leah aviva rubin-cadrain, carroll gardens, bK, march 2011
Showing posts with label not film. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not film. Show all posts
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
endless babies on the screen
taking my first day off since my birthday (17 days of work: 6 shoot days + 4 travel days + 5 days of work the first week and 2 in between.) But in mystery land, the small moments are still lovely.
(PS- this is my greatest production achievement- I made that helicopter happen, and for free! Asking nicely goes a long, long way, apparently.)
Friday, January 1, 2010
Friday, November 13, 2009
They're not a real pet. They don't know how to love.
in the style of ss specifically this & this.
H: i am thinking "oh that sucks, i hope she's alright. (insert excuse to not hang out after work). Let's just hang out another time."
me: the excuse has to bear all of the clever and cool?
Excuses for H. to avoid meeting with an unsavory fella after work:
1. after work's not going to pan out.
let's just hang out another time
Hannah: ooh thats good
i am too busy skindiving with nurse sharks
i am too busy completing my online course in open heart surgery
i am too busy calculating the angle of incidence it will take to launch a rocket off my roof
I am too busy saving a whale. not all of them, just one.
tonight's not going to pan out. my living room is full of wet cement, and, you know, time is of the essence
me: I'd love to see you after work, but I have to walk my sea monkeys. they get ornery.
H: hahahaha and no one wants that
me: no. especially if their habitat is encased in slow drying wet cement
H: life is hard for those little sea monkeys
me: they're not a real pet
they don't know how to love
contribute if you please.
H: i am thinking "oh that sucks, i hope she's alright. (insert excuse to not hang out after work). Let's just hang out another time."
me: the excuse has to bear all of the clever and cool?
Excuses for H. to avoid meeting with an unsavory fella after work:
1. after work's not going to pan out.
let's just hang out another time
Hannah: ooh thats good
i am too busy skindiving with nurse sharks
i am too busy completing my online course in open heart surgery
i am too busy calculating the angle of incidence it will take to launch a rocket off my roof
I am too busy saving a whale. not all of them, just one.
tonight's not going to pan out. my living room is full of wet cement, and, you know, time is of the essence
me: I'd love to see you after work, but I have to walk my sea monkeys. they get ornery.
H: hahahaha and no one wants that
me: no. especially if their habitat is encased in slow drying wet cement
H: life is hard for those little sea monkeys
me: they're not a real pet
they don't know how to love
contribute if you please.
Friday, November 6, 2009
stressed tv bunny sings the blues
Can I even blog now, while everything explodes inside?
Loneliness of the oft-unoccupied associate producer. While we run four hours overtime or the monitor ceases to function or we’re faced with a subject who simply cannot answer an interview question in a complete sentence (and past tense, if you please) I’m castrated in the antechamber, surrounded by, in short order: three curling irons, two and a half untasted ice teas, some seventeen shades of foundation and mattifying powder, two grips, one PA, and an uncharged cell phone, on the other end of which likely exists the answers to all of our catastrophies.
My experience in production can be assembled and easily digested through a series of clichés (notably: hurry up and wait, don’t count your chickens, Murphy’s law, too good to be true… & c.) So far, MD season 8 has followed the latter- relatively engaging, well informed subjects, hospital PR the likes of which – ready for another cliché—dreams are made of, relatively exciting locations, relatively accommodating and livable hotel rooms. Keep the explosions to a minimum (dave, don’t pull the monitor off the bed by the cable!) and we’ll present thirteen to seventeen tapes at the end of each ordeal, which chronicle the gorgeous moments everything went right (no matter how many takes it took.)
Our last full shoot this season has been a perfect opposite perfect storm. Of course it’s in New Orleans, where everything runs opposite anyway. Before we left, Dave asked if we were up for the challenge. The morning of, my anxiety alarm clock essentially electrocuted me. But at that point, everything seemed marginally under control. Sure, two of our subjects were unintelligible, and the others were threatening legal action or changing flights the day of departure. But we had locations and had a hospital and more or less had a show, so it seemed.
And we do have a show, more or less. After a $135 lunch (why is my credit card being declined?) and a major monitor malfunction (of course you wanted to spend $500 more on equipment rental!) we’re more or less only an hour behind schedule- producer Dave seems almost satisfied (we’ll see, as the night progresses) and everyone had lunch! On time, no less! Less is more? The hotel is sad and old, the car’s too small, the location might be cramped, the hospital harried… but we’re making headway, making television, powering through, keeping our chins up, noses to the grindstone (cliché cliché cliché)
Today I did my first producerial thing (an interview, with a subject I preinterviewed and was entirely responsible for!) and didn’t fuck up too badly- Dave did have to chime in a few times, but considering it’s my second ever Legitimate Contribution To An Episode, I am glad to have had the opportunity and (cliché) am keeping my fingers crossed that some of my subject will make it onto the show.
I have to keep reminding myself of another cliché- it’s not brain surgery. We’re not saving lives, just making tv about people who do. But when you’re locked outside the action with a dead cell phone, trying to keep silent and watching the clock click towards overtime, it’s hard not to feel professionally impotent. It’s these moments that I am glad cigarettes cost $5 a pack anywhere outside of New York, that diet cokes are part of production costs, and, mostly- that I care enough about this show (MY JOB) to get so worked up over it. Get ready for the monster cliché- I’M TOO BLESSED TO BE STRESSED- but modified for the situation- I do what I love and it’s making me grey prematurely and I don’t think I could have it any other way.
Loneliness of the oft-unoccupied associate producer. While we run four hours overtime or the monitor ceases to function or we’re faced with a subject who simply cannot answer an interview question in a complete sentence (and past tense, if you please) I’m castrated in the antechamber, surrounded by, in short order: three curling irons, two and a half untasted ice teas, some seventeen shades of foundation and mattifying powder, two grips, one PA, and an uncharged cell phone, on the other end of which likely exists the answers to all of our catastrophies.
My experience in production can be assembled and easily digested through a series of clichés (notably: hurry up and wait, don’t count your chickens, Murphy’s law, too good to be true… & c.) So far, MD season 8 has followed the latter- relatively engaging, well informed subjects, hospital PR the likes of which – ready for another cliché—dreams are made of, relatively exciting locations, relatively accommodating and livable hotel rooms. Keep the explosions to a minimum (dave, don’t pull the monitor off the bed by the cable!) and we’ll present thirteen to seventeen tapes at the end of each ordeal, which chronicle the gorgeous moments everything went right (no matter how many takes it took.)
Our last full shoot this season has been a perfect opposite perfect storm. Of course it’s in New Orleans, where everything runs opposite anyway. Before we left, Dave asked if we were up for the challenge. The morning of, my anxiety alarm clock essentially electrocuted me. But at that point, everything seemed marginally under control. Sure, two of our subjects were unintelligible, and the others were threatening legal action or changing flights the day of departure. But we had locations and had a hospital and more or less had a show, so it seemed.
And we do have a show, more or less. After a $135 lunch (why is my credit card being declined?) and a major monitor malfunction (of course you wanted to spend $500 more on equipment rental!) we’re more or less only an hour behind schedule- producer Dave seems almost satisfied (we’ll see, as the night progresses) and everyone had lunch! On time, no less! Less is more? The hotel is sad and old, the car’s too small, the location might be cramped, the hospital harried… but we’re making headway, making television, powering through, keeping our chins up, noses to the grindstone (cliché cliché cliché)
Today I did my first producerial thing (an interview, with a subject I preinterviewed and was entirely responsible for!) and didn’t fuck up too badly- Dave did have to chime in a few times, but considering it’s my second ever Legitimate Contribution To An Episode, I am glad to have had the opportunity and (cliché) am keeping my fingers crossed that some of my subject will make it onto the show.
I have to keep reminding myself of another cliché- it’s not brain surgery. We’re not saving lives, just making tv about people who do. But when you’re locked outside the action with a dead cell phone, trying to keep silent and watching the clock click towards overtime, it’s hard not to feel professionally impotent. It’s these moments that I am glad cigarettes cost $5 a pack anywhere outside of New York, that diet cokes are part of production costs, and, mostly- that I care enough about this show (MY JOB) to get so worked up over it. Get ready for the monster cliché- I’M TOO BLESSED TO BE STRESSED- but modified for the situation- I do what I love and it’s making me grey prematurely and I don’t think I could have it any other way.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Hiding on the internetz
Melissa asked me ALL NIGHT not to make public these videos. So i'll only make public the one in which she asks nicely.
Clyde and I came up with a great new vengeance film (as rapey vengeance films are his favorite sort.) It will be the tale of a passionate moviegoer who flies into a rage when people chat during his pictures... and then he kills them. It will be not so subtly based on that guy who shot the other guy during a screening of Benjamin Button in Philly, and also all of the random stabbings that occured in my movie theater at home in New Jersey.
We're going to call it Man Down In Front.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
All you need is bun
NYFF Update:
Hunger
Wendy and Lucy
I'm Gonna Explode
Waltz with Bashir
Shorts:
Cry Me a River
I don't feel like dancing
This is her
Forthcoming:
Gomorrah
Afterschool
Chouga
---
Remember the story I wrote from the emergency room while waiting for ryan to potentially have his toe amputated?
Apparently, the saga continues, but this time with bun bun as the protagonist:
Once upon a time there was a bunny named Bun Bun. He was small and soft,
with white fluff and very expressive ears. He traveled around in the handbag
of his good friend, Zelda Mae Bun. While she was at work, he would emerge
from the bag and sprawl upon her head in a puddle of white fluff, or hop
about to nibble on important documents. He was the happiest bunny in the
whole wide world, and wrote several novels under the name Bun Scott
Fitzgerald, dedicating them to his one true love, Zelda.
But then one day, Zelda Mae decided to join a gang and eloped with a shady
Thai cineast. She threw her handbag into the East River, with the poor
little bunny still inside, and ran off to live at the Film Forum, only
emerging to feed on a mysteriously powerful demon rum called Sparks in the
hippest dives in Brooklyn. But being sound of health and quick of thought,
the little bunny climbed atop a corpse floating nearby, and used the
vibrating ring of Zelda Mae's iPhone to propel himself back to shore. There,
he hopped carefully through the forest of used hypodermic needletrees,
eventually climbing back into the dark mean city.
Once back on land, the incredulous Mr. Bun hopped into a nearby bodega,
where he spent several days disguised as a toilet brush - an item rarely
used by the locals. He survived for nearly a week by eating nothing but
spaghetti and velveeta. And then one day, to his great surprise, Zelda Mae
wandered into the bodega sporting a fashionable new handbag. Shocked and
horrified, the little bunny watched as Zelda Mae sauntered over to the
cooler to gather a great quantity of sparks. The quick-thinking bunny then
hopped into action, diving into Zelda Mae's fashionable new handbag while
she was distracted with her beverage acquisitions. There he hid as he waited
for his once beloved friend to finish her transaction, wondering how he
would broach the subject of their separation.
It was then, with great horror, that Bun Bun realized he was not alone in
Zelda Mae's fashionable new handbag. Grabbing a nearby lighter that should
not have been there at all, the handsome hare illuminated a wicked looking
feline creature curled up in what was rightfully his napping spot. The awful
creature let loose a terrifying hiss and revealed a set of retractable used
hypodermic needleclaws from its ugly little paw. The dread beastycat raised
its needleclaws high, poised to deal the sweet and wonderful bunny a deadly
blow. But the lovable ninjabun was ready for the hellkitty, quickly wielding
his recently sharpened switchblade...
Will the clever and adorable triumph over the despicable cat-thing? Or will
vice and wickedness persevere to make Zelda Mae a most macabre pair of bunny
slippers? Stay tuned for our next episode:
Along Came A Bunny
Or
There Will Be Bun
Hunger
Wendy and Lucy
I'm Gonna Explode
Waltz with Bashir
Shorts:
Cry Me a River
I don't feel like dancing
This is her
Forthcoming:
Gomorrah
Afterschool
Chouga
---
Remember the story I wrote from the emergency room while waiting for ryan to potentially have his toe amputated?
Apparently, the saga continues, but this time with bun bun as the protagonist:
Once upon a time there was a bunny named Bun Bun. He was small and soft,
with white fluff and very expressive ears. He traveled around in the handbag
of his good friend, Zelda Mae Bun. While she was at work, he would emerge
from the bag and sprawl upon her head in a puddle of white fluff, or hop
about to nibble on important documents. He was the happiest bunny in the
whole wide world, and wrote several novels under the name Bun Scott
Fitzgerald, dedicating them to his one true love, Zelda.
But then one day, Zelda Mae decided to join a gang and eloped with a shady
Thai cineast. She threw her handbag into the East River, with the poor
little bunny still inside, and ran off to live at the Film Forum, only
emerging to feed on a mysteriously powerful demon rum called Sparks in the
hippest dives in Brooklyn. But being sound of health and quick of thought,
the little bunny climbed atop a corpse floating nearby, and used the
vibrating ring of Zelda Mae's iPhone to propel himself back to shore. There,
he hopped carefully through the forest of used hypodermic needletrees,
eventually climbing back into the dark mean city.
Once back on land, the incredulous Mr. Bun hopped into a nearby bodega,
where he spent several days disguised as a toilet brush - an item rarely
used by the locals. He survived for nearly a week by eating nothing but
spaghetti and velveeta. And then one day, to his great surprise, Zelda Mae
wandered into the bodega sporting a fashionable new handbag. Shocked and
horrified, the little bunny watched as Zelda Mae sauntered over to the
cooler to gather a great quantity of sparks. The quick-thinking bunny then
hopped into action, diving into Zelda Mae's fashionable new handbag while
she was distracted with her beverage acquisitions. There he hid as he waited
for his once beloved friend to finish her transaction, wondering how he
would broach the subject of their separation.
It was then, with great horror, that Bun Bun realized he was not alone in
Zelda Mae's fashionable new handbag. Grabbing a nearby lighter that should
not have been there at all, the handsome hare illuminated a wicked looking
feline creature curled up in what was rightfully his napping spot. The awful
creature let loose a terrifying hiss and revealed a set of retractable used
hypodermic needleclaws from its ugly little paw. The dread beastycat raised
its needleclaws high, poised to deal the sweet and wonderful bunny a deadly
blow. But the lovable ninjabun was ready for the hellkitty, quickly wielding
his recently sharpened switchblade...
Will the clever and adorable triumph over the despicable cat-thing? Or will
vice and wickedness persevere to make Zelda Mae a most macabre pair of bunny
slippers? Stay tuned for our next episode:
Along Came A Bunny
Or
There Will Be Bun
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Except, roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
This is the summer of my discontent, gravelly voiced, working class songsmiths weaving melodies from the lower registers-
endless amounts of Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Bruce Springsteen... Stephen Merritt, the National.
My womb music was bruce springsteen, I was possibly conceived during the Born in the USA tour, 1985. I don't know if that makes the space he takes up in my soul any less cliche, but I will draw upon the wisdom of Sabina Carlson to justify my shameless devotion to the garden state, springsteen love and all--
...Grow Wings from Your Wounds...We're all stellar, our friends, because we've had to claw ourselves out of the suburbs and onward to the stars--- through that brick red dirt of South Jersey and the apathy weighing ankles like boots coated in clay...
I am in love with New Jersey... and if you've never photographed broken glass in an abandoned casino in Asbury Park with a bohemian princess... if you've never seen the electric factories glow like angels on I-95...if you've never wished on a streetlamp when you couldn't see shooting stars... don't tell me New Jersey isn't beautiful...
Film comment--
My Winnipeg. My Winnipeg. My Winnipeg. So sentimental and bitingly nostalgic and genuine, in the best way possible for an ambivalent, experimental film about a mixed bag hometown, and escape, without answers.
endless amounts of Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Bruce Springsteen... Stephen Merritt, the National.
My womb music was bruce springsteen, I was possibly conceived during the Born in the USA tour, 1985. I don't know if that makes the space he takes up in my soul any less cliche, but I will draw upon the wisdom of Sabina Carlson to justify my shameless devotion to the garden state, springsteen love and all--
...Grow Wings from Your Wounds...We're all stellar, our friends, because we've had to claw ourselves out of the suburbs and onward to the stars--- through that brick red dirt of South Jersey and the apathy weighing ankles like boots coated in clay...
I am in love with New Jersey... and if you've never photographed broken glass in an abandoned casino in Asbury Park with a bohemian princess... if you've never seen the electric factories glow like angels on I-95...if you've never wished on a streetlamp when you couldn't see shooting stars... don't tell me New Jersey isn't beautiful...
Film comment--
My Winnipeg. My Winnipeg. My Winnipeg. So sentimental and bitingly nostalgic and genuine, in the best way possible for an ambivalent, experimental film about a mixed bag hometown, and escape, without answers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)