Good short films rarely take place in more than a day. Some of the best I’ve seen, Sikumi for instance, take place in more or less real time. Shorts like this, really just extended scenes, don’t have to grapple with time transitions.

Transitions are perhaps the most difficult storytelling device to execute. It not just a problem for filmmakers; Leo Tolstoy once listed his priorities as a writer in the following order:

1. Transitions

2. Context

3. Story

4. Character

For filmmakers, the shorter the time transition, the more difficult it is to execute. Anytime you see or write LATER in a screenplay, that should be a red flag. Highlight it, fear it, and respect it. Put your director cap on and ask yourself: “How am I going to show this in images?”

If you’re already struggling with one of these in post there are many ways filmmakers deal with them in the editing room. Repurposing footage, ADR,  and prayer come to mind.

Unfortunately the latter rarely helps, so reshooting footage at a significant expense sometimes becomes the only option. There’s no shame in this; Woody Allen budgets for massive reshoots on every film, David Fincher reshot Seven for 12 days. The expense makes this an unrealistic option for many filmmakers. Depending on the project, sometimes it makes more sense to walk away.

So avoid those difficult decisions by getting out that highlighter and marking every transition. Storyboard them out; are you going from a wide to a close-up? Why? How do you show that?

Just as you rewrite a script and revise performances in rehearsal, so should you also constantly be revisiting your visual strategy for the film, ideally with the Director of Photography.

Particularly for difficult action sequences (one film I’m working on involves hanging a dead body from a tree), storyboards should be done and redone for weeks before the shoot.

One book I’ve found very helpful in visual planning is Gustavo Mercado’s The Filmmaker’s Eye, one of the few cinematography books that’s both aesthetically gorgeous and eminently practical.

In filmmaking I’ve learned the hard way that a director is only as good as her preparation. Final cut pro doesn’t have a story transition filter. That’s our job as directors.

The Beginnings of Microbudget

In 1998 a hopeful article in Moviemaker Magazine summed up the rising phenomenon of microbudget features:

Many of the most talented American independent filmmakers began by making ultra-low budget features. During the 1970s and ’80s, very low budget films launched the careers of David Lynch (Eraserhead), Charles Burnett (Killer of Sheep), John Sayles (Return of the Secaucus 7), Wayne Wang (Chan Is Missing), Jim Jarmusch (Stranger Than Paradise), Spike Lee (She’s Gotta Have It), and Gus Van Sant (Male Noche). Because they were made on such tiny budgets, these films were regarded as exceptions, not models that other filmmakers could follow. In the mid-’80s the availability of money from home video companies enabled a number of filmmakers to raise $3 million for first features. But this money soon dried up, and by the early ’90s it was harder and harder to find money for first features. Made for $27,000, Rick Linklater’s Slacker was a precursor to the ultra-low budget wave. (The Film School alums among them: UCLA (Burnett), AFI (Lynch), NYU (Jarmusch, Lee) and RISDI (Van Sant)).

Next Wave Films, the fund described in the article, was created by the IFC to help filmmakers finish low-budget films. It now appears to be defunct. Its website, last updated in 2002, has that tumbleweed feel of late-nineties ghost-sites.

In 2010, twelve years later, the microbudget feature world has swelled enough for Sundance to add a new micro-budget section to its festival, entitled NEXT;

The new section, also referred to by the symbol <=> by the Festival, highlights new films that have been made on very low budgets. Rather than vehicles to make money, these films are proudly modest. But make no mistake, this group of filmmakers is not limited by a low budget – they made their films this way by choice.

The studios have also taken note after the success of Paranormal Activity, with Paramount announcing a new micro-budget feature division:

Clearly dazzled by the fact that it could gross more than $100 million on a movie that barely cost $15,000 to make, Paramount Pictures is set to launch a new production wing devoted to films budgeted at less than $100,000.

These are but two of the major waves being made by micro-budgets, spurred by ever-falling production costs. These developments are slow to take hold at film schools, including UCLA, where students often spend small fortunes to make esoteric short films, the pinnacle of which is the thesis film.

The Thesis Film in the Era of the Microbudget

The thesis film is often an extremely expensive endeavor, ranging anywhere from $25,000 to $100,000. UCLA’s biggest thesis grant is the Bridges Larson Production production grant, which offers $25,000 to one lucky candidate with an extensive (i.e. undergraduate) theater background. I once read that at AFI there is a limit of $100,000 for a thesis film budget; I have already heard of two films here at UCLA that, albeit unintentionally, hit the six-figure mark.

This begs the question of how micro-budgets, now an accepted fact in the film industry, are figured into a film-school education;  at UCLA, generally speaking, they aren’t. NYU has a well known Columbus/Vague production grant of $100,000 that only NYU graduates can compete for. With production costs what they are now, what was intended as seed money for a feature can now actually become the feature itself. UCLA has nothing comparable to the Columbus/Vague grant, although realistically UCLA does cost about $100,000 less than NYU, depending on how much you spend on your films, and provided you are not an international student.

In light of these developments the thesis film has become a smaller piece of the film-directing career puzzle. Many years ago students attended film schools because the high cost of equipment made them the only viable means of making films. In those days the thesis film, shot on 16 or 35mm, was the largest project most filmmakers could conceivably produce as a means of enticing studios, investors and producers into considering feature projects.

The 2007 edition of Film School Confidential, the only remotely up to date guide on film school education, has a section about life after film school. In it they discuss the reality of the low-budget feature as a stepping stone to the paid feature. They recommend shopping around your thesis to festivals to get to know programmers for your first DV (now HDV or RED) feature;

“Wait, what?” we hear you ask. “Feature? What feature?” This would be your self-financed feature shot on DV. We’re sorry to have to break this to you, but it’s the way the film world has reshaped itself in the digital-video era. You’re going to have to make a feature on your own before anyone else will give you money to make one.

Later in the book they discuss the process of putting your first independent feature together.

So with this new step, where does the thesis film leave you in terms of a career? Film School Confidential would argue, as have a number of other filmmakers, that it gets you some prestige, maybe some meetings, and contacts with programmers for when you return with your microbudget feature. The thesis film will always be an important part of film school, particularly as a culmination of everything learned while in school. For the vast majority of student filmmakers, it will not produce any (monetarily) meaningful directing work, and simply guide them to the next step of making the micro to low-budget feature shot on digital.

For certain people with specific expensive genre and aesthetic sensibilities, the expensive thesis film will still make sense, but for the majority of future independents, the microbudget, festival-ready film will be the next step in their filmmaking career. Therefore ideally the thesis film, and any student film for that matter, should be kept as cheap as possible. Instead of the 18 to 30 minute unprogrammable opuses we are currently seeing, the future of the thesis film is the reasonably cheap 10 minute and under short film.

One of my favorite examples of this is The Most Beautiful Man in the World by Alicia Duffy. The film was her thesis at The National Film and Television School. It premiered at Cannes and is a powerful, visual and brief short. She recently returned to Cannes with her first feature, All Good Children, which I’m very excited to see.

The Film School of the Future

The film school of the future will prepare filmmakers to write, direct and produce a no-budget feature. Ideally every student in that school would leave school with a fully developed, budgeted, scheduled and cast microbudget film in addition to a number of polished feature scripts and strong short. A major advantage of film school is the network of passionate and talented students you meet. These people make the ideal candidates to rotate through each others’ micro-budget films when they leave school.

Mr. Moneybags, Student Film Financier

In America, with little government subsidy of the arts and declining support of education in general, a student’s first feature film is not going to come from subsidies like in Europe. It will also not come from a person a friend here likes to call “Mr. Moneybags;” a mythological, monopoly-man figure who appears at film festivals to offer student filmmakers a million dollars to make their first features.

As young filmmakers we will first have to prove our talents through inexpensive means of getting our stories on the screen. Film school is a place to start learning the discipline of filmmaking, and that includes budgeting. Even with a half-billion dollar budget money remains an issue. We might as well learn to control them while they’re in the thousands.

1. Director
2. Boom Operator
3. Assistant Director
4. 1st Assistant Camera
5. Gaffer
6. Director of Photography
7. Sound Mixer

All seven people in my group (6 directors and 1 DP) went through this rotation starting in a specific position. I started out as boom operator and directed last. Some interesting combinations that come out of this:

1. You AD for your DP
2. You AC for your DP
3. You DP for your AD

I shot my film, A Son Like You, last weekend and telecined last night. It was an expensive but rewarding experience and I am excited to go into editing in the spring. Here are ten important things I learned on these shoots:

1. Block it. Light it. Shoot it. As a professor said, “if you’re not doing one of these three things at all times on set, you’re not making a movie.” Set the blocking with the actors, show it to the crew, let them light it, then shoot it. We got better at this as the shoot went along, but it’s a surprisingly difficult thing to remember when things get hard.
2. The director sets the tone on set. If the director is calm and focused, so is the crew. If the director is frantic and emotional, so is the crew. There are many things you can’t control as a director, but your tone and mood is a big one to watch out for. The crew sees everything the director does on set.
3. Respect your crew. The crew works very hard at all times to make your movie as amazing as possible, knowing that an audience member is probably not aware of how difficult it can be to get proper focus and exposure. Feed them well, have good craft services, don’t make them go over unless it’s absolutely necessary. Spend the little extra money to make sure you have a proper vehicle to transport equipment and proper beds for the crew to sleep in on location. They will pay you back by making your movie happen. On a side note, the crew should not only be physically taken care of, but emotionally as well. Outbursts and infighting should be kept to a minimum, and criticisms should never be public.
4. Trust your collaborators. A distrustful director is a burden on everyone, and generally makes them do their jobs worse. If you have hired a number of people to fulfill certain position, trust them as much as possible to fulfill those positions. This is difficult for us, because the films we made before coming to UCLA were usually self-produced, designed, managed, etc. A crew exists so the director can focus on their specific task: getting the performances they need on camera. There was a quote I read about Cassavetes the other day: “He thought of you as a hero, and you became one in response … believed someone into doing more than they thought they were capable of.” A big problem for directors is that there are certain moments where they feel they have nothing to do. These moments are often filled with helpful suggestions to the crew. It’s probably better to be thinking about the next shot at that moment. Let the crew do their jobs.
5. How to take light meter readings. You point it at the camera, not at the light.
6. How a DP prepares. A director of photography is a creative artist who works with light and framing to create images that convey your story. On a practical level this means creating detailed lighting plots and being very involved in scheduling with the AD in order to make sure that your shared vision is realizable on set. I believe that after extensive preparation with a DP, including storyboarding, you leave them to express your vision photographically on the set. Other directors have different approaches.
7. Check the frame constantly. This is more as a DP than as a director, but on a larger set the damndest things will wander into the frame: water bottles, PAs, the script supervisor. Check the beginning frame, the end frame, and 45 times in between, especially when working on small spaces.
8. How to work with a script supervisor. I had the benefit of a wonderful script supervisor on my set. By the last day we would have a brief meeting in the morning to discuss the day’s shots. A script supervisor can save you countless headaches in the editing room. They make sure wardrobe and props match from take to take, as well as keeping an eye on eyeline, entrances and exits, gestures, and anything else that can give you a major headache in the editing room.
9. How to incorporate improvisation into a shoot. This is very specific to me, and came out of a lot of practice, study, mistakes and frustration. I ended up getting some wonderful, spontaneous performances on set. The way I worked was I did extensive improvisation of backstory in rehearsal, then slowly allowed actors to change non-key lines of dialogue to make them more natural for themselves. When they came up with something I felt worked, I would “set” the new line, and that became what they said every take. On occasion I would rewrite the line myself, seeing what I finally needed. It was a wonderful, exhilarating process, one that I began a year ago in Berlin.
10. Patience and forgiveness. Both of myself and others. These are student films. We all worked our hardest, but we are all learning. Each of us will improve in different ways with every film, but much of these shoots were learning about ourselves and how we collaborate (and conflict) with people. Most of us coming into the director’s program made small films ourselves and our friends. It’s much different directing a set with 20 people on it; it requires an amazing amount of people skills. Some things came out brilliant on the shoots, others didn’t. In the end we will learn more from our failures than our triumphs. I know I did.

Even if it’s a small piece, you will most definitely need people to help you. In fact at least half of a director’s work is managing people.

The first impulse is to look to your circle of friends for collaborators, and it’s both natural and good to do so.

A warning; your best and most film-fanatic friends might not make the best collaborators. I have learned this through a lot of sweat and blood and felt compelled to pass on some characteristics of good collaborators, based partially on John August’s excellent Professional Writing and the Rise of the Amateur.

In doing so I assume that you already possess these qualities yourself, or are working very hard to gain these virtues.

You are going to demand a lot of time, effort and respect to make your film, and should exemplify the qualities you expect in others.

John August writes that his five qualities of professionalism are:

• Presentation, a.k.a. “Giving a shit”
• Accuracy
• Consistency
• Accountability
• Peer standards

I highly suggest you read his article. If you need help getting organized, try Getting Things Done by David Allen. It can be a little kitschy, but it is very effective.

I’m looking at these qualities from the perspective of the no budget, first-time short film director and am basing this partially on a difficult collaboration I had with a good friend.

You are starting to cast your film, prepare a schedule, storyboards, perhaps even a budget and have one or many good friends helping you.

These are some negative qualities (hope to god they’re not habits) that should be commented upon, criticized in a straightforward and impersonal manner, and eviscerated.

1. Lateness

Many people work very hard for no money on short films. They should not be made to wait. I have done so often, and it is a painful and disappointing way to spend your time. If someone is running late they should know it and call in advance with an estimate of how late they will be. Make judgments based on how accurate their estimates are.

Talk to someone about their lateness the first time it happens. Make sure that they know it is unacceptable. Be friendly but firm.

If someone is more than a half-hour late more than three times, get rid of them. This is something I wish I had been able to do. Friendship and serious work do not always go hand in hand, and you only have to experience it once or twice to see how quickly one will corrupt the other. Believe me. People have different methods of working, but they have to be at the same place at the agreed upon time to make films.

2. Excuses

These are not only for lateness. They are for forgetting things, losing things, misscheduling, and the host of other problems that beset the no-budget short film. This falls under accountability. We all make mistakes, and as a first-time director you will too. Admit them. Lame excuses break trust. Have a talk with the person, if they can’t change, find someone who can.

3. Bad Criticism

Constructive criticism is a good thing. You should seek out as much as possible for your scripts and storyboards before you’re on set.

Criticism also has a time and a place, and it is not on the set in front of everyone. If a collaborator is openly critical in a demeaning or uncalled for way, take them aside and talk to them. If it continues you know what to do. The balance of trust in a first time director is tenuous enough to begin with.

4. Lack of Respect for People and Equipment

Undue criticism is not the only form of disrespect. While there is a lot of disrespect for people in film, there is also disrespect for equipment. The cheapest, oldest camera is still your means to bring your story to the world. Learn everything about it and learn to love it. As Mike Figgis writes in his excellent Digital Filmmaking;

The first thing a soldier is taught is how to dismantle his gun and put it back together – make sure it’s clean, make sure it functions – because that’s the thing that will save his life. You don’t want your gun to jam. You don’t want your camera to jam either. If something goes wrong with it, you want to know how to fix it or adapt it. That’s why i say it’s always important to own your own camera, because you have a different relationship to it.

Respect for you, who are probably financing the film, is respect for your equipment as well. No camera no film. Broken camera no film. Respect it.

These are just a few of the qualities I have often found lacking in my collaborators and myself. I have tried to improve with each film as I hope those who I work with do as well.

As a director you lead by example. If people know that you’ll be on time and prepared, they will be too. If they’re not, talk to them.

Every time you’re late or make an excuse you break a small part of the trust that is essential to all human relationships. If people seem unable to change, find a replacement. You will save yourself frustration and friendships.

John August writes;

You don’t get to pick when you’re going to be professional, and when you’re going to be amateur.

In fact, he concludes

You don’t get to be an amateur at all.

Do your best to be a professional. People will respect you for it. No one is perfect, but we can always try a little harder to make this crazy job a little easier and more enjoyable.

Pay attention, work hard, be on time, be respectful and expect the same from everyone you work with. Chaos will always be there in the outside world waiting for you. Save the chaos for creative problems, there will be enough of those.

Good Luck!

The last few years have been a period of great growth in my artistic life. I left the United States knowing that I wanted to become a filmmaker, specifically a writer and director. This was the extent of my knowledge on the subject. Over many years, sometimes painful, sometimes exhilarating, I have learned a few things that I would like to share. To supplement this article I will show the two films I made while in Germany.

I see five developmental phases in becoming a filmmaker. A person can be at any one phase at different times in their life; some can get stuck in one or another. A velleity is “a wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action.” For many people, filmmaking remains a velleity. For the others it goes something like this:

1. Appreciation

Every filmmaker starts out as an appreciator. Their emotional involvement in film drives them to seek out vast and varied quantities of films. The people who remain in this stage become critics or film buffs. I did this for many years before I knew I had to become a filmmaker. There were periods where I would watch 10 films a week. This phase, while beautiful, can also be a trap for those who want to make their own films. A film buff is not a filmmaker. In Bambi versus Godzilla, David Mamet wrote of a patient of Karen Horney’s:

“a neurotic who could never complete anything. She impeded now by this, now by that mischance and was eternally blighted and blocked, just on the edge of the creation of a great work. Ever saddened but still valiant, she pressed on, content in her own untested but undoubted abilities.”

I see two reasons why people shy away from creative work: fear and ego. A work is always perfect in the mind of its creator, because it does not exist in a form that can be evaluated. Ego prevents the person from making things that could be good or bad, and often prevents them from finishing work they deem not up to their standards. In doing so this person remains “content in their untested but undoubted abilities.” I went through this period for a long time before making my first post-college foray into the second phase of becoming a filmmaker.

2. Experimentation

People make thousands of films in the world every year. 3,661 feature length films were submitted to Sundance in 2009. I assume that most of these films are unwatchable, and most likely a burden on those who are forced to choose among them. This is not a criticism of the filmmakers: anyone who has the courage to make a film should be lauded. People are often blinded by the sheer amount of effort they put into things. They lose the ability to be objective about their own work. Early films should be made for a love of the process and what it teaches you. Most of them are unsuitable for film festivals. In a creative writing course I took a girl once wrote: “A poem is not always meant to be shared.” The same can be applied to films. A story from my life;

I moved to Dortmund on a Fulbright Scholarship after college. There, determined to become a world-renowned filmmaker, I set out to make a film. As I have mentioned elsewhere, the first book I bought on film-making was a festival guide. I figured I was brilliant enough to skip the other stuff like story, directing actors, mise en scene and all the things that make a movie meaningful. I went out with a friend who graciously brought his own camera and filmed me on this bizarre stunt. The story originally called for two actors, which I could not find due to the incomprehensibility of the script, which I rewrote, casting myself as the only character.

The film centered around a suicide. The young artist, afraid of being banal, often chooses the most difficult topics imaginable. I once saw a 10 minute short film that tried to address incest, rape, suicide, homosexuality and exile. Needless to say none of these topics were adequately presented. The filmmaker, after the film ended, quickly leapt into a half-hour long explanation of her intentions, none of which were on the screen before us. It is wise to remember the words of Robert Bresson:

“A small subject can provide the pretext for many profound combinations. Avoid subjects that are too vast or too remote, in which nothing warns you if they are going astray. Or else take from them only what can be mingled with your life and belongs to your experience.”

In my film, I play a young man who goes to an abandoned industrial complex to commit suicide. When he gets to the final act, he sees that the knife is from IKEA. There is also an IKEA store in the background. It is enough to convince him not to kill himself. The idea that I failed to express was the ubiquity of corporate culture; the end product made little sense. While editing this film, I told myself that I would most definitely send it to Cannes. I was interested in the result of the film, i.e. being screened in a world class festival and achieving international renown. I should have been interested in the process of making the film: writing a good screenplay, getting good performances from the actors, and creating a meaningful visual presentation of the story.

I forced this film on my close friends and brother. It was uncomfortable for them; you can walk away from a bad painting; not so with a bad film. Afterwards I, like the girl with the suicide/rape/incest film, immediately felt the need to explain/defend what I had done. I was forced to because my film was incomprehensible. Out of fear and ego I was afraid to seek out honest criticism while writing the script, where it usually is most useful. As they say; paper is cheap, film is expensive.

I was so disappointed I didn’t make another film for a year and a half; expectations kill art. Filmmakers don’t make masterpieces; critics do. Filmmakers make films. The film, aptly titled Intervention, can be seen here:

Intervention from Jason B Kohl on Vimeo.

3. Reflection

The filmmaker has made his first work and it did not go off as expected. The ego is shattered. I spent a year and a half here, daydreaming, watching ten movies a week, and writing short screenplays that were never produced. It is a matter of expectation how well your first film goes. If you expect to learn about filmmaking, as you should, then it is a wonderful experience to make a film. If you expect to immediately be seen at the next Godard/Tarkovsky/Cassavetes/Spielberg, expect to be as dissapointed as I was. My desire to apply to the DffB (German Film and Television Academy in Berlin) pulled me out of the slump and into my next film.

4. Dedication

If one can overcome the dissapointment associated with a large ego and even larger expectations, one realizes that it is only through a lot of hard work that one becomes good at anything. I quoted Rilke in my UCLA Statement of Purpose: “that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it.”

It was once remarked that writing is the only field where someone thinks that they can sit down at a keyboard and write the next Crime and Punishment. Everyone can type; not everyone can write. People do not start the piano with Mozart, they start with Hot Cross Buns. Hot cross buns is a simple tune consisting of three notes that children learn to play on the Recorder in America;

Robert Rodriguez says that every filmmaker has about 12 bad films in him. I think this is a bit of an exaggeration. I would guess that every filmmaker, in our day and age of cheap technology, has at least one Hot Cross Buns film in him. You make them and you learn from them. Filmmaking, like playing the piano, has a lot to do with practice.

I read a lot of books, did a lot of writing and thinking, and scrapped most of the projects out of fear or because the ideas were too difficult or nonsensical. I learned from every one of them, and I kept trying. I also took a year long course (in German) at the Wolfgang Pfeiffer Screenwriting School here in Berlin. It helped ground me. You can’t learn characters and theme, but, as Alexander Mackendrick says, you can learn plot. Only after making a film like Intervention did I realize how badly I needed to.

I made my next film because the application for the DffB required it. I spent more time on the story than ever before, but had only two weeks from casting to the final cut. Dedication allowed me to complete this short, the production of which was especially chaotic. The lead actor eventually abandoned me over a script conflict. I realized that the screenplay is just the beginning. One small anecdote that I find useful:

We shot the film on a Sony SR-11 videocamera. My lead actor, who was a professional german television actor, was made uncomfortable by this;

“Can’t we get a bigger camera?” He asked. His assumption was that same as many filmmakers, namely that better equipment would make a better film. Equipment does not affect the most important parts of a film; the script, the actors and where you put the camera. Save your money on your first films. There is so much to learn.

I would recommend not working with professional actors for early films. Their experience can make can make them difficult to work with for a novice. Inexperienced directors will inevitably frustrate them, as I certainly did.

I was happier with this film, called “Forst.” It’s far from a masterpiece, and still fairly incomprehensible, due in part to my taking a poor suggestion in the editing from a more experienced filmmaker friend. I had however, despite all obstacles, made another film. There is a definite improvement over the first one:

Forst from Jason B Kohl on Vimeo.

5. Affirmation

With each film you make, you learn. Certain problems disappear and are replaced by new ones. With a more sensical script you can focus more on the actors and on and on. Watching the quality of your films improve is one of the greatest parts of this job, which for most offers little financial reward. Regardless of your level of satisfaction with a film you’ve made, be proud to have made one. Every time you do you get better. Don’t worry about festivals, worry about films. When you have something you think is good enough, send it in. Try to remain objective about your work.

I was accepted into UCLA Film School in the middle of June. I was very grateful for the offer, which I accepted. I had delayed applying to film schools for two years because I knew I would not be ready. It is much better to learn the things I talked about in this article on your own. A film school will teach you the storytelling and technical skills to make the films you want to make. They will not lead you by the hand to success. The virtues that you cultivate in your private life and work will be strengthened there. Nothing comes from nothing.

The last thing I would like to say about becoming a filmmaker is that it is not a small choice. Making good films take an inordinate amount of time and effort. There are sacrifices that will have to be made to produce anything at all, let alone something of quality. Learn to organize your life to allow yourself time to focus on your craft. Set goals for yourself and evaluate your progress on your way to achieving them. Most importantly make things; it’s the only way you learn. Don’t be afraid of the small camera or the small film; they’re the ones that often stay with us the most.

George Lucas said for years that he wanted to make a small, personal film. The man is worth four billion dollars; I don’t think it’s going to happen. While we would all like to have four billion dollars we don’t. Do what Lucas can’t, and also try to get a hold of his thesis film from USC. It’s a testament to William Goldman’s statement that “Nobody Knows Anything.” Here’s a clip:

The last film I shot, “The Prettiest Girl in the Village,” is in post-production. I will post it on this site when it is finished. I still have a lot to learn, but this is what I’ve taken from the last three years. If you want more production disaster stories and detailed commentary on the videos, feel free to friend me on Vimeo, my username is Jasonbkohl.

“There is no failure unless you stop.”

-A Ray Bradbury quote that hangs above my desk.

“A film about ignorance, truth and the history of my country.”

-Jochen Alexander Freydank

Update: Jochen Alexander Freydank was rejected by german film schools five times. Finally, he decided to finance his short film “Toyland” on his own – and spent four years working on fourteen minutes of film. When he completed his film, it was rejected by every major German film festival. (Sources: Deutsche Welle and Die Welt) I’m glad that Freydank overcame these incredible hurdles to bring this hard and wonderful story into the world. That’s dedication.

The first thing I thought when I started to watch this year’s Oscar winning short film was; “not another World War II movie.” Having lived in Germany for three years now it can be downright boring to be constantly confronted with the second world war in cinema. The topic seems inexhausible, unlike most audiences.

I was cynical going into this film; I was weeping when it ended. All of my reservations were ovewhelmed by this simple, beautiful, human story. The film is available to watch in inferior quality without english subtitles here or as always in a high quality English-subtitled version on itunes for $1.99.

Toyland (Spielzeugland) tells the story of a young german boy in 1942. The jews are being rounded up for murder, including his best friend and fellow piano player’s family. His mother, in an attempt to shield him from the brutal truth, tells him that his friend is going to Toyland. The german boy of course wants to go too. Out of this simple premise grows a brilliant and heartwrenching short film.

In an interview with moving pictures magazine Freydank commented on the difficulty of making short films (and that’s in a country that subsidizes film production):

“Making short films is the most “unrewarding” thing one can possibly do – no commercial value, no budget; and financing is its own drama in itself.”

The film functions so well as a whole that it is difficult to break it into parts. The story is a masterpiece of Aristotelian storytelling, leading up to a remarkable peripeteia. One leaves shocked that it was only eleven minutes long, because in those eleven minutes more happens than in most two hour long films.

This film brought me through cynicism into a cleansing catharsis. Of all the Oscar winning short films I have seen, this one is my favorite. I am grateful to have seen it.

The 25 New Faces of Independent Film (via Filmmaker Magazine)

Festivals:

Cannes 2009: Stupid, Adjective (via cinemascope)

Radicalism at Cannes? It’s unlikely (a little older, but still pertinent. via the Guardian)

Locarno reveals strong arthouse lineup (via Screeninternational)

Interviews:

Sean O’Hagan talks to Lars von Trier About Antichrist (via the Guardian)

New Media:

A weak Box Office Performance for Brüno blamed on Twitter (via Indiewire)

Social Networking Making Friday the Only Day that Counts (the summer box office twitter effect via The Wrap)

“LaMotta was born in New York City, specifically the Toodles McGee section of The Bronx, near the Pelham Parkway and Morris Park area. He was forced by his father into fighting other children to entertain neighborhood adults, who threw pocket change into the ring. Jake’s father collected the money and used it to help pay rent.

In 1941, at the age of 19, LaMotta turned pro.”

Here, in four sentences, we have a fully established character and narrative line. These two images, with nothing unnecessary in between, create a powerful effect. We feel intense sympathy for Lamotta, brutalized by his father, followed by the immediate and understandable result of these actions.

People say rewriting is removing everything inessential to the story. Lamotta’s story is the story of a boxer. His adolescence, his first girlfriend, what comic books he read are irrelevant to our understanding of his story. A discussion of them would only cheapen it.

Looking at these lines I was reminded of another great omission in the history of narrative. The bible omits eighteen years of the life of Jesus Christ, including his entire adolescence and young adulthood. We see him as a young child, then as a fully grown adult. In the lost years of Jesus section in Wikipedia this period is described as follows:

“There is an account of the visit of the Magi who came to worship the holy child (Matthew 2:1-12), and the subsequent flight into Egypt to escape the wrath of Herod (Matthew 2:13-23). There is a general reference to the settlement of Joseph and Mary, along with the young Jesus, at Nazareth (Matthew 2:23; Lk. 2:39-40). There also is that isolated account of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus’ visit to the city of Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, when Jesus was twelve years old (Luke 2:41-50).

Following that episode, however, there is a blank space in the record that covers eighteen years in the life of Christ. Other than the generic allusion that Jesus advanced in wisdom, stature, and in favor with God and man (Luke 2:52), nothing is known of this time span.”

One would argue, in light of the profound effect that this story has had on humanity, that part of its power comes from the omission of those eighteen years. Through the absence of adolescence, a time of weakness, upheaval and confusion, Christ becomes godlike. Jesus with pimples cheapens Jesus on the cross. It is unneccessary and damaging to the narrative to discuss Christ’s adolescence, just like telling us Jake Lamotta’s favorite toy as a child would be. What is in essence a narrative jump cut has a profound effect on our understanding of the meaning of Christ’s  life and character, just as it does with Jake Lamotta.

The scene:

EXT. SHOREHAVEN POOL – DAY (1942-43)

The Shorehaven Pool, spic-and-span in the summer sun is the closest thing to a country club in the Bronx. An eight foot fence stands between the pool and the street.

JAKE, wearing slacks and a sportshirt, hangs out with the “BOYS” near the bar area. Older, “MADE” MEN play cards. A young FAN walks by and says:

FAN
Hey, Jake.

At the opposite end of the pool where the GIRLS gossip, and sunbathe, JOEY swaps small talk with VICKIE, a school girl, about 15. VICKIE is a knockout.

SALVY, FRANKIE and JUNIOR are with VICKIE and her FRIENDS. They joke with JOEY. JAKE watches SALVY and VICKIE.

JAKE’S P.O.V.: JOEY is talking (PAN) to VICKIE. VICKIE giggles. JOEY stands and walks over to JAKE.

JAKE
(referring to Vickie)
Who’s that?

JOEY
Whadda you care?

JAKE
Whadda ya mean, whadda I care? Who
is she? What’s a matter? You afraid
I’m gonna take her on you?

JOEY
No, I’m not afraid. Why? You wanna
meet her?

JAKE
Yeah –

JOEY
Cause I’ll go right over there and
bring her here.

JAKE
Go ‘head.

JOEY
You sure you wanna meet her? Don’t
make me go over there, you change
your mind and you make me look bad,
cause she’s really a knockout.
She’s 15, this kid — a great piece
of ass.

JAKE
How do you know? You know her that
good?

JOEY
No, I see her around the pool. I
know her. I know her like that –
not like that.

JAKE
(gesturing to his bandage)
Nah, not now… I wanna wait. I
don’t feel right…

JAKE watches VICKIE.

Very economical writing. You could make thousands of different visual entries into this scene, which could be summarized as “Jake sees Vicky for the first time.” Let’s see what Scorcese chooses.

The establishing shot:

The camera slowly pans and tilts downward to reveal:

Eisenstein would be proud. Here we have two images; one of oppression, one of liberation. The weight of Jake’s disintegrating marriage is about to be lifted when he lays his eyes on Vicky a few seconds later. In one continuous shot we have a clear visual metaphor to guide us into the scene. Scorcese not only establishes physical location, but uses it to establish tone, character, theme, and a new dramatic arc. Simply brilliant filmmaking.