I'm inspired by crap.

What inspires art?  What inspires artists?  At what point does one look at something and say: “Oh, yeah, I’m inspired.”  At one point does one recognize something in something else and have that speak to them?

I remember going to see “Raiders of the Lost Ark” on opening night at the Northgate Theatre (now closed).  It was the last day of school, I had no idea what we were going to go see, I really had no concept of even what the idea was.  Sure, I had seen maybe an ad, or two, but nothing sort of struck me as to plot, genre, story-line.  My friend Nathan and I were going in flying blind.

Great movie!!  Sequels, well....

The Northgate theatre had two levels, too, kinda.  It wasn’t so much that it had a balcony, it just had an upper tier that you walked up a few steps and it was a good four feet higher than the section below.  Why is that I remember that we sat in the front row of those seats – with unobstructed view, no heads in front of us – but can’t remember what I had for lunch last Wednesday.  You see, these moments, they kind of kick you in the teeth.

When I walked out of the theatre two hours later I was inspired.  I had witnessed, probably for the 1000^th time, what film could be.  What great story-telling could do.  What worlds you could create.  And I was inspired.  Not to attempt to recreate what I just witnessed, that would be impossible in a lot of ways, but to just...create.

Still, at this point, though, I was a novel writer.  A poet.  An AUTHOR.  And a damn bad one at that.  As my writing shifted towards screenwriting, though, I became a bit, how shall we say it:  jaded.  The idea of story to script to screen seemed farther and farther out of my grasp.  And then layers of reality creep in around that:  “You’re not good enough.”  “The story isn’t structured properly.”  “Too many pages.”  “Wrong font.”  “Who’s the protagonist, antagonist?”  “What about the b-story?”  “You have to live in Los Angeles.”  “You have to have an agent.”  “You have to have a manager.”  “It’s boring.”  “It’s too expensive.”  “No one will make that.”  “What’s the pitch?”

Scary place.  Asks too many questions.

And that’s when I began to be inspired by crap.

When Nicholas was entering another one of his many talented stages – this time drawing – I pulled out a book of collected works of Norman Rockwell.  I loves me some Norman Rockwell.  As many people may call him a sell-out or pap or worse...the paintings that Rockwell did were magical to me in their nuance, detail and poignancy.  They SPOKE to me.

Great detail.  Amazing work.  Wonderful story-telling.

Showing Nicholas some wonderful paintings, they spoke to HIM, too.  He was equally impressed, if not more so, of what Rockwell was able to do.  But Nick’s response was one of:  “Look at the way he drew hands.  I could never draw hands that way.”  It was awe tinged with defeat.  Almost:  “Why bother to draw at all, when I could never draw hands like Rockwell?”  Nick has gone on to do all sorts of wonderful great drawings and, no, he doesn’t try to be Rockwell.  Who could?

Nick's Art

A few weeks ago, a friend on Facebook posted that he needed to be inspired, so he was going to sit down and watch the classic film “The Godfather.”  I responded back that I get inspired by crap.

Great movie.  Great cast.  Great director.

Let me ‘splain.

When it comes to film (and, I’m sure, other mediums) a lot of crap gets made.  Some of it is expensive repulsive crap and some of it is bare-bones down-and-dirty repulsive crap.  But...it’s crap, nonetheless.  And somehow, someway, by hook or by crook, it got made and it got distributed.

All those nagging questions above that seep into my brain, all those that say that I’m not good enough, I can’t accomplish it, that it won’t work, shouldn’t work, couldn’t work – you only have to look as far as a package of films that have fallen into the public domain or watch an episode of “The Best of the Worst” by Red Letter Media and say to yourself:  “Hell, I can do better than that.”  Or, “Hell, I can write better than that.”  Or, “Hell, I can act better than that.”

 Creative reviews of films.  Sometimes language not appropriate.

In the 24 hours after watching the Academy Awards, all those questions, those nagging, annoying, persistent questions rise again.  I’ve written about the Post Award Show Blues before.  It’s simply where I’m seeing in 4 hours of glorious self congratulatory flimflammery where I want to be, compared to where I am now (“You’ll never make it”).  Four hours of the wealthy and beautiful patting each other on the back (“You’re too old!”  “You’re not good enough!”).  Four hours of attention and notoriety and talent and skill and excellence (“Who’s the protagonist?”  “What’s your b-story?”  “Is there a character arc?”).  Four hours of looking at Rockwell’s hands.

I mean, seriously, look at the HANDS!!

 And all this would be muse destructive, if it weren’t for the crap.  All this would destroy my writing soul, if it weren’t for the crap.  All this would be pointless, if it weren’t for the crap.

Tarantino.  I've liked some of his films.  Disliked others.  So sue me.

Director Quentin Tarantino once said that you have to respect every filmmaker for whatever film they make, as bad as it is, because the filmmaker got it made.  They spent the time and energy and money and power and persuasion to get it made.  “The Room” is a cinematic masterpiece when compared to something like “Birdemic.”  And more low-budget filmmakers get churned out every day with iphone in hand and the scribbling of something that resembles a script.

Youtube is the bee hive of slap-dash, make-it-on-the-run, get it out there quickly, see what people think, “I hope it goes viral!” filmmakers.  I’m not talking about them.  I’m talking about people who step up to the plate of filmmaking and see it for what it is:  A challenge to create something and then, send it out to the masses (or figure out a way to do so).  And I’m talking about those willing to sit down and make a feature length film.  A full-on production.  Not 15 minutes of your cat playing with a laser pointer.

The respect I have for filmmakers runs deep, considering that I’m one myself.  But I also found far more inspiration in a film like “Birdemic” than I find in a film like “Titanic.”  (And, please do not take this as a recommendation for “Birdemic” – it’s crap, crap, crappity crap.  It’s not even GOOD crap like “The Room.”)

Please.  Don't bother.  It's terrible.  Trust me..

But...if a completely unredeemable film like “Birdemic” can get made and distributed.  So can mine.  If people want to invest in films like “Robot Monster” or “They Saved Hitler’s Brain” – then maybe I can find investors for mine.   

 Classically bad...in a really good inspiring way.

If my hero Roger Corman can make an amazingly stunning amount of films all around their budget or time frame (“Little Shop of Horrors” was made in three days) than so can I.  I just have to do it.

Yeah, that's right.  I respect this guy so much, he's not even in my dead pool.

There’s another point to watching crap.

Besides the obvious differences of films like “Avatar” and “Titanic” and “Lincoln” and anything with a budget over $20,000,000 – is that watching crap is a learning experience.  You see, blatantly on screen, how weirdly shots are set up.  How bad some amateur acting can be.  How the lighting makes everyone look the same.  How important sound is.  Let me repeat:  HOW IMPORTANT SOUND IS!

What I learn in watching big budget films is:  “How long did it take them to set up that shot?”  “Did they really need a crane?”  “Man, the lighting effect is great, I wonder if they did that in post production?”  “Those clouds aren’t really there.”  What I learn is that big budgets get you lots and lots of toys to play with.  What I learn when I watch low-budget crap is that you get three toys to play with and two are broken.  Go for it!

I’ve talked about love of Public Domain films in a previous blog and it seems weird to think that one might get inspired by crappy films done on the cheap with bad acting, bad directing and bad everything else.  But they got made.  And if they can get made, well then, so can mine.

Rockwell's actual hands....in bronze...I assume....