Beverly Hills. 11 a.m. I’m waiting in the office of Jim Carrey’s manager, staring at a giant wall-photo of lava pouring into the ocean. It’s explosive. Violent. Steam, smoke and sparks. The image is larger than my rented car.
In walks Eric Gold, industry genie.
“What do you think of this picture?” He asks me.
I realize that there’s only one correct answer: “What do you think of it Mr. Gold?”
He smiles. “You’ll do fine.” Sitting, he shares: “Most people see this volcano and think destruction. I’ve been asked to take it down.”
While we’re talking, someone actually comes in and asks when he’ll take it down.
“I see creation,” he continues. “It’s fierce, and messy, but constructive, and natural.”
During our meeting, Gold takes a 45-minute call from Mike Myers in front of me to tweak the plot of a project. I find myself casually volunteering suggestions, most of which get discarded glances. And then I realize, after all this time, I’m still a failure. But, I’m failing at the highest level. Fantastic!
I look at the wall volcano. Destruction. This town is taking my ideas and burning me alive. I’m also trying to get a release for my completed film while the distribution landscape collapses around me. Even studios are perplexed by new technologies and what models they’ll yield. The sky is falling, ground crumbling beneath me. Every established pipeline for distribution is in chaos. I wonder what will become of my celebrated opus, Summerhood? Or new projects even?
Evolution has the worst timing. But it’s a certainty. Every so often, a technology comes along that uproots the patterns of standard business. Shattering paradigms and crashing titans.
I recall the celebrated times of Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. A golden era of film. An era of “silent” film. The biggest stars working lost their jobs when “talkies” came about and it unfolded that many great “faces” had disappointingly shrill voices.
Families used to huddle around the radio until television ended that. Tape cassettes drove records into the ground, and then CDs buried both. The VHS business was decimated by DVDs, now being replaced by Blu-ray. Of course, the Internet destroyed everything. Everything.
But then I remember: theatre predates electricity. And before that, we had the Coliseum. Storytelling will always exist. Only the venues change. Grasping that, I feel secure to daydream again. To imagine. To write – knowing it will find a way to you.
Volcanic rock is coarse and unstable, but it’s the most fertile. I look at the photo again. This time I see creation. If I can weather the disaster, I’ll be the first to plant in rich soils.
Now is the time of the ant. Be steadfast and have patience. The winner will be the last person standing, not necessarily the most qualified; on those terms, I submit myself.
My film has won awards across North America, been invited to PIXAR, and this summer will play in Italy at the most prestigious children’s festival on the planet. Summerhood has earned a proper release. Meanwhile, the mechanics of new distribution models are still cooling. I derive patience from having seen the film enjoyed by thousands. It’s youthful without pander; it’s pioneering. It’s honest, hopeful, heartfelt and filthy, but has a great message.
I just wanted to teach little boys to be a little better to little girls. This includes little boys I know in their 60s. (Narration by John Cusack helps plenty.)
As the venues of storytelling transition, I end my final CJN column so:
Thank you for reading.
I thank The CJN for publishing.
You’ll all be character witnesses at my trial.
You can find me on the film’s website.
Cue the cartoon pig: “Th- Th- Th-That’s all folks.”