Blog

Posted on

So You Want to Be a Writer/Director, Eh?

DON PARIS RUE CLER CAFEAward-Winning Writer/Director/Producer Donald L. Vasicek (“The Sand Creek Massacre”)

Before you jump off in the deep end of the film world and opt to become a writer/director, you might want to put on the brakes and take a glance at yourself. Me, you ask? Why should I look at myself? Well, when did you first get the idea to become a writer/director? What is motivating you? Who were you at that time? Where were you? How were you feeling at the time? Why are you interested in becoming a writer/director? If you don’t like pain, you’d better answer these questions honestly.

The answers may make you aware of something very special that you might not be aware of at this moment. It may prove to be invaluable to you when someone tells you you’re crazy for trying to become a writer/director. You’ll have to draw on this when you need an additional $55,000 to finish shooting your film, for editing, or for a host of other things, and have no idea where you’re going to get it. When it’s dark and half the earth’s people are sleeping, you will require it to get yourself ready for shooting in the morning.

With seventeen telephone calls facing you after a sixteen hour day of shooting, it will help you find the time to get to them made before you begin shooting the next day. This special side of you will drive you through concrete walls, but you have to answer those questions up there in the second paragraph, or you aren’t going to get it done as a writer/director.

The first time I became mindful of this special side of me was a few years ago when a client and friend (I edited a book she wrote, helped her find a publisher and helped her get it published; one of my day jobs before I went into writing/filmmaking full time) called me and asked me to write, direct and produce a documentary film. This awareness kicked in at that twinkling even though I had no idea how to write, direct and produce a documentary film.

My wife and I had recently experienced, first hand, the subject matter of the film. My friend was in my zone, and she knew it. My friend reminded me that I had talked with her about writing and directing films and had expressed my desire for it to her. She said that she would finance the project, and part of that financing would be for me to learn how to write, direct and produce a documentary film. Then, she asked me to assign her, her job. Has your throat ever become so dry that you couldn’t swallow?

That was how my throat felt when she unloaded that bit of information on me. I took a swig of water, and notified her, her job would be to executive produce the film. She asked me what that meant. I explained to her that financing films is what executive producers do. I went on to tell her that executive producers also give input in the making of the film, actually, most any kind of input they choose to give. There was a long pause on her end of the line (I think she was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat). I listened to my heart beating. It was a quiet sound, not really thumping, but something like, blimp, blimp, blimp. My mind swirled with excitement. After eleven years of wanting to write and direct a film, I was going to do it. Little did I realize how important this awareness would become in the upcoming months.

Between eating the sandwich -like sounds, my friend said she simply wanted to make sure the film showed the subject matter of the film in her heartfelt way. I felt a surge of something shoot through my body and mind. A single bolt electrified me at that instant as I recalled the emotional experience my wife and I had with the subject matter of the film. For legal reasons, I can only say that it related directly to the death of my wife’s nephew. He was a graphic artist, weightlifter and a handsome guy. At the end of his life, I had to pick him up in my arms, and carry him to our car to drive him to the hospital. I told my friend, okay, let’s do it.

The terror of becoming a writer/director and producer as well, hit me about an hour after we said goodbye. I stared at Bo who sat on my desk on top of my notebook. Bo was short for Bo Jangles. He was our black and white tomcat. He was a people cat, but he was pissed off because he was a human being in a past life and he wanted to be a human being in this life. He knew he was supposed to be a cat in this life in order to burn off the karma for being a jerk in more than one past lives, and he didn’t like it. So, he used me as his punching bag. Bo stepped on my computer keyboard. He looked at the computer monitor, then at me. His black, button-shaped eyes burrowed through me. I knew then what I had to do. I was terrified, but my wife’s nephew, Ron, came to mind again. A bolt of energy surged through my body.

After several months of researching writing, directing and producing documentary films, I acquired an understanding of the elements of the documentary. I learned about the myriad of components incorporated in making a documentary film. The terror had dissipated. I was anxious to get started.

I presented the budget of $170,000 for a 58-minute documentary film to my executive producer. “My,” she said, “that’s a lot of money for a film.” I watched her muse over it for a minute. My heart plunged into my left Reebok hiking boot. “How much do you need to start?” she asked. I told her $15,000 would get us through the first week of shooting. She wrote out a check for $15,000, handed it to me and said, “What do you want me to do?” I said, “Well, we’re shooting at the University of Denver on Wednesday at nine a.m. Why don’t you come over and watch?”

With a crew of six (we shot the film on 16mm, so I needed a director of photography; he needed an assistant to load the massive-sized camera; a sound man; a light man; a grip; and a production assistant), a packed library of students, half of the DU faculty, two security officers and my executive producer, watched as we filmed a student lecture about the subject matter of the film. There was a film moment when what he was saying reached an emotional high, so high, that everyone there was near tears.

It was at that time that my director of photography whispered to me that he had run out of film and had to change it. My heart, about at my left kneecap during the shoot, dove for my left foot again. It landed there with a thump in the hiking boot. After the shoot, my executive producer expressed her pleasure over the experience. She mentioned the film moment and asked me if we got it on film. I told her the camera ran out of film at that time. She drilled me with those cobra eyes of hers, and said, “You should’ve planned for that.” I told her that you cannot plan for film moments, they just happen. She argued that I didn’t know what I was talking about and stormed off.

It was at that point that my heart tried to creep out of my boot, slip off and hide in some books in the religious book section of the library. I snatched it back. Even though anger frothed inside of me, (based on my life experience), I capped it. I wanted to go after her down the long hall that echoed with the clicking of her Gucci’s. I wanted to blow fire at her. Since I had retrieved my heart from the marble floor and stuffed it back in my chest, I made a decision at that point that I was not going to turn into an animal. This special awareness was streaking through me at that point and it re-centered me.

In order to get financing for the second week of the scheduled four week shoot, I had to meet with my executive producer. After considerable discussion about the schedule, the budget and reassuring her that her money was being well spent, she wrote a $7,000 check and handed it to me. The second week of shooting, we shot a series of interviews and b-roll which is what you shoot for background and fill-in during editing. The guy we were renting the 16mm camera from was hollering and screaming over the telephone at me for his $4,000, the amount he was charging us weekly to rent it; my DP’s car broke down and he wanted $800 to fix it; and my lighting guy wanted $75 for gas for his truck. These requests were made to me as we were setting up to shoot at the Colorado State University raptor center in Fort Collins.

At this point, I walked away from the phone, the DP and the lighting guy. I went to a large cage where a golden eagle sat on a tree branch. I watched him for a few minutes. I wanted to kill three people, but it wasn’t in me. I wanted to prepare my mind, as the director, to shoot what we had scheduled to shoot that day, and not have to deal with personal problems of the crew (part of a producer’s and I was also the doing the writer and the producer jobs), but my energy was waning, and it was only eight o’clock in the morning.

The majestic eagle blinked his black, penetrating eyes at me. I watched his eyes. He watched my eyes. And suddenly there in the middle of a brutal, March, wind-blown eagle pen clutch, this special awareness swelled inside of me like a boiling sea. Tears welled in my eyes. The eagle cocked his head at me. I smiled at him that I was all right. He looked away, then began preening himself.

Late Friday of the second week after shooting all day, I met with my executive producer for money for week number three shooting. She hadn’t appeared for the second week of shooting, said she was busy with her work. After going into another pitch for the money based on her questions and skepticism, she asked how much I needed to get the film into the can. I told her $148,000. A white sheet like color spread over her face.

I retrieved a glass of water and handed it to her. Pale, she emptied the glass. She told me she wanted to see what her higher powers would tell her about giving me the money over the weekend. Now, it was my turn for the water and the glass was empty. I said I had four week contracts with seven people including the telephone screamer who was renting us his camera. I told her I had bills to pay. I explained to her that I had to plan the shoot for the next week. She said she was sorry, but I would have to wait for her decision.

My executive producer called me on Monday morning. She told me her higher powers told her to not give me any more money. I asked her why, she said she didn’t want to put herself in jeopardy financially, and that she was pulling out. She hung up then.

I looked at Bo. He looked at me, like, well, it wasn’t my fault. I looked at him, like well, it was your fault. Suddenly, this special awareness surfaced in my conscious mind. It was Bo, I knew, I loved him. He knew my wife’s nephew. Actually, he was a special pal to Ron particularly during the last part of Ron’s 33 years of life. I was electrified again.

Even with this special awareness, I was having a hard time figuring out how I was going to get myself out of this mess. I discussed it with my business manager. She said she never took on a project that she didn’t finish. She said Ron would want us to finish this film so that others could benefit from it. She seared me with her blue/green eyes that sparkled with tears. She said, “Let’s finish what we started, okay?”

Well, let me tell you about this special awareness, it shot through me like a thousand bolts of lightning. I was lifted up on top of a mountain where I could see thousands of miles in every direction. My business manager was beside me, right there. I hugged her. Her body was warm and melded into me, and I was all right then.

I had to cut the shooting days. I had to cut the film from 58 minutes to 22 minutes and turn it into a classroom video on 16mm film. I had to ask the people I had contracts with to meet me half way. We had to come up with $27,000 of our own money to complete the film. We finished the film, but not without more obstacles. Actually, I was threatened with lawsuits that could’ve sent us into bankruptcy. The company that processed the film let dust collect on it. 200 VHS copies of the film ended up with dark where light should’ve been. But we managed to get a distributor. The film was distributed to schools, colleges and universities throughout the United States.

I would not have been unable to pull myself through this slough of pressure and stress without this special awareness. If you haven’t guessed by now what this special awareness is, it is possible that you should re-think your desire to become a writer/director. See paragraph 2 above. At least, do the question/answer bit I suggested. This special awareness is passion for the subject matter of the film you want to shoot. Without passion, writing and directing becomes a robotic expression of a human being. Passion and writing and directing are synonymous. Without one, you will be unable to have the other two. Without two, you will be unable to possess the other one. And without any one of the three, it might be best to keep your day job unless you do not mind making films that are colored gray.

 

Posted on

Dust, Garlic and Second Base

by
Donald L. Vasicek

The smell of garlic was heavy around second base. It’s not that it was overbearing, just that it was there. I kicked at the dirt, hardened by an unusually hot Denver summer. I watched some of it bolt up and drop on the stark white base anchored in the ground.

“Hey, Coach, whatcha doing that for?” I looked around at Tim, a string bean of a kid. He was 13 and smart as the relentless sun beating down on us. A whiff of garlic the size of a watermelon exited Tim and engulfed me.

“Just loosening up the ground a bit,” I said. I looked at Carl, a dark-headed kid with buck teeth and a smile that lit up the softball diamond. Carl pitched the softball to Jake, a 17-old kid the size of a Humvee. Tim was now cleaning the dirt off the bag. “Tim, heads up,” I said. Tim looked up. He pounded his glove. Dust smoked out of it. He bent his knees and cupped his hands on them.

Jake swung and missed. Carl’s red baseball cap flew off. Carl’s grandfather, standing just behind him to shag balls for him and instruct him about pitching, sneezed. A whiff of air the size of a hurricane swept up dust off the diamond. It boiled into clouds and rolled towards us.

Soon, it engulfed us and passed on out into centerfield. I looked at Tim. His face was grimy with dirt. “Hey, Coach,” he said, “you look like that old guy on the Survivor show.”

“You mean, Rudy, the ex-Navy seal?” “Yeah, except he didn’t have dirt all over his face.”

Tim started laughing. It sounded like a distressed squirrel. I laughed. Soon, everyone was laughing, all thirty-six of us, and that included the other coaches and parents.

Carl wound up. Jake hunkered over the plate. Carl’s grandfather barked in Carl’s ear. “Throw it high so it’ll come down over the back of the plate, that’s the Special Olympics rule.”

Jake swung and missed. The ball skipped passed the catcher, little Carpie, a Down Syndrome boy, who was dwarfed by the catcher’s mask, chest, knee and shin protectors. It bounded all the way to the backstop where it thunked to a stop.

“Charge the ball if it’s hit at you, Tim,” I instructed. I was more out at second base to protect him, than to coach him. I’d noticed in earlier practices that he didn’t pay attention to what was going on. He was always fooling around with his glove. Or turning his back on the playing field and gazing into the outfield. Or talking with someone.

Little Carpie threw the ball back to Carl. It bounced three times before it got to Carl. Carl scooped it up and prepared to throw the next pitch to Jake.

I looked at Tim. He was down on one knee. He had managed to clean the second base bag of dirt. Now, he was smoothing the dirt out around the base with his hands. He was a sitting target for a rock hard softball that could bash his head to smithereens. Just at that moment, Carl threw the ball to Jake.

“Tim, heads up,” I said. Tim looked up. Jake swung the bat. He smashed the ball. The ball cracked off his bat like a rocket.

I lunged over to get in front of Tim. The ball climbed high into the air. It shot for the leftfield wall, some 300 feet away, then curved and went foul at the last moment.

“Coach, you’re in my way,” Tim wailed. I stepped away, relieved that the ball didn’t hit Tim.

“Step over here, Tim.” I motioned to several feet off second base. I walked over and crouched facing Jake. I pounded my glove. “This is where second basemen like you play. They cover the area between first base and all of second base.” Tim strolled over.

He went into his crouch. He pounded his glove. “Hit the ball to me, Jake,” Tim said. He pounded his glove. He leaned and cupped his hands on his knees. “When it comes to second basemen, it gets no better than right here.”

I gawked at Tim. He looked so vulnerable. Skinny, like a weeping willow tree branch, he was developmentally disabled. A softball hit by Jake would shred him. I nudged up closer to him.

“I got it covered, Coach,” he said.

“Okay, I’m just making sure the dust doesn’t get in your way.” He looked at me and grinned. His teeth, like a straight, white picket fence, gleamed back at me. Then, I heard the crack of Jake’s bat.

I glanced at Jake. On a line, the ball screamed right for Tim. “Tim, the ball,” I said. Tim looked. The ball fired for his face. Whump!

I stuck my glove out and caught the ball. The ball hit my hand with the force of a small sledge hammer. The bones danced like everyone of them was going to break. The palm of my hand felt like someone had just snapped a whip on it. It stung and burned.

I flipped the ball to Carl without batting an eye. I looked at Tim. His face was ashen. His marble-like eyeballs peered at me in shock. “You okay, Tim?” Tim continued staring at me. I put my other hand on his shoulder since my glove hand felt like it was missing from the wrist forward. “Tim.”

He swallowed. “You have tears in your eyes, Coach,” he said.

I felt a tickle on the side of my nose. I scratched it. It was a tear. “Well, you would’ve caught the ball if dust hadn’t gotten in my eyes, huh?” Tim nodded.

Summer Special Olympics softball moved forward after that night at practice. Tim continued playing second base. And he caught every ball that came his way, whether in the air or on the ground, even when dust was blowing his way.

Posted on

Professors of the Heart

By

Donald L. Vasicek

Perhaps it was the touch. You know the kind. Sort of a gentle tug like a puppy would yank on your pant leg. Playfully, but with purpose. With design, but loving. I looked around. It was Elsie. Elsie was stocky, particularly for a middle school student. “Coach, coach, you know what happened in school today?” she said as she pushed some French fries into her mouth.

“You passed the math quiz,” I said. Her hair was styled and cut at about the ears like a pageboy only her bangs were curled. They danced about like springs and disguised her age. Possibly her face too, which was round and more wide than long. She came into view as an old soul of twelve years particularly when I gazed into her eyes. She cuffed my arm and giggled like a girl of her age. “No, silly, I beat Marty in the spelling test.”

I gawked at Marty standing at Elsie’s elbow. Strange thing, they were one year apart, Marty being older, but Elsie was two hands taller. Marty blinked her dark eyes at me in a “so what” manner.

I smiled. Marty’s raven hair glowed from the lights in the cavernous gym at Aurora, Colorado North Middle School. Her ruffled dark eyes pecked at me like a chicken.

“What’s wrong, Marty?” I said as a roar swelled in the brimming stands at one end of the basketball court. Parents, relatives and friends cheered our team, the Jaguars. It was tournament time. The smell of sweat, cologne, hot dogs, potato chips, cherry cola soda, mustard, pickles, onions, M&M’s, berry licorice ropes, popcorn and a host of other concession goodies rode the wind and no one was going to miss out.

Marty actually was quite small for thirteen. Her peers spiraled over her. Somewhere within her mind though, I suspected, height meant nothing to her.

“He’s pushing me. He hit me. He won’t let me shoot the ball. I hate him.” Tears puddled in her eyes. “Who?” I asked. Her arm and finger shot out like an arrow. “Him.” I followed her point of the compass to a male kid about six feet with dusty blond hair that looked like rats got into fight in it. With very little body fat, if any, his boxy shoulders made him appear powerful and intimidating. Just then, he pushed a runt of a kid, Little Carson, we called him, to the floor.

I straightened out as Little Carson’s big, round brown eyes, actually, out-distancing his emaciated face, woofed at the bully.

“You pushed me.” The big kid laughed. He didn’t know that Little Carson was developmentally disabled. Actually he probably wasn’t really that aware that he was also developmentally disabled, as were all of the kids on his team and our team. He was playing in the Colorado Special Olympics Basketball Tournament, and that’s what mattered to him. Little Carson was in the kid’s face, or in fact, looking up at him like he was peering at a redwood tree.

“Little Carson,” I shouted. Little Carson seeded his hands to his boney hips. He formed the word, “but”, when the ball popped him in the chest. He grabbed it and started dribbling it around and around in a circle; a beetle bug in the middle of a bunch of kids of all dimensions trying to chase him down.

“See, see,” Marty said. “He hurt Little Carson and I hate him.” Marty’s eyes spit out the feeling of disappointment. Elsie hauled on my arm. This time it had more urgency in the touch.

“Put me in, put me in, coach.” A basketball rolled out onto the court from behind me. I looked at Sara who sat on the bench with Dustin, a gaunt autistic kid, intelligent, but who could only spit when he tried to speak and Jarod, an inky-haired kid with a face that emerged like one side of it had been run over by an SUV. Sara toyed with her hands like they belonged to someone else.

I grabbed the ball just as the teams, like a tidal wave, swept down the court after Little Carson. I glanced at Sara. If it hadn’t been for her Down Syndrome disability, I could’ve sworn she was grinning at me.

I squatted by Marty. I placed my hands on her shoulders. I looked her squarely in the eyes. “Marty, you don’t hate him. After the game’s over, I want you to congratulate him on playing a good game. Okay?”

I looked at the scoreboard. Jaguars 4 Vipers 32. I shot a glance at Little Carson. Tall Vipers swarmed him.

Elsie chewed on her fingernails. She moved about like she had to go to the bathroom. “Put me in, coach, put me in.”

Then Jarod was at my arm. And Dustin. Jarod spoke first. “I’m a pro, coach.” Dustin spewed drool at me. He held his folded hands down, his arms crossed. Then, I noticed he had wet his basketball shorts, or at the least, spilled water on them.

“There’s just a few seconds left.” I investigated each kid like I wanted to give them everything they desired and more. They only wanted one thing. To play basketball.

And Marty was quietly crying. “It’s not fair,” she said. “I could’ve made the winning shot.”

“So could I,” Jarod shouted as he mimed a shot.

And now, Dustin, crossed his legs like he really had to go to the bathroom. “Dustin, do you have to go to the bathroom?” He stared at me. Right through me. Then, his father appeared. A tall, skinny, distinguished looking man of about 40, took Dustin’s hand and they headed for the bathroom.

The horn blared the end of the game. Little Carson continued dribbling the ball. I watched Marty as the two teams walked single file past each other high-fiving. When Marty got to the big kid with the boxy shoulders, she whispered something in his ear. He nodded unremarkably.

The gym had emptied out. I had managed to collect all of the Jaguars’ basketballs and put them in the net bag. I was heading for the exit when I heard someone call out, “Coach.” I turned. Marty beckoned me with her pint-sized finger. She stood right in the center of two full-sized courts. They absorbed her like a sponge.

I walked over to her. She turned and indicated the route of the grandstands. We faced them. She installed her arm around my waist. “That’s my Dad.”

I looked at a broad man with a head of hair like a male lion’s mane, step out in front of us several feet away. “Okay, Dad,” she said. He directed a camera at us. Marty took my hand. She held it. Her dad snapped several pictures.

Dr. Alexa Roberts, Donald L. Vasicek