LOST IN OAXACA (Part 2)

PART 2 - Festival Daze

I’m lost. After waking up early and having a freshly made breakfast at my hotel I’ve grabbed my bag and ventured out into the streets of Oaxaca. I have a hand drawn map and few directions involving landmarks that are “impossible to miss.” Plus, I’ve left an hour early for an interview with a local news outlet, for what should be a 15 minute walk.

First, I headed North (when I should have headed South). I reached the top of the hill and turned left, it wasn’t long before this road turned into a highway, and I knew I had made a wrong turn. So, I turned around with a smile and headed the other direction. I really don’t mind being lost, especially in a foreign country on a beautiful day (such as this was). That street slowly became less and less business oriented, and I knew that the library was supposed to be in a very bustling part of town. Plus, I hadn’t seen this impossible-to-miss cathedral yet. So, I headed back the way I came, down South, past my hotel and down the hill into unexplored territory. Upon reaching the bottom I knew I was on the right track. I saw many cathedrals (I was in Mexico, remember), but none I would consider impossible-to-miss. Until I reached the Catedral de Oaxaca (pictured). 

Now this was an impossible-to-miss cathedral. Absolutely gorgeous, settled in the middle of a large park where there were restaurants, a little marketplace, live performers, the works. I still had half an hour, and the library was only a few blocks away. Granted, nobody knew exactly where the library was, or really recognized the street name on the address I’d been sent, but everyone assured me it was only a block from the cathedral, so I was confident that I would find it soon.

I spiraled out, exploring a one block radius from the cathedral. Nothing. Then a two block radius, still no luck. The interview was in 10 minutes. I saw someone at a Visitor Information booth, so I decided to check in with them. They didn’t speak English. I still didn’t speak Spanish. It was clear by the look on his face that he had no idea where the library was, but he gave me directions nonetheless. Another game of charades, several points (in the wrong direction) combined with “allí... that way” and I was off. 45 minutes later I found the library. I was a half hour late, the person I was scheduled to meet was long gone. My film was scheduled to screen in 3 hours, so I figured I’d better start walking now.

I continued walking up what appeared to be a main street. This was an excellent choice as the street was adorned with several skull floats still on display from Dia de los Muertos (which was only a few days prior to my arrival). These are few of my favorites:

 I was only equipped with the camera on my phone, so forgive the semi-bush league quality of them...

That main street also passed Santa Domingo de Gúzman Church (pictured at the very, very bottom). In the plaza around Santa Domingo I noticed two attractive Mexican women holding folders emblazoned with the Mexican tourism logo that I see all over billboards in LA. I further noticed that one of them seemed to be instructing the other, like you would look when training a new employee. This appeared to be my best shot for real directions to the festival headquarters, and even if they didn’t know the way, it was my best shot to chat with two cute girls for the next 30 seconds, so I went for it.

I asked if they habla’d ingles, which they did. They didn’t recognize the name or address immediately, but realization suddenly crossed the face of the girl in charge and she asked me, “the cinema?” Yes, yes! The cinema. I then got the best directions I’d received so far in Oaxaca (and the best I would receive for the rest of my trip). “Two blocks that way, then take a... right? left? uh, derecha... sí, derecha. That way... then 2 more blocks.” I was confident that “derecha” meant right, and they had certainly gestured to the right, so I walked off with confidence. To my relief they gave perfect directions and I found the theatre without further issue.

(Here's a picture of the Festival HQ. If you look closely you can see a white poster in the upper right corner. That's the "Chronicles" poster. There's another behind the dude in the poncho, but it's kinda tough to see)

I met more of the festival staff, Jessica and Ana, who were both awesome. As well as seeing Paulette and Enrrico again. Enricco asked how my interview went... I changed the subject. The festival staff in Oaxaca were always nice and extremely helpful. As much as I appreciated our Guide in Spain giving us the low down on where all the transvestites and whores hung out, the staff in Oaxaca actually told us about the festival and what events were planned. Apparently, there was another Michael flying in that evening, hence the slight confusion yesterday about my arrival.

They told me about a festival get-together that night at a bar and asked if I would attend. Of course I would.  To which Jessica replied, “Excellent. I’ll let our festival director know you’re coming. He really wants to meet you.”

This caught me off guard. I’m not used to feeling flattered. Everyone was very busy on this first day of the festival and I wanted to stay out of their way, so I purchased a ticket to the first film and hunkered down in the auditorium. I didn’t enjoy the film very much, or the short that played before it, so I’ll do the nice thing and not mention their titles. This turned out to be an isolated incident, as I very much enjoyed every other film I saw at the festival.

My film was in the second round of films that day and I watched silently as a small group of movie-goers shuffled into their seats, including my new friends and travel mates from France. The audience was comparable in size to the one in Spain. Not huge, but enough to be content with. I didn’t have nearly the problem with my nerves that I did when I was in Spain, and lounged comfortably in the back of the auditorium until Ana tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to say a few words before the screening.

I said I would, although those sorts of things always make me uncomfortable. I prefer the film to just speak for itself, and if there’s questions afterwards I’m more than happy to discuss them over a beer. Of course the first words out of my mouth were, “Lo siento. No hablo Español...” And then I proceeded to rattle of 50% of my introduction in Spanish, despite just apologizing for not speaking it. A sort of 50-50 mix such as, “la pelicula... uh, screened... en un festival en España... uh, last month.” I’m sure I looked about as foolish as I felt, but I tried to say as much in Spanish as I could. It’s the little things that count. I’d rather people think I was a fool than think I was too arrogant to even try.

The screening went well, and everyone seemed to enjoy the film. I spoke briefly to the French filmmakers, who liked it. I was happy and decided to head back to my hotel to grab a jacket as night (and the desert cold) were settling in.

After an hour of walking up and down every street in Oaxaca I gave up on finding my hotel and went back to the festival headquarters to get dinner near there. I did pass the bar where everyone was meeting later that night, so hopefully I wouldn’t get lost a third time that night.

I sat down by myself, in the small café that the festival had provided meal coupons for. The movie ticket purchase had put a noticable dent in my remaining $32, although it was hard to tell exactly how much since I had converted all my holdings into pesos. Really I think they were only $4, but still that’s an eighth of my budget and I was growing thirsty. The bottle of wine at the table across from me caught my eye, but I figured it would be wise to hold onto my drinking money until later.

Luckily for me, the table was occupied by a few retired ex-pats and a documentary filmmaker who, seeing I was alone, invited me to join them and share in their wine. A fantastic conversation ensued, reminding me why I love festivals. Meeting new people is always one of the adventurous perks of travelling alone and I usually get along well with people twice my age. The retired couple had moved to Mexico a few years ago and sang the praises of Oaxaca as one of Mexico’s last bastions of Mexican cultural. “No McDonald’s as far as the eye can see,” the man said with a smile. His wife didn’t care much for Wal-Mart but admitted that they were much better to their employees here than in the States. In fact, a friend of hers had quit his job as a policeman and “actually gets paid MORE working at Wal-Mart.” The couples’ crotchety travelling companion grumbled something about that being “part of the problem up North.” I thought the conversation was about to start heading towards drug cartels and all the murders happening in Mexico, but thankfully it changed to the subject of filmmaking, and in particular my film.

They were very interested in it, and regretted that they missed the only screening. We finished our meals and I headed back to the Festival HQ to get the exact address of my hotel. Cross-referencing with a map I realize that I had given up just 2 blocks away from where my hotel was and quickly walked back to grab my coat and take a quick nap before going out for the evening.

Like a good drinker, I was the first to arrive, and Jessica ordered me a mezcal, which I’d never had and were very popular in Oaxaca. Like tequila, it game from the agave plant but was made in charred barrels, so it had a very smoky taste. Needless to say, I was a fan. Since I was drinking on a budget, mezcal seemed more efficient than beer. I’d have to be sure to sip very slowly. The bar slowly filled up, I met the other Michael (who had just flown into town from London), a huge group of Mexican filmmakers, actors and supporters, and a few volunteers who blushed and whispered to one another when I told them which film I directed. Apparently, my film had gotten quite a reputation among the volunteers. One volunteer, the lovely Maria, immediately recognized the title’s homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novella “Chronicle of a Death Foretold”. A connection which, surprisingly, very few people pick up on.

I had the pleasure of meeting the festival director, Ramiz Adeeb Azar, who told me how much he loved my film and was very glad that I was able to make it down to the festival. Ramiz was an intriguing guy, very charismatic and clearly passionate about cinema and the success of this first festival in Oaxaca. He had also founded a literature festival (or perhaps it was a literature contest) earlier that year. Despite money troubles, airport confusion and hours of walking aimlessly through Oaxaca I was very glad to be here at this moment. Even more so a couple hours later when Ramiz asked if I wanted to add another screening of my film. Turns out someone did not deliver their film in time and so Sunday night I could screen the film a second time. I jumped at the chance, and quickly told everyone at the bar (most of whom had just gotten to town and so missed the first screening) that they had one more chance to see the film. I would be sitting in the Mexico City airport when the film showed a second time, but whatever. As long as more people get to see it, I’m happy.

So with a belly full of mescal and head filled with optimism I walked back to my hotel, and managed to only walk about 7 blocks out of the way before finding it. This time I wasn't lost... just taking the scenic route.

Santa Domingo

LOST IN OAXACA (Part 1)

LOST IN OAXACA

Part 1 - The Arrival

Okay, so I know it’s been over a month since I was in Oaxaca, but as I’ve said many, many times before: I’m a terrible blogger. You ever wonder how celebrities find the time to constantly update their twitters and websites? They don’t. Their assistants do. Which reminds me, I’m looking to hire a personal assistant. Must be able to remember peoples’ birthdays and be willing to work for free. In fact, you’ll probably have to get another job, so you’ll be really busy. It should be a good learning experience.

Where was I? Oh yes. Oaxaca.

It’s been a while, so I’ll have to refer to the travel journal for most of this.

--

I’m broke, but I’m going to Oaxaca anyway. I was supposed to have a fair amount of walking around money, but then my phone got disconnected. Combined with a few other easily forgettable financial responsibilities and I find myself boarding the flight with approximately $37.12 to my name. Can I get by for three days in Mexico on $37? Probably. If nothing else it will be fun to try.

The flight to Mexico City goes well, but it’s not until our arrival that I realize I’ve booked myself a five hour layover. I wasn’t really looking at the in between times when I bought the tickets, just prices. This explains how I was able to get such a deal. I’m immediately confused when venturing through the airport, which is a bit sad because all of the signs have English translations. But the layout of the Mexico City airport is disorienting and I immediately feel like a bumbling American tourist. But, true to form, I follow the flow of people, quickly get through customs and find myself at a crossroads. The flow has moved onto baggage claim, but I only have my one rolling carry-on. A security guard sees me inspecting the signs with a perplexed look and offers to help. He doesn’t speak English. I don't speak Spanish. Well, I have some residual vocabulary from high school and living in Los Angeles. I know how to say “ticket” (boleto) and can Spanglish my way through “reservation” (reservación) but I'm not too sure how to say “boarding pass.”

We play a quick game of charades before I show him my itinerary and he points me towards Aeromexico. Soon I am walking up and down the terminal, on numerous floor, going in circles, squares and figure-eights, but I find nothing. I'm completely lost and I've been in the country for about 20 minutes. Finally I see a station where you can purchase Aeromexico tickets and head that way for help.

I stand in line, holding my itinerary, and must have looked very confused again because yet another guard approaches to help me. He also does not speak English. I still don't speak Spanish. Another game of charades ensues until I mutter the magic words, “check in,” and he nods his head in understanding. He points his fingers in a multitude of directions and I manage to catch “Door 6 ... downstairs ... Terminal 2” A-HA! There’s a second terminal! At this point, I’m glad that I booked such a long layover. At this rate, I’ll barely make it to my flight on time.

I’m contemplating how much more friendly airport security is in Mexico (versus The States) when I reach Door 6 and realize that there are no stairs going down. Hm... Interesante.  I double check the exterior and interior, still nothing. There are stairs going up, however. Perhaps that is what he meant. I know that I have confused “aquí” and “allí” more times than I care to count (here vs. there, a timeless question). I’ve already been upstairs, but never with the additional information of “Door 6” and “Terminal 2,” so I give it a try.

At the top of the stairs, there appears to be some sort of walkway. This looks promising, I double-check the signs with my usual perplexed look and yet another person approaches me. “¿Aeromexico?” He asks.

“Si.” 

And with the single word, we’re off. Quick like a bunny, he grabs my luggage by the handle and starts rolling it down the hallway. Shit. Something tells me my $37 is in jeopardy. He rolls right past security, I have to show them my boarding pass to prove that I am going to Aeromexico. The guard looks at me like I’m a complete idiot, and very soon I will know why. As we round the corner the man with my bag sputters out  some broken English, all I can make out is “my tip... one dollar... ten dollars... is okay.” All I have on me is $5 and I’d intended to hold onto that until I was back in The States. Perhaps a small gas money bribery for anyone willing to pick me up. We stop at the door to a tram, which takes me to Terminal 2, and he holds out his hand. Now I know why the guard looked at me with such disdain; I paid 5 bucks for someone to escort me 20 feet. But, it's the only cash I have on me and he did help me find Terminal 2, so now I’m down to $32.12. But, on the bright side I’m no longer lost... For now.

I check in, there are no earlier flights to Oaxaca, so I hunker down near a laptop charging station, pull out my leather-bound travel journal and transcribe Parts 3 & 4 of “The Spanish Pages”. On top of the several hours scheduled in the Mexico City airport, my flight has also been delayed 30minutes. A few more points of interest are that I have no idea what hotel I’m staying at, how I get from the Oaxaca airport to the festival, or if anyone will still be at the festival headquarters when I arrive. I'm coming into town quite late and have emailed Paulette, the Hospitality Coordinator, so she knows when I’m arriving (and that the flight is late), but have not heard back yet. In fact, the only email I'd gotten from her that day seemed to relay a bit of confusion as to whether I was arriving today or tomorrow. For some this would be stressful. For me, not so much. I’m here, that’s what counts. I’ll figure it out sooner or later.

Finally they call to board and everyone waiting for Oaxaca (and a few other flights) shuffle downstairs into another waiting room. We’re systematically divided based on destination, the Oaxaca bound travelers asked to sit off to the side while those headed for other cities are herded down a mysterious hallway. Soon enough it is our turn and everyone heads outside and are loaded onto a bus... Wait... A bus? Seriously? I cannot help but think that I’ve just been bamboozled into waiting five or more hours in the Mexico City airport to catch a bus to Oaxaca. I check my itinierary and it definitely says flight. Granted I’ve gone through several stages of confusion since arriving in Mexico City, and everyone seems fine with what’s happening, so I climb aboard and grab a seat. Turns out, the bus was simply driving us around to another part of the airport where we boarded the tiny little plane headed for Oaxaca. I love these little planes. They don’t handle turbulence well, but they fly low enough that you get to see land the entire flight. It was night, so I couldn’t make out much except for an occasional smattering of lights, but I stared out the window nonetheless and tried to guess what I was flying over. I had a window seat and an aisle seat, another benefit of tiny planes.

Upon landing I was greeted by a huge banner for the film festival strung across the front of the airport. These immediately brought my spirits up as I followed the crowd under the banner and inside the tiny airport. I waited for my bag (As previously mentioned, I didn’t check luggage, but the tiny plane had no overhead compartments, so my little rolley guy got stowed under the plane for our flight to Oaxaca) and after a quick assessment of clothing and body language figured out that the four French travelers beside me were also here for the festival. It’s usually easy to spot a filmmaker if you know what to look for. Scarves can be a dead giveaway, so can turtlenecks. In this case I saw a scarf, two turtle necks and a beautiful blonde woman. I guessed director, two producers and an actress. I was 75% correct. The same could be said for my attire, wearing a hoodie under my corduroy jacket (the "filmmaker uniform" is what my friend Jeremy calls it). Plus, in an airport full of people with little iPod earbuds I was the only one with huge black headphones wrapped around my neck. I was either a filmmaker or a DJ.

Paulette and Enrrico (Hospitality and Film Traffic, respectively) were at the airport waiting to receive us. They each had specific job titles, but it was clear that the small army of organizers at this festival wore many hats. Already I was much more impressed with the organization of this festival than the one in Spain. We all jumped into a van, the three representatives of the festival crammed in the front three of the French filmmakers crammed in the back (producer, actress and SOUND DESIGNER to be precise). The director of the French film, Eric Atlan, beside me. Ahead there was a flurry of Español mixed with short bursts of laughter. The same was going on behind me, but in Fraçais. Obviously, I didn’t understand a single word, or any of the jokes, but instinctually smiled whenever one group burst into laughter. Despite a small language barrier, I spoke to Eric a little. His film was called Mortem (http://www.ericatlan.org/#/mortem) but, much like the guards at the airport, or conversation was a mixture of fragment sentences and charades, plus we were both exhausted from a long day of travel. For most of the drive we sat in peaceful silence.

We dropped off the group at their hotel, and I chatted with Enrrico on the way to my hotel (which was nearby). He was an aspiring filmmaker himself, but the conversation didn’t get too far before we reached my hotel. I got directions to a library where I had scheduled an interview for the next day, bid my hosts goodnight and settled in. I was sure to set my alarm for extra early just in case I got lost tomorrow morning on the way to my interview.

As I would soon learn walking through the streets of Oaxaca, I should have set it for much, much earlier.

THE SPANISH PAGES (Part 4)

PART 4 - SUNDAY: “Game Day”

 

The morning was upon us, Donan and I met up for breakfast and could talk about little else than how nervous we were about today’s screening. Luckily we had befriended many filmmakers, had seen a lot of films, and were always sure to let the filmmakers which project we were here with. Cecilia soon joined us, which was a welcomed distraction from the butterflies in our stomachs. We had attempted, after returning to the hotel last night, to located our elusive 3^rd and 4^th posters on the wall somewhere, but to no avail. But we had been assured that all the posters were at the hotel, and up on the walls, but we doubted it.

Donan and I snuck into the screening room for the 24-Hour Film Challenge (a competition for some of Marbella’s local filmmakers) and put “Chronicles” postcards on every single seat. We had befriended a lot of filmmakers, were sure to introduce ourselves to everyone whose film we attended and invite them our screening, plus the short film showing before ours was a marketing machine. They had big vinyl stand-up banners, teams of people in t-shirts, posters, postcards, bookmarks, the works. I had met the filmmaker on the first day of the festival, he seemed like a nice guy, but we didn’t have much to talk about (other than the pairing of our films and that we were looking forward to seeing each others work). My fears of premiering the film to an empty room had gone away, and the thought of screening it to only 15 people didn’t seem so bad either as I knew the 15 people whose opinions Donan and I were most interested in would all be present.

But still... calm as we might have looked, we were both total wrecks inside. 

It reminded me of one day on the set of “Chronicles”. We'd spent the entire day, prepping for one shot. It was a meticulously crafted overhead shot which Donan would run into and completely destroy everything we’d set up. Simply put, we had one take. It didn’t matter how good or bad the shot turned out, because there was no way we had time to set up for a 2^nd take. As we got closer and closer to being ready I could tell peoples’ nerves were beginning to get the better of them. Silly mistakes were being made, small things being forgotten, the little things that only helped to raise stress levels.

So, I put on my director hat, pulled everyone outside, and before doing The Shot gave my best attempt at an inspiring speech to calm down my cast and crew. I assured them that everything looked amazing, and I was confident that we could get this shot in one take and it would be perfect. I also assured them, that even if it wasn’t exactly what we planned, that that was okay. Whatever we get will be perfect, even if it's imperfect, because it’s the only shot we have. I told them I was proud of them, and believed in them, and deeply humbled by their hard work and long hours spent on what will be about 3 seconds in the film. Everyone felt much better and went inside with restored enthusiasm.

It was then that my friend, Erik (also producer and director of photography on the film), quietly approached and said, “That was a nice speech, Pete. How are you doing?”

“Me? I’m fine, I’m great.”

“You sure?” He looked at me skeptically, “because your left hand was shaking during the entire thing.” I grabbed my hand, which was still trembling.

“Okay,” I confided, “I’m nervous as hell and feel like I could puke at any moment... Do you think anyone else saw my hand?” He assured me that no one else had seen. 

We went inside, got the shot, and it was perfect.

So, that’s how I felt now. Knots in my stomach and ready to puke, but putting on the smiles and handshakes for everyone in Marbella.

We skipped one of the documentaries Donan and I had been planning to see to go to the short films program instead. As I mentioned before, a lot of attendance was based on filmmaker commradery. The festival hadn’t done much for publicity. I didn’t see a single sign, banner or posting in historic Marbella, nor anything in the mighty Antonio Banderas Plaza. But a community had been built over the past few days and you wanted to support the people you’d been spending so much time with and vise-verse.

A couple more highlights:

PART OF ME (director: Mihaal Danziger) SYNOPSIS: Haunted by the betrayal of the closest person in her life, Nathalie searches for an outlet to her grief, but finds herself bound in dependency and suffocating love.TRAILER: http://www.imdb.com/video/wab/vi2974221849/

ANOTHER NIGHT (director: Zaira Brilhante) SYNOPSIS: A shabby old cleaner and a beautiful young woman. A chance encounter created by the love of cinema will lead to a charming and unlikely friendship. TRAILER: http://www.imdb.com/video/wab/vi3277128729/

AWAITING HER (director: James Joint) SYNOPSIS: Francisco, Jeffrey and Lula: a day in their life, their life in this day. In this world of men, we are still awaiting her... TRAILER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5E6EfOOSNA

My absolute favorite short film of the festival was  EL RÍO by Peruvian director Adrian Sabas. SYNOPSIS:

A man stuck between his dreams and his memories struggles to find his lost wife. TRAILER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D90DPXoiAhc

 

Not only was I was struck by this film’s beauty, but there were 3 or 4 shots that were almost composed almost identically to shots in “Chronicles” and I spent the 15 minutes between the shorts program and the screening of my film to track down the director, introduce myself and invite him to our screening. I figured by this point whatever mass numbers were going to be there were going to be there, but I really wanted this one guy to see our film.

In retrospect, I probably should’ve just stood by the door and told every single person I saw to go see my movie, herded them in, but I didn’t. I only wanted to find this one guy. Walking from group to group, asking if any of them had directed the film, or knew where he was. Alas, he could not be found. No one seemed to know who he was. Or, what he looked like.

And so, our screening began. 

There were probably 40 0r 50 people in there, which I was very happy with. The back 2 rows were all wearing t-shirts of the short film that plays before my film, and I was happy to see that my comrade-in-arms had brought a good number of people to our mutual screening. Donan and I stood nervously in the back, fighting the urge to pace. 

The short film ended, the crowd applauded, and then I felt my stomach shrivel to the size of a pomegranate seed when half of the audience stood up and walked out of the room.

Everyone who was there for the short film, was only there for the short film. Today, as I sit down to describe this, I have a much higher level of understanding, and therefore empathy. It was a festival, people wanted to see a bit of everything, walking in and out of screening rooms had been going on a bit. The filmmaker had brought a bunch of people, who had all worked hard to push his film, and after his screening he wanted to take his team out, grab a drink, unwind.

But in the moment, I was not so empathetic. It was a disorienting mixture of heartbreak and anger, like waking up early in the morning and finding you're out of coffee. Damn frustrating.

But the truth of the matter is that everyone who I wanted to see the film, everyone who promised me they would be there and who’s feedback I was looking forward to there. Butts in the seats, mostly in the front few rows. Again the festival reflected comradery and solidarity, on both sides of the fence. But, as experience often shows, solidarity need not come from every single filmmaker you meet and it never will. It only needs to come from the ones your respect, and who respect you in return.

And just for good measure:

CHRONICLES OF A LOVE UNFOUND (director: Michael E. Peter) SYNOPSIS:

The life and disappearance of Benjamin Douglas Shaw, revealed through interviews with every woman he has ever loved, dated, or spent the night with. TRAILER: http://www.straydogproductions.net/CLU_TEASER_B.mp4

I discussed the film later with everyone who had seen it and got tremendous feedback. Everyone seemed to really enjoy it, all the UK based filmmakers said they liked it a lot and Olly and Zaira (who I had met the day before and recommended the cheeseburger joint for me--Zaira directed the aforementioned short film called ANOTHER NIGHT) encouraged me to send it out to more festivals in London. It was great to discuss the film with filmmakers who had no history with me or the production. I can easily talk about why a scene was written or shot a certain way with my friends back home, who read rough versions of the script, were present for some or all of shooting, saw rough cuts of the film, or played a major role in the photography, music or performances. These were people who had no history with me and no reason to pretend that they liked it. Donan and I certainly hadn’t pretended with anyone. When we liked a film we told them, and when we had criticisms we told them that too.

We all dispersed to unwind a bit and clean up before the closing night Gala.

The evening went much like the past few. A lot of drinks, good food that in no way resembled Spanish cuisine, and brilliant conversation. “Chronicles” didn’t win Best Feature, neither did 180°. In the end, DO ELEPHANTS PRAY? won the grand prize, but I was very happy to see my new friends Justin take home Best Documentary for ABSENT and James Joint won Best Short Film for AWAITING HER. Daisy Lu-Wen had won Best Animated Film for her beautiful film OUT ON A LIMB. 

After the awards ceremony, when everyone was taking pictures and mingling, someone grabbed my arm, called out my name, and as soon as turned thrust a young man in front of me and said “EL RÍO!!!” It was Adrian Saba, the filmmaker I’d sought after so tenaciously before my screening. I introduced myself, told him I loved the film, and how much I’d been trying to track him down. We mentioned that we was thinking about visiting Los Angeles soon, and remarked “I know, in LA you can throw a rock and you’ll hit a filmmaker.” I could not contain my glee upon hearing that. It is an expression I have used many, many times back home. Now, someone I had never met, whose film I loved, which has a few shots very similar to my film, and he even uses the same stupid expressions I do.

We all went to a bar afterwards, an army of impassioned, kind of drunk filmmakers in suits and dresses. As usual, we closed the bar out. 

As people retired and the hotel turned down the lights there was still one order of business that needed attending. So it was that in the wee hours of the morning, still dressed up from our night out, Cecilia and I stood on chairs in the lobby stealing our posters from the wall.

EPILOGUE: “The Final Day”

We had one more day in Spain, although the adrenalin that managed to drive us through the hours of walking, watching, meeting and drinking was finally leaving out systems.

But, not at first. Once I went to bed I only slept for a couple hours. I got up with the sun, my body still in overdrive.

I had the most pleasant breakfast. It was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

I tried to sleep again, but failed. My heart and mind were racing too fast. I just lay on my bed, staring at the window. Watching the curtains tremble in the slight wind, the sun creating flares through the glass.

So, I went swimming.

Finally the adrenalin was starting to leave. So, I rousted Donan (who had slept all morning) and we changed rooms (from our fancy singles we booked through the festival, to a comfy twin we'd booked for the last day). I finally fell asleep, Donan quickly went back to sleep, and we did not move until 7:00pm.

We did the long beach-side walk to historic Marbella, and found a restaurant with actual Spanish food and a waitress who knew about three words in English. It was the restaurant we'd been looking for since the moment we landed. It was perfect.

THE SPANISH PAGES (Part 3)

PART 3 - SATURDAY: “Theories and Notions”

We had breakfast with Justin and Mike of New Mexico, of course there are only 5 or 6 Americans at this festival and one of them is also named Mike. Justin directed a documentary called ABSENT, which Mike had been Music Supervisor on. We had met them the day before, and they were probably the filmmakers we had clicked with the fastest. At first I attributed this to some sort of pack mentality of grouping up with other Americans. By the end of the day, however, I would come to realize how grossly inaccurate this theory was. 

We were joined by Stefan, a German writer-director who I had also met the day before. He had made a short film called KABAMIR. Justin was interviewed before me on Talk Radio Europe and Stefan was interviewed immediately after me. I was already interested in Justin’s film, simply based off the synopsis. Stefan and I got a chance to talk while Justin was doing his interview, and I honestly felt like he asked me better questions about “Chronicles” than the host of the radio show did. I kind of wish someone had been recording that conversation, I sound a lot more together when I’m talking to another filmmaker. Also at joining us for breakfast was Cecilia, an Italian filmmaker who lives in London, she had produced the short film PART OF ME. Donan and I introduced ourselves and so the day began.

It was a light-hearted breakfast, mostly an exchange of perplexing stories from everyone’s arrival in Marbella and the strange Guide who gave everyone the low-down on transvestites, prostitutes and hen-parties. Cecilia had gone through the same customs drama with her DVDs and posters that I had experienced a few weeks prior. Our posters & films had gotten stuck in customs in Madrid, and since the festival had not provided anybody with a phone number it was near impossible to efficiently communicate and resolve the matter. The solution, for both of us, was to send duplicates of everything with a competing shipper (Note to reader: Use UPS, FedEx is evil). Eventually, the original packages we had shipped were released and we both knew that somewhere in this city, probably in this hotel, there were 2 extra posters for each of our respective films.

I was determined to get my posters back, and now I had a partner in crime. Although I almost made a fatal error when some deep subconscious trigger in my mind was pulled, and before I even realized it, I was soon humming Simon and Garfunkel’s “Cecilia” as we exited the restaurant. I learned from a girl named Layla long ago that you really shouldn’t do that. Cecilia shot me a look, Donan let loose an endearing chuckle, and we made our way to the screening rooms.

The day was filled with films, back to back to back to back. With simultaneous screenings in two rooms all day, and a mere 10 minutes in between screenings, it was impossible to see all the films. If you skipped lunch, dinner, or both you might be able to see 80% of the short films. However, all the features and documentaries only showed once. So, at best, if you skipped all the short film programs you might be able to make 50-60% of the feature-length films and the handful of shorts which would show prior to a feature.

Donan and I almost sat through an entire day of films. In typical film festival fashion, there were a handful that were brilliant and a handful that were horrendous. The highlights of my afternoon:

 ABSENT (director: Justin Hunt) SYNOPSIS: From the award-winning director of AMERICAN METH comes a documentary that will undoubtedly lift the veil of how and why a father's absence can be so devastating.Because one man makes a world of difference.TRAILER: http://www.absentmovie.com/

KABAMIR (director: Stefan Najib) SYNOPSIS: Abandoning the harsh family life with his single mother for an imagined fairy tale world, an introverted boy makes a horrific discovery in the family house's attic: His fantasy monster Kabamir is for real - and hungry! TRAILER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-i8W0hkF4A

 

IN THE COMPANY OF WOLVES (director: Iesh Thapar) SYNOPSIS: An ominous curse materializes to change Rita's life forever. Plunged into a world of torture, imprisonment and sexual exploitation, Rita battles desperately to overcome her predicament. TRAILER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQQLnwkxcB4

Now, around 4:45pm the constant movie watching, hand shaking, and shuffling between screening rooms on empty stomachs had begun to take its toll.

There was a feature at 5pm that we both wanted to see, but our brains were pretty fried. So we took a break, Donan called his wife while I tracked down a cheeseburger. Yes, yes, I know what you’re saying, “But, you’re in Spain!” I wanted some real Spanish cuisine, believe me, but our hotel was surrounded by English pubs and Italian restaurants. Authentic Spanish food was a good hour trek away and seafood paella only served on Sundays. Besides there was a pub across the street which I had on good authority made a decent, cheap cheeseburger.  So, I sat down for a late lunch, had me a Guiness and recharged.

The closing film of the evening was 180°, by Mexican director Fernando Kalife. SYNOPSIS: Salvador Diaz is a skilled conman. For most of his years, he cheated others for a living... until he cheated the wrong man.  TRAILER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=At1CSn4KABY

I absolutely loved it. I’m a big fan of modern Mexican cinema, and have an affinity for ensemble cast movies where a lot of characters are only slightly connected by some theme or event which the film explores. Sure, there were a couple things I didn’t completely jive with, but that’s going to happen with any film. There’s always one character, one scene, one line, or one shot that you just think “Eh, not so sure that was a good idea.” But the film was great, and as the credits rolled, I leaned over to Donan and whispered, “if that film wins Best Feature I will leave this festival a happy man.” Donan concurred.

That night’s party was at a pretty atrocious bar. As we pulled up in the cab a man dressed like the doorman at the best hotel in London opens our car door and says, “Good evening, gents. Right this way.” So much for Spanish culture... I headed for the bar, Donan secured a table, and we settled in for the evening.

Granted, we didn’t know that we were settling in at the time, but soon we were joined by Cecilia and Iesh, who knew each other from London. The moment we learned Iesh had directed IN THE COMPANY OF WOLVES Donan and I immediately started going on about how much we liked the film. Stefan appeared shortly after that and we went on and on about how much we liked his film as well. We hadn’t seen Cecilia’s yet, nor had anyone seen our film yet (but we could all agree that we liked each others’ posters). Everyone seemed keen on Justin’s documentary, although we didn’t see him at the bar that evening. I recognized a handful of other filmmakers at the bar, but they were people who I had met briefly, maybe we’d told each other about our films and exchanged postcards, but there was no real connection made. A couple of their films I'd seen, and didn’t really dig them.

A massive conversation was sparked, starting off with films we’d seen that day but evolving into conversations about cinema as a whole. Cecilia and I discussed the female point of view in Justin’s documentary (which focused more on fathers and sons), our conversation crossing Donan and Stefan’s discussion of lead “starring” actors and their versatility in other roles. Everyone at the table would occasionally get distracted from the conversation they were engaged in by overhearing some remark from their neighbor. I learned Stefan didn’t like 180°, but absolutely loves BACK TO THE FUTURE. Donan and Cecilia enlighted me to an Italian film IL DIVO (which I watched the day after I got back to the states), and Iesh convinced me that I should give Lars Von Trier’s film, ANTICHRIST, a shot (even if it's only to be dazzled by the opening scene).

The entire night, not a single person mentioned the marketability of any film. There was no discussion of target audiences, or the need for a celebrity or studio in order to get your movie greenlit. In fact, I don’t think anyone said the words “green light” the entire conversation. We talked about old jobs and adventures because they made for good storytelling, not as an excuse to slip our résumés into conversation. It was a exactly the type of dialogue about cinema that I rarely have in Los Angeles anymore. With the exception of a few people I met in college (when we were still idealistic about the whole process) I’m not sure it was like any conversation I’d ever had about cinema in Hollywood. It was devoid of everything I disliked about the movie industry and contained everything I loved about movies.

It was during this conversation that I realized why Donan and I had taken a liking to Justin and Mike so quickly. It was the same reason that we had now sequestered ourselves in a corner with Iesh, Cecilia and Stefan. It had nothing to do with Americans, or even English speakers (granted Stefan is bi-lingual and I don’t speak any German, but you see my point). Simply put, we befriended the people whose films we enjoyed. What interested me was the fact that I liked Justin and Cecilia before I ever saw their films, and I didn’t really know Stefan and Iesh until after I’d seen (and already decided that I liked) their films. It makes sense in a rather simple way. But, at the time it struck me as a beautiful notion. Our taste in cinema connected us.

It was only when the waiter kicked us out that we realized we had been talking about movies for 5 consecutive hours and made up the majority of the bar’s dwindling patrons. It was time to put an end to the night, and rest up for another day of films, theories, and connections.

THE SPANISH PAGES (Part 2)

PART 2 - FRIDAY: “A Day of Firsts”

We decided to head out early. After all, the new hotel promises a free breakfast buffet and we had to get there before the festivities began. Can’t watch movies on an empty stomach (you can MAKE movies on an empty stomach and many often do), but there’s no sense in paying for breakfast when you can sneak a free one. A brief goodbye to our hosts, we promise to give them a good review online, and are soon pulling our rolling suitcases down the cobblestone walkway with a deafening clatter. However, despite the fact that we both have luggage, three people ask us directions in Spanish. Donan, who has retained more of his high school Español than I, does most the talking. Oddly enough, we were able to point a couple people in the right direction. Probably.

We check into the hotel, but the rooms aren’t ready. We had expected this. Checking our bags with the concierge, we approach the festival table. The throngs of people rushing the table haven’t shown up yet, but it’s barely 10 a.m., and our Guide did anticipate an 11 o’clock stampede. Instead of checking in, we charm our way into the free breakfast buffet. We don’t have room keys yet, but we have out luggage receipts. This seems to be ample proof that we are hotel guests (even if we obviously checked in 5 minutes ago), the hostess sees our game and simply rolls her eyes as she waves us past.

With a square meal in us, we settle in for our first film, MANGRO, an Iranian action flick by director Mehdi Sabaghzadeh.

SYNOPSIS: Under cover police officer penetrates into a drug smuggling gang. When his superior officer who is the only person aware of his mission named “Mangro” dies in a helicopter crash and the gang is arrested he is convicted to death, but the arresting officer is not fully convinced of his guilt.

I enjoyed the film, but don’t intend to get into long reviews. As those who know me know all to well, I can be hyper-critical and likewise often latch onto one random detail that I absolutely love. For example, I walked out of one film (a few years back) and said, “Well, the movie was pretty lame, but their sound design was AMAZING!” But I grew up on action flicks, and this was a decent one. I spoke with the producer for a bit about Iranian cinema. He either didn’t know the filmmakers I had seen or didn’t care for them. Tough to say.

What struck me most about this screening was the small audience of 7 people (Donan and myself included). The fear of premiering “Chronicles” to an empty room finally sets in. Most of this fear is relieved by the second screening (although a knot remained in my stomach about it the entire weekend).

The second film was DO ELEPHANTS PRAY? by director Paul Hills.

SYNOPSIS: Frustrated by the soulless routine world he is shackled to and dogged by a need to find meaning in everything, the life of advertising executive Callum Cutter is thrown into poetic chaos when he meets the free-spirited French seductress Malika who promises to change his life forever...providing he keeps her identity a secret. TRAILER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ie8qxooDWzs

Another enjoyable film, this time with a much larger audience. I disagreed with some of the choices the filmmakers made, especially on the choice to shoot 35mm over digital. It’s a conversation I enter with a lot of filmmakers that I speak too. Not out of any aversion to 35mm film, or a swelling love for digital, but it just seems to me that if you’re shooting a feature-length film on a shoe-string budget you need to utilize as many tools as possible, for as little as possible. The extreme costs of shooting film then take away from your lighting, props, cast. To put it simply, there’s no point in spending thousands on an Armani suit if you’re going to wear it with a $5 necktie.

After two feature films, a lot of introductions and handshaking, Donan and I had a small window of time before the Opening Night Gala. I introduced myself to the Festival Director, who upon seeing I was a director of one of the feature films grabbed me by the shoulder and quickly whisked me to a nearby couch where a small radio show was set-up. He introduced to me the coordinator and host of “Movies and You” for Talk Radio Europe and I was plunked down for my first interview. Ever... Not just for this festival, or any festival. First time someone sat me down, stuck a microphone in my face and said “tell me about your film”.

Oddly enough, I hadn’t really thought about this. I’d focused on DVDs, postcards, websites, relying on the concept and images to do most the selling for me. I start to sweat a bit, but not long. I’ve been talking about and working on this film for 5 years, I’ve practiced the shpeals while stuck in morning rush hour (Oh, like you’ve never recited a pretend Oscar acceptance speech while stuck in traffic?!) and I had two other bits of good luck working for me.

There was one interview before me, I had time to collect my thoughts.

Also, the host, Allan Tee, had seen my film and ENJOYED it. Phew! Not only does that mean that at least one person likes the film, but that person is conducting the flow of the interview. It also means he does most of the talking, allowing me to agree with him a lot. I did get to put out a couple solid sounbytes, however. Here it is (NOTE: The audio sucks, so I put in subtitles. I’m trying to find the interview online and will repost this once successful).

Immediately after that, Donan pulled me aside. Someone had approached him about doing a VIDEO interview. Having slugged my way past Foreman, I was tossed into the ring with Ali. So these two guys set us down, hand over a mic, turn on the camera and basically say, “Go”. They don’t know anything about the film, they don’t have any specific agenda or questions at all. Just... go for it! Let's just say it was awkward.

I decided to clean up before the Opening Night Gala. Class it up a bit, y’know? And so, in my haste, I shaved off any and all facial hair, plus a nice little piece of my face. So, in my four-star hotel room, wearing a freshly dry-cleaned suit (no necktie--can’t afford it), I sat on the bed holding tiny, ripped up tissues to my face.

Donan’s timing was perfect, KNOCK KNOCK, “You ready?”

I open the door, “Almost... just waiting for the bleeding to stop”.

Five or ten minutes later the geyser had slowed to a small trickle and we were running late. So we headed out, I used the back of my hand to blot the blood every five minutes or so. But, I’m sure to always do it in a really, really cool way.

The opening night Gala consisted of tapas, drinks, Spanish music, drinks, and lots of camera crews. There was a 24-hour film challenge happening for local filmmakers at the festival and one of the requirements was to shoot a scene at the party.

The after-after-party was free of film crews, but still had plenty of drinks. We had migrated to a bar in Puerto Banus. First of all, I didn’t see any transvestites, so I don’t know what that lady was going on about. But the most memorable part of the evening consisted of Donan and I, once again, clomping through Antonio Banderas plaza trying to figure out how the hell we got back to the hotel. We’d arrived at the bar via different routes, and neither of us had a feel for this fancy part of town yet. What could’ve been 15 minutes turned into an hour or so trek round-about the wrong way, but with minimal backtracking.

But we always continue confidently forward, talking over the events of the day, The first film, the first friends, the first interviews, the first free breakfast. It was a good walk, even though we were taking the longest route possible.

THE SPANISH PAGES (Part 1)

PART 1 - THURSDAY: “WHAT YOU SEE ISN’T ALWAYS WHAT YOU GET”

I went to bed prepared. Already dressed in my travel clothes, bag packed, eyes locked on the ceiling. It’s safe to say that I had no real idea of what to expect when landing in Spain, the festival hadn’t relayed much information. That is, the Marbella International Film Festival, where my first feature film was about to have its world premiere. Donan Whelan, who plays the film’s central role, was my only traveling companion and it was on his inflatable mattress that I now lay. Staring at the ceiling.

Los Angeles turns into New York, the small amount of airplane shut-eye I get is splintered by much-too-visceral dreams of every possible thing I could have overlooked, forgot or fucked-up back home. I was caught off guard at an airport bar in JFK and spent nearly 1/3 of my travel budget on two gin & tonics. Sleep on the flight to Spain is equally shattered. Impossible to get any useful rest.

After 20 hours of airports, planes, and more airports we arrive in Malaga, Spain. It is approximately nine in the morning. We follow the crowds, breezing through customs and out into the fresh Spanish air. Now, Donan and I are both smart men. Good travelers. Able to navigate on our feet. However, by the time it took us to figure out which bus we needed, how much it was, where the cash machines were and how to work everything our bus had left. No bother. We can catch another in about an hour. At the time, I thought it wise to capture the moment:

Informative, right? Shortly after my long-winded video, another bus arrives, but it doesn’t say Marbella. We sit, watching the bus... waiting for another. The bus also sits, as if staring back at us. 10 minutes, 20, 30... It’s now past the time when our bus is supposed to arrive, but this other damn bus is still parked in its spot! I decide to approach the driver and somehow manage to sputter out, “¿Va a Marbella?”

The driver nods, “Sí, sí.” Spinning on a dime, I dash back towards Donan, flailing my arms and thrusting my thumbs back towards the bus we should’ve boarded 20 minutes ago. We toss our luggage in the under compartment, clamber on board and manage to find two seats.

The horizon is one hundred and eighty degrees of mountain, the remaining landscape is filled by the pristine beaches of the Mediterranean Sea.

A quick shower and change of clothes was the only refresher needed to push on for a few more hours. As we left the hostel, Mike, its Scottish owner, stopped us, “Thought you blokes were going to take a nap?” We explained our intentions to walk the 8 kilometers along the beach to the hotel where the film festival was being held. We could’ve used the bus, but the truth was neither of us wanted to sleep or cram into some new form of transportation. We needed to stretch our legs, feel the sun on our backs and whet our tongues with Spanish beer.

These things were accomplished with flying colors. Settling into a small café for the first beer of the weekend, we asked the Englishman beside us about tipping customs (no tip will go unappreciated, but it isn’t necessary and never more than 10%--fyi). We walk along the beach boardwalk for about an hour, growing more captivated and charmed by the narrow streets, salty air and blazing sun. By our 6th kilometer the sun wasn’t quite as charming. My feet clomped down heavier with every step, any rest was met with the feeling of lactic acid releasing slowly throughout my legs. After a bit of confusion and a few wrong turns we arrive at the hotel, sweaty and sunburned. Most of the redness isolated to the left (beach-facing) side of our faces, but we both develop solid farmer tans just while walking to the hotel.

A couple banners decorate the lobby and, around the corner, the walls are plastered with movie posters. We see the festival’s check in table situated in the corner. Halfway through introducing ourselves, a flustered woman (who appears to be in charge) cuts us off, explaining that the festival passes are still at the printers, but we can get them in the morning. Check in opens at 11 a.m., but we’d be wise to come a bit after. She will, after all, be swamped with the throngs of people checking in and picking up passes. This is all fine. We only wanted to get a lay of land, we hadn’t received much information up to this point and had hoped--

“Well,” she interjects once again, “if you go down to Puerto Banus, that’s where all the boats are, and the first street there is where all the bars and shops and clubs are.” Now, I should tell you that our new Guide is a stout American woman with ruddy cheeks and she speaks with huge arm gestures. She is joined by a smaller English woman whose face is so sunburned the skin is peeling off her nose and cheekbones. The Guide and her Companion nod in unison as she describes the nightlife in Puerto Banus. “Now be sure to keep an eye on your wallets!”

“Oh yes,” her leathery-skinned Companion chimes in. “Keep an eye on your wallets.”

“Always keep an eye on your wallets. And I’ll warn you, down at Puerto Banus, what you see isn’t always what you get... if you know what I mean...” I want to assure her that I know exactly what she means. We did live in Hollywood after all, and I often need to ride the 720 bus down Trannymonica Boulevard. But, the blank expressions on our faces must have relayed that we did NOT understand her subtle hints. “Lots of...” (she looks over her shoulder to be sure no one is too close) “transvestites down there.”

“Hm-hm... A whole lot,” her Companion chimes in once again, the Greek Chorus to our Guide’s well rehearsed speech.

“Also most of the woman down there are working girls,” our Guide picks right back up. “Now, prostitution is legal in Spain, so you needn’t worry about that, but still... if some cute girl just comes up and starts chatting, she might be a prostitute. Maybe not, but probably. So, keep an eye on your wallet.”

“Oh yes. Watch your wallet.” it’s beginning to feel like the Theatre at Delphi.

“Now, there’s also a hen party at the hotel right now. Lots of young, sexy women running around drunk every night. So, if you want some free... Ahem, I mean, if you want to have a good time, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

It appeared to be our turn to talk, “Okay...” My voice was now two octaves higher than usual. “So, about the festival, um, when should we pick up our passes?”

This simply re-set the speech about the throngs of people who are sure to be bombarding the table at 11, and that we should wait for a bit after that. Specific questions about what was expected of the filmmakers seemed to fluster her. “Sure, I guess, if you’d like to do a Q & A you can. No harm in that. Once the film is done, you can just stand up and say, ‘Hey everyone, I made this. You got any questions?’ I mean, I don’t see any harm in that.”

I wasn’t quite satisfied with that answer, but she didn’t seem to know much about the actual festival and I didn’t want to frighten the woman. So, we grabbed a program book and a map of all the best locales to find tranny whores before continuing on our way. I kid, I kid! ...they didn’t have program books.

Donan and I took the bus back to the hostel, which was situated in historic Marbella (versus the prostitute-laden streets of Puerto Banus, which felt more like the miniature Las Vegas of Marbella. Huge buildings, modern architecture, designer shops and little culture. However, they did have Antonio Banderas Plaza, which was nice).

We stopped at another bar for some tapas and wine. The encounter had shaken us a bit. It was clear that this festival was going to be very different from what I had experienced working for the Los Angeles Film Festival or the Abu Dhabi Film Commission.

As our Guide warned at the onset, what you see is not always what you get. But, for the moment, all we saw was the sun setting over a sparkling sea while young couples came in from the beach due to the slowly dipping temperature.

The waves crashed steadily; our bellies were plump with wine, pork and calamari; the night was still young. We decided to head back to the hostel and finally take that nap.

We slept for 14 hours.

LAFF Update

I didn't write anything about the Festival... Sorry about that... Stay tuned for a blog that I might write someday called "16 1/2 Reasons Why I'm a Terrible Blogger"

Cheers,
MP