Vance Sloane, filmmaker

Do you think making a film is easy? You're wrong. It's a long, tedious, expensive, stressful venture. Sure, it's incredibly rewarding—especially if you have a stake in the DVD backend—but it's so difficult it almost doesn't justify the reward. Add to the already-tough process of filmmaking an egocentric rock star with delusions of grandeur, his insane girlfriend, and a zoo-like entourage, and you have an ordeal nobody in his right mind would ever want to endure. Ever. My name's Vance Sloane, the Goodman Award-winning director of 1999's Hector's Secret and 2003's Plight of the Spiteful. I've been asked to share some of my experiences with Girth McDürchstein over the course of the making of a feature film version of their album, The Hedge. Included below are chronological excerpts from my private journals during that time, which I've granted permission for the editors of this site to use.

June 12, 2003

Spent most of today browsing through used record stores. Cover caught my eye. Girth McDürchstein's 'The Hedge.' Some double-disc concept album about a nutjob. Good story. Think about it.

July 8, 2003

Plight not doing well at all. Don't know why they chose 4th of July weekend to open it, but it bombed. Distro will probably get pulled. This sucks. Need to get new project going. Strongly considering The Hedge—story is already there. Just need to visualize it. Will contact Abysmal Crucifix tomorrow via record company.

July 9, 2003

Called Kelleystein Recordings in Hollywood today. Interesting conversations. Phone was answered directly by Karen Hofstadt, A&R rep, couldn't say why. Must be small. I said, "My name's Vance Sloane. I'm a filmmaker—"

She interrupted, "Never heard of you."

"My second feature, Plight of the Spiteful, just came out on Friday," I said with pride.

"Never heard of it."

"Hector's Secret?"

"That the one where the kid's dying of AIDS until his friend makes a vaccine—"

"No!" I yelled. "I'm calling because I just bought The Hedge and listened to it. I think it'd make a good movie, so I wondered if you could put me in touch with Abysmal Crucifix."

"Mm-hmm," Hofstadt said. Heard a click, then I was on hold. A recording started to tell me about new Kelleystein albums, but after a few seconds a man barked, "Girth McDürchstein." It sounded like a cell phone.

"You wrote The Hedge?" I asked.

"Who's asking? It's a completely original story—"

"I want to make it into a film," I said.

"I'm sorry?"

I told my name and pitch again. He hadn't seen any of my movies, so I said I'd have DVDs sent to him. Must remember to do that. He sounds interested. I asked him to listen to the album and think of it visually, maybe try taking a crack at the screenplay. He told me, "I'm not a screenwriter." He said it with an awe and reverence that cracked me up. I told him just to think visually, look at what he wants to see on screen. There's a lot of imagery in his lyrics. I think he'll do okay. Remember to send him a couple of screenplays along with the DVDs so he gets the formatting.

July 14, 2003

Walked into my office this morning and found a new script in an envelope stuffed into my inbox. Weekend delivery. Sally was here to let him in. I glanced at the return address. It bore the logo and address of Kelleystein Recordings. I couldn't help being surprised and worried. Girth had only had the copies of my movies and screenplays for a few days, and suddenly a script was rush-delivered over the weekend. I popped open the envelope, and there it was on the title page: Girth McDürchstein's 'The Hedge.' Girth wrote a note on the back of the title page, explaining some things I didn't know: starting in 2002, The Hedge had been a stage show, and he adapted many of the visuals from that and the lyrics. The plot thickens, I guess.

The script is overloaded with visual references to other musical movies (A Hard Day's Night, Pink Floyd—The Wall) and a lot of specific but confusing references to blocking, like he already knows the whole cast. Don't know if he just copy/pasted from his stage-show script or if he has something else in mind. I hate to break it that he won't be casting anything here. Other than that, the script is pretty decent. Surprisingly visual, all things considered. He must have paid very close attention to the visual symbols texturing Hector's Secret.

I think I'll do a rewrite or two, to really clarify a lot of the visual and symbolic motifs Girth has put into it. I'm sure he'll be fine with that.

JULY 19, 2003

Put together a package featuring my typical crew and a few from my stable of actors, along with my latest rewrite of the script. Hope he likes it.

August 6, 2003

Got an e-mail today from Girth this afternoon:

   From:  Vance Sloane <[email protected]>
Subject:  "Package"
   Date:  August 6, 2003 15:14:26 PM PST
     To:  Girth McDürchstein <[email protected]>

Sloane -

I haven't had the chance to fully absorb the "package" you sent. In short, the casting sucks. I haven't made it all the way through your "rewrite" of the script, but what gives you the right to alter my poetry? I'm going to give you a call tomorrow. You'd *better* answer, hear me?

- Girth

I'm livid. How dare he speak to me like that? Doesn't he know who I am? I just directed a major motion picture! I don't look forward to getting his call tomorrow.

August 7, 2003

I sat around waiting for much of the day. Girth finally called around 4:45.

"Finished your script," he said off the bat. "I just want to apologize for the comments I made yesterday via e-mail. By this time, I should know better than to look at a partial work of art and assume it tells the whole story. Once I got through it, I'll acknowledge that your revisions really will make this a nice, beautiful film."

I was stunned, obviously. I think my jaw really dropped. It took me a few seconds to work it again. When it did, I said, "Thanks, Mr. McDürchstein."

"Call me Girth," he said amiably. "I just want you to know, off the bat, that I'm really looking forward to working with you."

"I...I..." I didn't know what to say. We had gone from merely spitballing ideas to what Girth perceived as a "go" picture, in less than a month. Finally I said, "I can't wait."

"Have you secured financing?" he asked.

"It's close," I said shakily. I'd been waiting for his approval on the script before I even bothered sending it out for financial consideration. I hoped massaging the truth wouldn't come back to bite us in the ass.

"Good," I said. "Now, I must tell you, I've reviewed the rest of the package, and most of it's okay, but I do have a few conditions that you have to agree to before this project can go forward. If you reject any of them, this will be our last conversation. Got it?"

I should have sensed the "but" from a mile away, but Girth had an irritating snake-oil charm that disarmed me. Sighing, I grabbed a legal pad from the shelf behind me and snatched up a pen. I clicked the pen and said, "Go ahead."

I wrote as he spoke: "Condition one: casting. I will star as Girth, and my girlfriend Margo will play a triple role: The One, The Mother, and The Lady of the Evening. There will be required cameos by every member of Abysmal Crucifix. You can cast all the other parts as you see fit, provided you look first and foremost at the cast I've assembled for the stage show. I've FedEx'ed a 'package' of my own, including their headshots and resumes."

"Okay..." I mumbled. I had planned to have Norwood Pierre, who had a key supporting role in Hector's Secret, star as Girth. I also wanted, though I wasn't sure I could get, somebody like Parker Posey or Mary-Louise Parker to play that triple role. Somebody classy, great actor, and a hot woman, with name recognition but a penchant for doing "indie" films. And I planned to fill out all the supporting roles with my own stable of "regular" actors. But this is a concession I'll make. If I want to make a movie version of Girth McDürchstein's 'The Hedge', I guess it stands to reason that people who want to see it want to see Girth.

"Condition two: Jonathan Devon, Robert Hutton, and Marni Phillipps will receive 'executive producer' credits and will be paid accordingly. They will do no actual work on this film; they will simply receive credit and payment, for their role in putting together the stage version of the film."

"We can arrange that," I said, writing down the names. He was lucky I hadn't secured financing yet.

"Excellent," Girth said. "Condition three: principal photography will commence like clockwork on November 24th of this year and will conclude, at the latest, on January 19th of next year."

"But—"

"But nothing!" Girth roared. "We're currently committed to a stage version of the show until the end of November, and we start a national tour at the end of January. If you don't fit the filming of this movie into that box, it'll never happen."

I muttered agreement, writing down the dates, worrying about the difficulty of getting financing and distribution deals, as well as assembling a crew and the rest of the cast with only a few months of preproduction.

"Condition four: any music or sound design will be done by Carlos Ueberschaer of Kelleystein Recordings."

"Done," I said.

"Condition five: the entire production will be filmed in and around Chicago, Illinois."

"Can I ask why?"

"Do you have a problem with it?" Girth asked.

"Just curious," I said deferentially.

"This is a completely fictional story," Girth said, clearing his throat, "but some elements are similar to my own childhood. Much of this script is told through flashbacks, and those flashbacks show an alienated Midwestern youth. Chicago seems like a good base of operations. It's the heart of the Midwest, a real city, but you get a few miles in any direction and we can simulate that isolated, alienated Midwest that I grew up in. We're not going to fake that shit in Canada or on a soundstage. Got it?"

"Mm-hmm," I said, doodling a cartoon on the margin of the yellow paper.

"Condition six: this film will be a coproduction venture of your shingle, Hector's Spite Productions, and a new production arm of Kelleystein Recordings. Kelleystein Productions will be entitled to 10% of the gross profits and 40% of all ancillary sales."

"Uh—"

"According to my attorneys at the law offices of Carl D. Barnes, that qualifies as an affirmative response, and this has become a legally binding oral contract," Girth said. "Any violation of said contract will destroy your life. You have free reign otherwise. You know more about filmmaking than I do, so whatever crew you choose, whatever cast members—outside of the specified conditions—are all fine with me. Keep me posted."

I started to say something, but I heard a click, followed by a few seconds of silence, then dial-tone. Did a Yahoo! search of Girth's supposed stage-show commitments. Right now he's in Topeka, I guess. I did some math in my head. I sent those scripts to Kelleystein's office in Hollywood (assumed that's where he'd be). Even with Next Day Air, if they sent it on to Topeka, and he sent his draft back to Kelleystein to be repackaged using their official materials, which was then sent on to me. In my head, it seems like he would have pumped out that first draft in 48 hours. I guess that's not unreasonable since he has lyrics and a stage show to work off of, but I have to say I'm impressed.

August 29, 2003

Small crew assembled:

Remy Goldstein, cinematographer
Lewis Fichtner, editor
Mary Keller, UPM
Wilson Hauptmann, AD
Cindy Lowenstein, Costumes & Makeup
Bruce Greenfield, Visual Effects

Going for a real low budget here. Tiny crew, decided to get the entire cast from Girth's stage show, friends, and colleagues. Now that I have my package, it's time to find the money.

September 23, 2003

Financing from three sources:

Church of Rafelman
Sfaccini's Pizzeria (add product placement ideas to script, run by Girth
Harold Filmore

CoR is a religious organization that firmly agrees that many of today's rock stars are reincarnations of ancient gods and goddesses; they think Girth is Hephaestus, god of fire and blacksmithing. I think it's about the stupidest thing I've heard, but they're fronting the most money, and probably only 'cause they think Girth's a god. I'll keep my mouth shut.

Sfaccini is a total dick, and for some reason he insists on product placement in a movie set entirely in the Midwest, even though his only restaurant is on Venice Beach. Idiot.

Harry Filmore is just a guy. Businessman who, like plenty of businessmen, wants a piece of that movie pie. He saw Hector's Secret on cable, so he knew me and feels good about this project. I played him the album, showed him the script, so he decided to bust out a pretty heavy chunk to shoot this bitch.

Didn't get as much as I want, so I had to do two things I hate: fire Lewie, and shoot on HD instead of 35mm. I started out as an editor, I'm a member of the editor's union, so really the only expendable person, budget-wise, is Lewie. On top of canning Lewie, we actually don't have post-prod. in the budget. I'll try to work that out later. Right now we need the money for principal photography, or else we're up shit's creek. Post will come later. Maybe I can get enough to hire Lew back. We'll see.

Don't like the idea of shooting on HD, either, but these are the sacrifices we make. HD can look kinda good, and maybe Bruce can do something to make it look more like film. I don't know; either way, it's not in the budget. We can either make a movie on HD, or do nothing. Nobody else will finance me.

Reminders: seek distro deal, seek post money (in that order—guaranteed distro might loosen some pockets).

November 14, 2003

In Chicago now. Mary and I will spend the weekend setting up the production offices. We'll spend the week in meetings as the crew trickle into town. We'll scout locations and work on sets/props/effects/etc. Should be ready to shoot Monday. Cast gets in late Sunday night. Want to meet with them as soon as they arrive. Hopefully all will go well.

November 23, 2003

Locations secured:

Irving Hotel (fleabag motel)
2987 W. Wabansia Ave. (Girth's childhood home)
The whole of West Bucktown (nbrhd. assoc. approved)

There are other locations, but we won't get permits or permission for them. Much of this will be "guerrilla" filmmaking. Crew not exactly happy about that.

Later

Met with cast tonight. Afraid this shoot isn't going to go well at all. Meeting didn't help.

Girth McDürchstein: total narcissist on the surface, masks massive guilt and inferiority complex
Margo Atwater: whore
John Davis: liquid arrogance poured into an off-the-rack tweed suit that would have looked cheap in 1968; community theatre star thinks this is his big break, maybe it is if he can act, which I doubt
Charlie Maxwell: so precocious I want to smack him around for a few hours
Anna Lexington: want to fuck
Peter McMartin & Carl Loutan: total dicks, wish I could fire
Chorus girls: want to fuck
The band: seem OK
Everyone else: seems cool

All the people I like have really small, minor roles. The good news? They'll be there for most of the shoot. Really hope I have a shot with Anna Lexington. Never seen anyone so gorgeous.

November 24, 2003—first day of shooting!!

Mary designed the shooting schedule with the cast in mind. So we don't have to pay these people for the whole shoot, it'll be a process of slowly whittling folks down. That said, we're starting with flashback sequences first. Everything in the present-day motel room is pretty much just Girth, so all that will be shot last.

Since Girth has several of his friends in town, hoping to be cameo extras, we'll start with shooting the "angry neighbors" in the "Afraid of Suburbia" sequence. We have permission to use homes all along Wabansia Ave. I don't anticipate the shots taking more than an hour or two.

Later

It's four o'clock in the afternoon right now and we have yet to shoot even an inch of film. I hate nonactors. All we needed were four shots of people looking angrily out the windows, then slamming curtains or closing blinds. How hard is that?

Ask D.J. goddamn Koko how hard that is. She'll whine and complain and bitch and moan until the cows come home. I have more acting talent in my pinkie than she does in her entire golden, muscular body. She just stood there, her taut body at an awkward but undeniably erotic angle, a dim-witted glaze in her eyes, a dull smile on her face.

"Show me your anger!" I demanded, but that placid facial expression was the only one in her repertoire.

"But I'm not angry," she whined.

"Well, then, imitate me!" I barked. She tried that. It didn't take.

I asked Mary to bark obscenities and anti-Koko remarks at her. It finally got enough of a rise out of her to get the shot, but it took over two hours just for her.

Carl Davenport wasn't different. First, he's ugly. Second, he makes Koko seem like Sir Laurence Olivier. He's too fun-loving to act angry. Even when he managed to act it, there was always a twinkle of sarcasm in his eyes. It just didn't work, but after awhile I gave up. Maybe we can fix it in post.

I can't figure out if "Little Riffs Nicky" is borderline retarded or just a drunk (maybe both), but he just stood there, giggling and smiling and chattering to himself like that guy from Shine. It took four hours for him to stand still, shut up, and stop laughing long enough for us to get five seconds of footage.

Marni Phillipps was passable. Didn't take much time.

This [great] guy calling himself "Jam" Malone decided to be a [really great guy] and not show up for six hours. The good news is, it took so long to do the others that he was pretty much right on time. The bad news? His [well-rounded insight into the human condition] made all these demands for costumes and makeup and set dressing. For a five-second shot. All I wanted was street clothes; fuck, he didn't even need makeup. I know it's hi-def, but it's not like you could see it through the glass. I don't know what made this guy decide to be such a [cool person to hang with]. I ended up sending him way the fuck away. I acted the part myself, and it took a grand total of eight seconds to set the shot and do it. That's professionalism.

I knew this would be a rotten shoot. I don't look forward to the heavily dramatic scenes involving the "real" actors.

November 28, 2003

I hate them all.

November 30, 2003

Weekly wrap-up:

Tuesday – We shot a bunch of scenes involving the chorus girls. They're actually professional and halfway decent. The big drawback was Girth himself, my lovely star, who has the acting skills of a half-dead marmot. Maybe he'll get better as he becomes more comfortable with film acting. At least he seems to be trying.

Wednesday – Today Girth ended shooting at 2 p.m., totally throwing off our schedule. No idea why.

Thursday – Mary and I thought we could catch up if we started at dawn and worked into the evening. We still needed to complete a lot from the "Girls Never Pay Attention" sequence and "College Girls" sequences. Girth didn't show up at all. We tried to shoot as much as we could without him, but there's not a lot. He's the star of the damn film! He called me late in the evening to apologize and insisted he'd be there at the crack of dawn on Friday.

Friday – Girth strolled in with his entourage—his band, Margo, Davenport, D.J. Koko, and our "executive producers"—just after 11 a.m. We had all been sitting around waiting. I reminded him that the crew would need overtime for this. This is a union shoot. Girth offered to pay them out of his own pocket for any overtime, and then it was off to work. Somehow it was a night-and-day difference between Wednesday and Friday. The problem in this case was the entourage, who constantly interrupted progress by talking, getting into the shot, contradicting my direction or Girth's instincts. I hate them all.

Saturday – We decided to shoot on Saturday, from dawn to dusk, to try and catch up. We managed to complete, to my satisfaction, everything on the schedule for this week. It was rough, but we managed. Perhaps working with these folks won't be so bad after all, just so long as Girth gets control over his entourage (which he thankfully forced to wait in a bar on Western Ave. until shooting was finished).

Today was uneventful. I hope next week goes well.

December 1, 2003

We're through with the chorus girls, but they aren't leaving. It's fine so long as I don't have to pay them, but they turned into just another part of Girth's ever-expanding entourage.

I'm just happy nearly everything we're shooting will make use of a post-production post-sync sound design, because these people don't shut up no matter what. On occasion, it's distracting enough to ruin performances, but usually it's fine. It would just be murder if this were a typical film with lots of dialogue.

December 3, 2003

I have a bad feeling about this film's future. Money seems to be leaking like tap water from a faucet. It's Mary's responsibility to keep us on schedule and on budget. That Saturday we worked took everything into overtime, but we've made up for it by trying to accomplish more with shorter shooting days. To some degree we've accomplished this. We may have to trim several weeks off this shoot, at the expense of the film's quality.

December 7, 2003

Anna Lexington won't stop rebuffing my extremely unsubtle sexual advances. I don't get it; we're both single, attractive, and unhappy. Why wouldn't we get together? Last night I called her up and suggested we get together to discuss her character and blocking. She sighed, and I could almost hear her rolling her eyes over the phone, and then said, "Fuck off, Sloane." Then she hung up.

I will have her. I will make her mine. I'll fuck her 'til she loves me.

December 16, 2003

Working late at the production office. Girth came to me tonight after shooting and told me, "In this movie, I don't want to be credited as 'Girth McDürchstein.'" This surprised me a little.

"How do you want to be billed?" I asked.

"The music credits should all be in my name," Girth said. He sounded tentatively, like this was a really embarrassing and difficult suggestion. "But for the acting credits, and the writing and producing, credit me as 'Matthew Phillips.'"

"Matthew Phillips," I said, swigging the name around in my mouth like I was sampling a fine wine. I tried to analyze the name and its variations for possible sexual innuendo but could think of none. Could this possibly be his real name? I asked him.

"Don't tell a soul," Girth said. He had a menacing glare in his eyes. "If you do, I'll know, and your little wannabe sweetheart Anna Lexington will find your head in the trunk of your car, but for some reason nobody will ever find the body."

He grinned with a sick sincerity, never taking his eyes off mine, then he slammed his fists against my desk (startling me to hell) and burst out of the office, his leather coat swooping magestically behind him like Batman.

Matthew Phillips, then. I wrote the name down.

December 19, 2003

Shooting's been going surprisingly well, but I'm still terrified about the budget. The good news is, we're way ahead of schedule. This week we've managed to wrap up every flashback sequence involving actors other than Girth himself. This just leaves the flashbacks that involve Girth, well and I guess Girth and Margo. We're going down to Champaign-Urbana before the holiday to shoot some sequences at the university there. Once we complete that, after the holidays it'll be nothing but the work in the motel room. I just hope nothing goes wrong at the location.

December 23, 2003

I had a romantic scene in Plight of the Spiteful that involved a real-life husband-and-wife team, but the problem—and you'll find this happens often—was these two people, so in love in life, had no romantic chemistry on-screen. Hard to believe after such a rocky start, but Girth and Margo really knocked my socks off down in "Chambana," as they called it. Their chemistry is so clear it's almost liquid, right there on the screen. It was probably the only wonderful experience of this shoot.

From Chambana, we went our separate ways. Girth, Margo, and most of Abysmal Crucifix are going back to L.A. for the holidays. I have no one to share this time of year with, so I returned to Chicago. When I stopped by the production office here, I found a small, wrapped package in my upper desk drawer, with my name printed on it in neat letters. In it, I found a plain white 3x5 index card that had this printed on it:

You are loved.
                 – Girth

Under that, wrapped in tissue and tied with strings, were newspaper clippings and Xerox copies of every single positive review I've ever received. Girth can be and almost always is brash and insensitive, but this touched me in ways I can't express. I'm actually slightly embarrassed for worrying so much about Girth's egotism.

December 24, 2003

"Christmas Eve will find me, where the love light gleams..."

I've always found the holidays a touch depressing, but I find it interesting that many of the cultural touchstones of this time of year are themselves depressing. It's a Wonderful Life? No joke, one of the great movies of all-time, but what is the story ultimately about? A suicidal man who thinks his life is meaningless. In the end he realizes the opposite is true, but it takes a miracle in the form of a guardian angel who can show him a parallel universe to change George Bailey's perspective. Not enough people have such a miracle. I know I don't, so while I appreciate the gift Girth gave me, I still can't help feeling the bitter cold of loneliness more than I'm feeling the bitter cold of a Chicago winter.

And the song I quoted, "I'll Be Home for Christmas." Could things get more depressing than that? A soldier stuck overseas, having to dream and fantasize about a Christmas with his family?

I spent much of the day just watching rushes from the film, remembering the good times and bad. It's certainly shaping up. I like that hi-def tapes are cheap, like audio tape, so we can just keep it running. It's almost like a documentary of the past month. I paid particular attention to Anna Lexington. There are some things, captured through the eye of a lens, that you don't see in life. Maybe it's because you aren't looking at them, or they're waiting for you to stop looking, but sometimes it's also a case of looking right at them but not seeing the truth. I don't want to say anything for sure, but the way she's looked at me—whether my back is turned or not—I took a lot of comfort in the warmth and passion in her eyes. A LOT of comfort.

I wonder what she's doing for the holidays.

December 25, 2003

There's an old song by the Cars that goes, "You're all I've got tonight / I need you tonight." It could act as a summary of my Christmas Eve.

As the sun faded behind the dead trees and pink-orange clouds and night fell, my depression worsened. Rarely have I felt so alone. I planned to just wait it out, viewing some of my favorite films in the production office (where I've been living while we shoot the film). Around 9:30 I received a call. A deep but distinctly feminine voice was on the other line. It sounded like she'd been crying. "Vance?" she said harshly.

"Who's this?" I asked.

"Anna," the voice said. Anna Lexington. I started to picture her naked.

"Hi, Anna," I said. "Merry Christmas."

I heard something in her voice—a hitch or a sigh or something. It indicated that was probably the worst possible thing to say. After a moment, Anna said insincerely, "Yeah, you too."

I didn't say anything. What could I say? She called me. I waited for her to tell me what she wanted.

"I know you said you're alone for Christmas," she said. "Have you made plans?"

"I can break them," I said without hesitation.

She didn't hesitate, either. "Meet me at the Pushkin Club, State and Roosevelt. One hour." She hung up the phone, and I smiled to myself as I turned off Topless Brain Surgeons and got ready for the evening.

The details of the rest of the night are a little soupy, unfortunately. A blur of music, dancing, drink, groping, darkness, a hot and wet tightness—followed by awakening this morning in the production office, with Anna Lexington laying next to me, her tumble of auburn hair spilling all around her like a melted sun. When I woke, she lay asleep on the air mattress. Through the half-open blinds, the gray morning sun streamed across her perfect, naked back.

I sat up, leaning against the cold wall. I smiled down at her, watched the slow film of drool running from her half-open mouth and onto the pillow, where it collected in a pool. Although I could barely remember it, I felt inside like it had been a perfect night, and not just because I had no symptoms of a hangover. In point of fact, I was nearly positive that I was still drunk.

I got up and put on a pot of coffee and started to make a small breakfast in the breakroom. Either the noise or the smells rousted her. She appeared in the doorway just as I was cracking eggs into a frying pan, eyes glazed, looking exhausted but still unbelievably gorgeous. She had put on the taut, plum-colored dress she had worn the night before. She didn't seem to want to make eye contact.

"Look, I gotta go," she said, fiddling with her purse. She glanced into my eyes long enough to say, "Merry Christmas." She shuffled her feet, looked contemplative as she stared everywhere but at me, and then danced across the breakroom, gave me a peck on the cheek, and practically ran clear of the office. I stood there, spatula in hand, staring at the breakroom doorway at the stark, white office wall. I felt like such a fool.

December 26, 2003

This morning, I called Girth at the Los Angeles number he gave me, but nobody answered. I tried his cell phone. No dice. Finally I called the offices of Kelleystein Recordings. Don't know why, but I got an answer. It was Riffs.

"Hey man how are you I'm fuckin' good!" Riffs screeched, as if that was all one sentence.

"Good, thanks," I replied glumly. "Is Girth available?"

"Hang on fuck yeah," Riffs said. I heard a loud click, then footsteps away, then nothing for awhile, then shuffling feet toward the phone, followed by the taps and pops of somebody incompetently picking up the phone, then: "Girth McDürchstein."

"This is Vance," I said.

Girth's voice softened: "Hey, man, merry Christmas."

"Yeah," I said. "Listen..." I paused, fiddling with some scene index cards on my desk. "I think we need to fire Anna Lexington and reshoot all her scenes." I tried to say it suavely. I think I succeeded, against all odds.

"No," Girth responded, without missing a beat.

Neither of us said anything for awhile.

"Was that all?" Girth asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"Merry Christmas," Girth repeated, then hung up.

That was pretty much that.

January 12, 2004

For the sake of documenting this for posterity, I'll say this: the Irving was a total shithole. An absolutely perfect location for the film's artistic content, but a less than ideal place to make a film in a practical sense. We essentially rented out the entire motel for cast and crew during the period we filmed there, just to ensure nobody would show up and be obnoxious. Of course, we didn't need anybody to show up—we had Daryl Benridge, the motel's night manager, to take care of that. One of the worst people I've ever met. Obnoxious, slovenly—he makes Sfaccini of Sfaccini's Pizzeria look like James Bond.

But we shot everything we needed to in the motel. Even the special effects shots—the green screen, all the killings, the "animation" on the vines—all went off without a hitch. After spending the weekend reviewing the rushes, I'll say this: it turned out better than I could have possibly hoped.

Tonight we begin shooting what I've taken to calling the "zombie rush" (a sequence at the end of the film where Girth is chased by all the "demons" of his past—a complete reprise of every character in the film, but zombified and/or demonized). We are literally down to zero dollars in the budget. The motel material, as I suspected, would drain the budget. Insult to injury: Girth insisted on putting up all the cast members who were no longer needed (until the zombie rush), at the production's expense.

So now, in order to finance just this one little bit of shooting, me and Mary have maxed out our credit cards. We haven't secured permits, and to save time, we've rented two additional cameras. This is actually cheaper than the time it'd take to do three separate setups on this sequence. We've found a bunch of interns from a local film school who will literally stand in the street to block traffic. This is our version of getting shooting permits. We'll be shooting late so it shouldn't take much time.

That said, I still haven't been able to secure post-production financing. We're dead in the water. We have a whole movie in the can but no money to turn the can into art.

I hate my life.

January 13, 2004

Wanted an overhead shot, one of the reasons I picked this location, right around the corner from the Pushkin Club. An el platform is right over Roosevelt Road. I thought we could sneak a camera onto the platform and shoot from up there. Everything was set—makeup, camera and actor placement, interns secured. We blocked the whole scene, then me and Remy snuck the camera up to the platform. A transit cop shut us down almost immediately.

I called a cut without even shooting the coverage from the other two angles. We're going to try again tonight, making sure no transit cops are around to stop us.

January 14, 2004

Girth convinced Little Riffs Nicky and that [great guy] "Jam" Malone to do something completely retarded. Right in front of two transit cops, they ran off the edge of the platform onto the el tracks, south along them as far as they could get. Transit cops took off after them, and Remy and I could set up our camera. Everything was set, and we managed to get the shots in only three takes.

I found out later that Riffs and Jam, that [really cool bud of mine], made it all the way down the projects, and the transit cops got scared and ran back to the Roosevelt station when Riffs and Jam dove onto a dumpster beside one of the project buildings. They got back, unharmed, just as we finished the last take. I kinda ... like either of them, but I really appreciate them taking one for the team.

So now we have a wrap. The entire film is finished.

January 15, 2004

The film's not done. I watched the rushes, and the overhead shot has an excess of glare from the fluorescents at the train platform. Remy constructed a lens rig to cut out all that glare, but we have to retake the overhead shot tonight.

We have no more money. The makeup's getting old and crusty, almost unusable, so it's just a good thing this overhead shot is wide. Even in hi-def, you won't be able to see the problems. This better come off. We won't be able to afford doing this for another night.

January 16, 2004

Riffs and "Jam" refused to run around a train platform in the middle of the night into dangerous neighborhoods with cops on their trails, those fucking [awesome blokes]. Turns out there's a costume shop just up Wabash, so we asked Girth to borrow some money—this is the first he's learned of our financial problems—and we rented some county worker uniforms. You know, the big heavy things with the vests that are all fluorescent orange and yellow. We bought some yellow spraypaint off a tagger, painted up the tripod. I sent Wilson and Remy up, in the uniforms, to tell the transit cops they're county surveyors. I can't believe they bought it, but they did.

The cops left to go deal with an issue down in the subway. We were able to stay there almost all night, without interruption, while Remy and Wilson perfected the shots. It was a wonderful way to cap the shoot, and to call a wrap for real this time. We even reviewed the shots before calling it, to make sure we had what we needed.

This time, the film is really finished. I want to be happy, but I know what's coming next. Nothing but struggles.

We had a small party, at Girth's expense, in a small, all-night bar nearby. It was a nice way to say goodbye to these people I've spent so much time with. As people began trickling out just after dawn, I took Anna Lexington aside. She didn't seem interested in talking to me.

"Anna," I said, "I know you're leaving. You're committed to this touring company, but I..."

She rolled her eyes, very subtly. "What is it, Vance?" she asked.

"I think I'm in love with you," I said.

She sighed overdramatically and set her drink down on top of an old payphone that was so encrusted with the disgusting crap of a thousand generations that it glistened sickeningly. "I'll tell you this once," she said. "I was lonely. You were lonely. For a moment, we were together and not lonely. That was it. Don't make more of it than it is."

"I'm not!" I exclaimed, hoping I didn't sound too whiny. "I'm only saying you and I are in love and instead of denying that, we should be together for all eternity."

"Well, that's just not going to happen," Anna said. She went toward the back of the bar, to a rack of hooks. She got her coat and as she brushed past me on her way to the front door she said, "It was nice working with you. I hope can again someday."

I have my answer. I have my answer!

February 18, 2004

[Back in L.A. for a month.] Still depressed [about not being able to finish the film]. Girth called today.

"You need money," he stated.

"Yeah," I said, trying not to sound desperate.

"Well, look," Girth said, "I want you to send me the dailies. I'll check them out and decide if this is really something I still want to be a part of. If it is, I'll kick in some money to finish it."

"You'd do that? Out of your own pocket?"

"Anything for my art," Girth said.

I couldn't tell him how happy I was to hear that. I had my assistant send him the rushes, next-day-aired to Portland, Maine (the current stop on the Hedge tour).

May 7, 2004

Still haven't heard back from that fucking prick. Won't return my calls, keep getting the runaround from the people at Kelleystein. I haven't been sleeping, showering, shaving. I haven't even been eating. I can't do another film and leave this in limbo. Hell, even if I wanted to, nobody's giving me money anymore. I'm a laughing stock. Pathetic. I'm probably better off dead, but if I were, nobody would care except my cats.

I hate my life. Everyone should die but me.

October 23, 2004

I got an offer to direct a commercial series for Geico. I'm taking it. It could give me enough money to complete The Hedge.

March 5, 2005

stuck it in my
mouth
tasted like salt
tears
couldn't pull trigger
want to die
can't
hate
where have all the flowers gone?????

January 16, 2006

It might have been after the Geico meltdown that I hit rock bottom. I couldn't stop drinking, smoking up, whatever I could do to numb the pain. I have a dim memory of wanting to commit suicide but not being able to pull it off.

The next morning I called Girth and gave his VoiceMail an incoherent piece of my mind. About a month after I got the job at the Gorman's Washateria on Melrose, Girth finally called back. I got the message on my answering machine. He said, "Vance, I apologize for not returning your calls sooner, I've been very busy. I finally watched the dailies. You've shot an exceptional film. It even masks the fact that I can't act a lick. I've talked to an investor about kicking in some dough to finish this bitch. I'll get back to you."

Eight months later, I received seven cashier's checks for $4999.99 apiece. In the memo was written "TO AID THE COMPLETION OF THE HEDGE, A HECTOR'S SPITE/KELLEYSTEIN COPRODUCTION."

I've been editing the film almost nonstop since then, at a place in Brentwood. It's going surprisingly well.

February 23, 2006

I decided to enter this film into the Cedar Rapids International Film Festival, in honor of Girth's hometown. I'm told I missed the entry cutoff date, so I contacted the festival committee and asked if I could premiere a rough cut outside the arena of competition. Since they're aware of my previous films and reputation as a filmmaker, they reluctantly agreed.

I just hope I can complete a rough cut with the money I have remaining, and in time to send to the CRIFF.

March 9, 2006

I have no money left, but I managed to pull a rabbit out of my ass: a rough cut is finished. It's not perfect, and there's still a lot of sound work that needs to be done—I basically just synchronized the shots to the album—but it's workable.

March 18, 2006

Called Girth about he and the rest of the band and cast attending the premiere of The Hedge. Didn't get him on the phone. He sent an e-mail in response:

   From:  Vance Sloane <[email protected]>
Subject:  CRIFF
   Date:  March 18, 2006 16:29:14 PM PST
     To:  Girth McDürchstein <[email protected]>

Vance,

As I'm sure you're aware, Abysmal Crucifix has undergone massive personnel changes in recent days. In short, I'm not on speaking terms with anybody formerly in the band or the cast, except Margo (and even that is a recent thing). We're hard at work to complete our next album and so won't be able to attend.

Sorry, man. Wish you the best of luck. Hope it turns out well for you, and more importantly for me.

- Girth

A sweet man. I wish he and Margo could be there. There are several things that have happened in the past few years that I need to apologize to them about.

Today I get my 30-day chip. It's a pretty proud moment for me, even though I'm pretty sure the only thing keeping me from drinking is my lack of money.

April 7, 2006

Tonight's the big night. I hope for the best. Wish me luck, dearest diary.

April 11, 2006

We didn't get the reception we'd hoped for, but it wasn't all bad. I could call the audience response "tepid," at best, but as I (and most successful filmmakers) have always said: fuck the audience. They don't know shit.

About a month ago, I sent a mass-mailing to the entire cast and crew, telling them of the premiere and hoping they'd attend. I didn't hear back from anybody, and I didn't see anybody there for the premiere...except for my dearest Anna.

She stood across the lobby of the Collins Road Theatres, staring out the window at the spring pastoral and the nearby Burger King, almost with her back to me. She wear a long, pine-green overcoat that obscured her perfect breasts, her figure. She wore a pair of expensive, stylish sunglasses, but I knew it was her the instant I saw that auburn hair cascading down her back.

She turned, and even though she wore the sunglasses I knew we had made eye contact. She stopped, lingered on my face. The crowd swirled around us, but for that moment in time it was just us there in that lobby. I gazed longingly at her gorgeous, pale face, her hook nose, the green eyes I couldn't see. I smiled, and her look softened. I approached her, fully unaware of the tens of people rushing out of the theatre after the screening.

"Anna..." I said.

She put her arm on my shoulder. "It was a wonderful film," Anna said.

I stood on my tiptoes to lean in and kiss her. It seemed like that brief expression of love lasted forever, but in reality it was probably only a few minutes. By the end, I had her pinned, pressed against the glass wall of the movie house, my hands in places they probably shouldn't have been. Finally, she pulled away.

"I'll miss you," she said, sliding away from my forceful embrace. She continued her slide right out the glass front door, disappearing into the crowd of moviegoers.

As I tried to watch her go, I didn't notice as a middle-aged man with silver hair and a dapper suit approached me. He cleared his throat, and I turned my head to look at him.

"Mr. Sloane?" he asked, in a very professional-sounding voice.

"Hi," I said. The man extended his hand, and I shook it.

"I'm Jamison McCorrie of Finkner Distribution Inc. of Palmetto, Florida," he said. "I just watched your film, The Hedge, and wondered if you wanted to talk about a distribution deal."

"Um...yes, of course," I said.

"We can just go out to my car," McCorrie said. "I'm sort of living in it, so I hope the mess doesn't bother you."

"I'm sure it won't be a problem," I said.

We went and drew up a deal. It heavily favored Finkner over mine and Girth's production companies, but I had to take the deal. They were willing to kick in financing to complete the final cut and release it worldwide, direct-to-DVD. I knew I wouldn't get a better offer than that, even though my company wouldn't get much of a return. Girth had already dicked me out of a lot of ancillary profits, and Finkner dicked me out even more.

I hope this film sees the light of day, and I hope it touches somebody as much as it touched me. I also hope that someday, someone is touched enough to finance another feature for me.

Postscript

Since the festival, I've neither seen nor heard from anybody involved in the film. Not Girth, not Anna, nobody. I let everybody know about the distribution deal and tried to get them back to help complete the sound design. No takers, despite their contractual obligations. I ended up getting a couple of celebrity impressionists to come in and record loop lines for the sound design.

I finished the final cut in August and submitted it to Finkner. They're talking about a DVD release tentatively scheduled for February. They want cast and crew members to participate in special features; so far, they have me booked to do an audio commentary in October.

I don't know how the film will fare in the marketplace. It's arguably my most personal film, and quite a departure point, so it might go over the heads of a lot of the people who liked the commercial sensibilities of my two earlier films. I hope it does well enough for me to get another shot.

However, it probably won't. That's the moral of the story. Making a film from this album has ruined my career. I'm a living joke, and if I ever want to be taken seriously I'll have to fight harder than I'm willing to fight. Though I—for the most part—liked and respected Girth, he ruined my career. And now he won't even help me to reclaim my rightful place in the pantheon of great, visionary filmmakers.

I'm washed up, and it's Girth McDürchstein's fault.