I was traipsing through the fresh snow of Park
City, heading through the darkness and drifting snowflakes toward my car in the
parking lot. It was the middle of the night, and the snow had been
falling since 10.
I had seen it when it started. From outside a club along the main street of town, the tiny white dots dancing toward the ground highlighted in the glow of the old fashioned lamp posts. The white sheen of the streets got trapped by the walls of the quaint buildings, creating an all-too-perfect glow, like a painting of small town America. Next to me, someone posted the results of the winners of the festival. At the top was someone named Morgan Spurlock for a documentary called Supersize Me. It didn't seem important at the time in January, 2004, but in retrospect I realize I was the first person in the world to learn that this groundbreaking film had been the winner at the festival.
I had been invited to the club by two women with whom I had shared a shuttle bus. I shouldn't have been surprised that they didn't show up, though I later found that I had probably gone to the wrong club. It was just as well. I needed to head back to LA, and I had only enough money to pay for the gas to get me there. I had a check waiting for me at home, but my ex-girlfriend, who had not yet left my apartment even after more than two months after breaking up with me, refused to help out by depositing it.
I had risked everything to go to Sundance. I didn't have a film in the festival, but I did have a movie being developed. We had met with a bunch of well-known actors, and Martin Sheen had offered to be a part of it. I just needed investors, and Sundance was a way to get to these investors and production companies without being blocked by what I called the red velvet rope.
I had made some important connections, and now I just needed to get back to Burbank with them. The snow was starting to come down hard now, and I needed to get off the mountain before I got blocked in.
That's why I was so horrified to see a tow truck with a small white lump on its back, my car, driving out of the parking lot. I screamed in panic as I chased after, cutting across a nearby lawn to try to cut it off. Much to my surprise, there was a hidden dip into which I suddenly sank up to my chest. Stuck, I tried to push forward anyway. But I could do nothing but helplessly watch my car be carried away into the darkness.
I was helpless, alone, more than half buried in the snow in the darkness of the middle of the night. I was lower than the lowest point. This is where a lifetime of trying to make it in the entertainment industry had led me. Hundreds of miles from home without a car, no way to get to it, and not enough money to get it out and drive it home even if I did.
As I floated there in the snow in shock and hopelessness, my mind began to wonder how I had gotten there. What choices had I made that brought me to this point that was lower than I expected life could ever get?
I will be exploring these choices, and my experiences, in this blog. Whenever the title begins with "Tales of a Failed Filmmaker" I will be telling these stories from a journey of 25 years of trying to make it in the film industry, and failing.
I'm beginning this story now because this month, (in fact, this day,) marks the 20th anniversary of my arrival in Los Angeles. I will not be telling this story in order; it would take too long to get to more recent tales, and I know I'll be remembering things out of order along the way. So each story will be from a different point in time, and I'll do my best to explain the dates where I remember them.
I had seen it when it started. From outside a club along the main street of town, the tiny white dots dancing toward the ground highlighted in the glow of the old fashioned lamp posts. The white sheen of the streets got trapped by the walls of the quaint buildings, creating an all-too-perfect glow, like a painting of small town America. Next to me, someone posted the results of the winners of the festival. At the top was someone named Morgan Spurlock for a documentary called Supersize Me. It didn't seem important at the time in January, 2004, but in retrospect I realize I was the first person in the world to learn that this groundbreaking film had been the winner at the festival.
I had been invited to the club by two women with whom I had shared a shuttle bus. I shouldn't have been surprised that they didn't show up, though I later found that I had probably gone to the wrong club. It was just as well. I needed to head back to LA, and I had only enough money to pay for the gas to get me there. I had a check waiting for me at home, but my ex-girlfriend, who had not yet left my apartment even after more than two months after breaking up with me, refused to help out by depositing it.
I had risked everything to go to Sundance. I didn't have a film in the festival, but I did have a movie being developed. We had met with a bunch of well-known actors, and Martin Sheen had offered to be a part of it. I just needed investors, and Sundance was a way to get to these investors and production companies without being blocked by what I called the red velvet rope.
I had made some important connections, and now I just needed to get back to Burbank with them. The snow was starting to come down hard now, and I needed to get off the mountain before I got blocked in.
That's why I was so horrified to see a tow truck with a small white lump on its back, my car, driving out of the parking lot. I screamed in panic as I chased after, cutting across a nearby lawn to try to cut it off. Much to my surprise, there was a hidden dip into which I suddenly sank up to my chest. Stuck, I tried to push forward anyway. But I could do nothing but helplessly watch my car be carried away into the darkness.
I was helpless, alone, more than half buried in the snow in the darkness of the middle of the night. I was lower than the lowest point. This is where a lifetime of trying to make it in the entertainment industry had led me. Hundreds of miles from home without a car, no way to get to it, and not enough money to get it out and drive it home even if I did.
As I floated there in the snow in shock and hopelessness, my mind began to wonder how I had gotten there. What choices had I made that brought me to this point that was lower than I expected life could ever get?
I will be exploring these choices, and my experiences, in this blog. Whenever the title begins with "Tales of a Failed Filmmaker" I will be telling these stories from a journey of 25 years of trying to make it in the film industry, and failing.
I'm beginning this story now because this month, (in fact, this day,) marks the 20th anniversary of my arrival in Los Angeles. I will not be telling this story in order; it would take too long to get to more recent tales, and I know I'll be remembering things out of order along the way. So each story will be from a different point in time, and I'll do my best to explain the dates where I remember them.
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