message from my friend. “Heath Ledger is dead,” he wrote out of the blue. Mike never says hello — always goes for the dramatic entrance. When I asked what happened he just sent me a link to the New York Times news blog. It’s all about getting the reaction for him; he can’t be bothered to explain the details.

I was genuinely saddened, believe it or not, because it’s always affecting to see someone young and promising die. Ledger seemed to be at the beginning of a long and interesting career. Plus he had a young baby. Tragic.

But truth be told, I mostly was bummed because, well, he was goodlooking. Ledger was so my type, right down to his goofy, unmanageable hair, and I thoroughly enjoyed every picture I ever saw of the guy. What’s really sad is when God takes away your eye candy. That may sound shallow, perhaps, but… but… but nothing. It is shallow.

…and a basic human reaction. People care a whole lot less when ugly people die. It’s true. Deny it.

I had thought to myself how Ledger seemed like a good actor and a nice guy, but upon reflection, those impressions were based on nothing more than his looks. He mumbled unintelligably through the only movie I’ve ever seen him in, and how could I possibly know his true character? All of his other assumed qualities were extrapolations of his handsome face.

When Mike told me, the song playing, appropriately enough I guess, was “Give Me the Roses While I Live” — one of my favorites. The chorus goes something like…

Give me the roses while I live
Trying to cheer me on
Useless are flowers that you give
After the soul is gone

Memorial
Not much later, I was off to see my dentist (again!) to have a crown “seated.” That is, they were gluing it on. The thing worth mentioning about this one — I had three done last fall — is that it’s non-white. It’s “of color.” It’s gold.

Yes, folks, I have a gold tooth.

Years ago, maybe fifteen, I was also getting a lot of dental work done. My dentist in Atlanta loved to patter on and on about, say, the Lascaux caves, or whatever else he read about in the New York Times that morning. He also loved to explain dentistry — how certain ethnicities have different color teeth or why metal was a superior material for fillings and crowns.

Once, when we were discussing a bad tooth, I asked, purely out of curiosity, how much it would cost if I had it crowned in gold. The look on his face was memorable. Both he and his assistant were clearly horrified; They actually recoiled. He hemmed and hawed and then very gently, but firmly, set out to disuade me from this misbegotten notion. I assured him I was just wondering about the price, but he was still noticably uneasy. In Atlanta, despite their superior qualities, gold teeth were something that only black people got, and white people — even educated, liberal white people — did not do things that black people would do.

So two weeks ago, when my Portland dentist actually recommended gold for a large back tooth, I got a strange rush. It was almost as though my therapist had suggested having a giant, anonymous orgy to get over my shyness. In a matter of minutes, my thoughts went from “No way!” to “Well, maybe” to “Sure, what the hell!” I warmed to it pretty quickly, though admittedly out of simple, boring practicality. Gold would be more durable and last longer.

This afternoon I went to get my dazzling new tooth. Later, at home, I stared at it in the mirror, and as promised, owing to its location, it is all but invisible. I must confess to being a little disappointed.

I wondered to myself if, years from now, I will remember that I got this gold tooth on the same day that some actor died. Will it always have that association? (Will I even remember who the Ledger guy was?) Who knows, but I decided to make it official anyway. I took a sip of water and thought to myself, “I christen thee the Heath Ledger Memorial Gold Tooth.”

“What’s next?” you may ask, “The Brad Renfro Memorial Pedicure? The Ike Turner Memorial Colostomy Bag?” Well, that’s how we remember things, isn’t it? Associations just happen. Memories, for better or worse, choose their own company. All you can do is make the best of it.

Filmed by Bike

You know how sometimes everything just falls into place? All the obstacles just disappear, and something you’ve long imagined finally happens. This was one of those times.

On Sunday I was “on location” again, making another movie, but this time it was for my film. I’m planning on submitting it to the Filmed by Bike festival here in Portland.

The film’s about the Eastbank Esplanade multi-use path, more or less, and I was riding around it with a Bolex — a type of movie camera that is so old that you have to wind it between shots — bouncing around in the basket of my bike. It’ll be on actual 16mm film, not video; so God only knows how it’ll turn out. At least the day was sunny and lovely –odd for January, perfect for a shoot.

My Director of Photography was Andy, which he eagerly agreed to do so he could get away from his own project for a while. About half of his job was to pose with the light meter and say, “I’d like to bracket this shot.” The other half was to wind the camera. From time to time he would eat a cookie.

Knowing that I would shoot from my bike, I had built two types of hand-held stablizers for the camera, but one was never used. The other one was screwed onto the camera, and then rather than being held aloft, it was strapped down to my bike’s basket, where it bounced and jiggled and slid around. Again, God only knows how this is going to turn out, and since film ain’t cheap, I’m a little worried.

Steadicam
This afternoon was another lovely day, and I took the opportunity to test out the untried steadicam thingy I’d made. I got on the filming bike and made a few test runs. (Here’s one of the videos at youtube.) Looks pretty good. I really should have used it for the real filming.

Because I don’t have enough projects already, I’m tentatively planning to make Instructables, complete with photos & video, for both of the stablizing rigs I made. I’ll probably also feature them on the blog I made for my film production subsidiary, which I launched before I’d done anything else.

And yes, that’s right. I already have website and a marketing strategy for something that doesn’t even exist yet. But you know; the point of a film is to be seen. Otherwise, why bother?

TV Party

Last night I went to a little TV party at Andy’s place to watch his film Scaredycat on PBS. It was a last minute get together, but he still managed to have a cheese selection and a platter of devillied eggs. He descibed how he lost the tip for his piping bag, but not to be deterred, he carved one himself so that his egg filing would look perfect.

As the POV credits flashed on the televsion, a hush of anticipation crept over the crowd, and so we were all somewhat disappointed when we realized that the film would follow an interminably long documentary on some untalented nobody. Champagne had already been poured in preparation for a congratulatory toast, but instead we just had to drink it and press mute. For the next hour and a half, we chatted and drank and noshed, occaisionally glancing at the TV to sneer and make bitchy comments about the subject, Tony Kushner. “Look at how he dresses.” “A person I hope never to meet.” “You can just see the nasal in his voice.” We were bitter. It was ugly.

Eventually, emails began to flow in from the east coast, where the entire program had already been broadcast, and we managed to judge when Scaredycat would finally show. Anticipation grew steadily, and a cheer rang out when “Epilogue” flashed on the screen. We settled in all over again, and another bottle of champagne was uncorked. (So prepared!) Then we toasted cheerily when Andy’s film began.

Not surprisingly for a room full of film people, talk all evening was about film, especially festivals. Has the Slamdance deadline passed? Does Tribeca have a premier clause? Is it worldwide? …North America? …just New York? One very quiet guy I’d never met before finally relaxed around me when he found out I was not a filmmaker. (Andy told him, “John doesn’t make films. Other people just make films about him.” “I’m a muse,” I joked. “…ing.” Andy quickly added.) Away from the crowd, Joe, the shy guy, confessed that he felt stupid admitting to the others that he wanted to make a film. I said I know just how he feels.

Epilogue
We all stayed to talk well after the program ended, so long that I missed my bus and had to catch a ride home. However, I was actually dropped off just part of the way and ended up walking about two miles, which was luckily quite pleasant on such a dry, crisp winter night. It was good to walk off the booze, too.

On my fairly short trip, I passed a bus stop where someone had put out some free groceries. Got myself a two pound bag of great northern beans. A few blocks later, I picked up a six pack of perfectly good imported beer that someone had left, and then a few blocks after that I rifled through a box of clothes in a doorway. By the time I got home, I was actually a little sweaty from carrying all of my “purchases.”

All told, it was a quintessentially Portland kind of evening.

Tower

I was downtown shopping tonight (REI, of course), and I stopped to snap a picture of the Union Bank of California Tower, one of the better buildings in Portland, architecturally speaking, and also one of my personal favorites. It has a companion tower of sorts in San Francisco, and I always liked that one. So when I moved here, I noticed ours right away.

Like all distinctive things in Portland, the building is controversial, or in any case people like to complain about it. Their main beef seems to be the tower’s air of superiority, the prideful refusal to fit in with its neighbors, but I think the real issue is something else entirely. As much as the folks here congratulate themselves on being liberal, open-minded and progressive, the reality is less noble. Fact is, they’re insecure comfort whores. They want pretty; they want cosy; they want nice. And they want traditional, unchallenging architecture, which this building quite plainly is not. There is no evidence of humility, no attempt to pander to the local yokels and help them feel okay about themselves. So a friendly building it ain’t, and that’s the ultimate taboo in a town obsessed with huggy affirmation.

Critics of the Union Bank tower complain that it is rigid, austere and self-important, and it is. But then, it’s a bank, and not just a bank, but a bank tower. A display of power and pride is exactly what you’d expect, and I think that that is appropriate for an important edifice. In fact, I think it’s a civic responsibility to make just such a display. It’s like wearing a suit to the office: That may be overdressed for blue-collar Portland, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do.

Besides, as arrogant and aspirational as the building is, it is also intellectual, sensual and sculptural, with high quality materials and attention to detail that suggest, if not overt friendliness, then at least a certain respect for Portland’s people. It’s relatively sophisticated for a generic office tower in a second tier city. I don’t mean to say it’s a masterpiece. For one thing, it’s painfully dated, and for another, it’s entirely formulaic. (… but then so is the classical architecture everyone loves so much. Formula is the result of trial and error, after all. It’s what you get when you’ve perfected a style, and it helps to avoid past mistakes, of which there are many in Modern architecture.) But the Union Bank tower is something in a town where there’s not a lot of anything. In fact, that may be it’s main disctinction.

Last year, Andy made a lovely little short film about this very building, and his friend Brian Libby, an architecture journalist, provided commentary. It’s an interesting acknowledgment of a minor gem that might have gone unrecognized in a larger, more glittering metropolis. At under three minutes, there’s no reason not to watch it. So go to shoeintheroad.com and click on “Union Tower.” Then you can judge for yourself.