Take Back the Morning

There is something that has been bearing down on me for quite a while. Something difficult, something ugly. One of those secrets that festers like a rumor in the hands of a loud mouth school girl. It takes a while to recognize, to come to terms with that which is a detriment to you, and the progress you wish to see building in your life. You can ignore it, cover it up, sugar coat it, or do whatever it is you wish to do to convince yourself that you are dealing with the problem, but in the end...it's there. It is ALWAYS there. Waiting like a cheap shot chump to pop you in the chops when you turn your back to see who is calling you bitch. The bastard child of you and that fat woman you met at the Winger concert that one drunken night. Ignore all you want, but eventually it gets to you. It takes you over, and everyday that it slips through your feeble hands is another day that it gains the strength that you no longer have. When you reach the breaking point, you have to make a decision. Confront the problem or just hope against hope that it will go away. I've decided to confront it.

I'm completely and hopelessly addicted to sleep. I OD on the Zzzzz's. Every morning I snooze and I lose. An unfinished script looms as the merciless winter wind has me watching my dependence swell beyond the manageable. If my own inherent tendency to make excuses for this behavior was not enough, I am surrounded by enablers as well. The snooze button on my alarm clock, my soft and snorey Boston Terrier, and the uber comfortable fleece Guitar Hero pajamas my nephew got me for Christmas (They sound like a joke, but I assure you these things are no joke at all) all do their best to make sure that I stay between the sheets and out of the office. The odds are stacked against me before the alarm clock ever sounds off in the a.m.. It's like trying to quit smoking while watching Madmen!

You would think the solution is simple just get your lazy ass out of bed and you will get used to it. Not true. Once you've formed that unhealthy relationship with your snooze button, you will pat that sucker at least twenty times between the hours of 5 and 7. And I have done just that which has led to something even more maddening. The sleep that I am clinging to like a drunk to a bottle of Wild Turkey, actually isn't all that good. It is getting interrupted every five minutes by NPR giving me an update on the atrocity in Haiti and the Obama administration's most recent bouts with the GOP. (In the most soothing of voices imaginable of course. Man those people sound so damn smart and perfect. Jerks!)

Frustrated by all of this and desperately searching for a solution, today I bought a new alarm clock. I've located the be all end all of pain in the ass alarms. This alarm clock physically jumps off your night stand and rolls around your room. It plays a vicious tirade of R2D2 beeps while it rolls forcing you to chase after it and shut it off. Upon purchase, I could picture a scene in my head set to the Benny Hill theme song. It's me chasing after this evil device with my dog barking and taking part in the hunt like a hound with a rabbit. My wife crawling deep enough under the the covers she may end up in some chinaman's bed. A Keaton-esque 5am ruccus. The only sad thing is I will never be willing to set up a video camera to capture this. The world could be missing out on what could quite possibly be the Godfather of all nonsensical Youtube videos because I don't want to see myself on the web running around a room in a pair of Guitar Hero pajamas chasing after a robot alarm clock. I am just not that self confident. This is something that could truly break and already insecure man.

So there you have it. Some say the first step to getting better is recognizing you have a problem. I have the film festival coming up in a couple weeks, and I desperately want to make some strong headway on the feature script for Mamma. I wanna swat these demons off my shoulders, write and write often. Just me, 5am and 4 or five cups of that bitter beautiful bean the coffee Gods named espresso. I am going to ride on the back of my new Clocky alarm clock to a first place finish in the race of me against me and on to those magical two words that every writer dreams about.....

THE END

Double with the Bases Loaded

I’ve never known a colder winter than the winter a couple of years back when I watched my Grandfather succumb to cancer. The pending death of someone you care about more than anything else in the world can be nothing short of spine shattering. You spend everyday trying to find a way to be whole, as a large piece is slowly being worked away from your soul’s foundation. The tangible; the flesh , the voice, being transfered from existence to memory. The hardest part is opening yourself up to the experience in an effort to understand the world in a deeper way. It is hard, but it is necessary. Shutting down is done out of fear and as anyone who has ever experienced death knows, fear does not delay the inevitable, it just makes it harder when the day comes.

I dealt with the experience with acceptance and the will to try to take every moment I could, enjoying a world with my Grandfather still in it. This was despite the fact that the inevitable said that world would not be maintained for long. I spent as much time trying to see my grandfather as I could, and I was afforded opportunities to be there for him in a way that a very fortunate grandchild should be. One day, coming home from work, I saw that I had received a couple messages on my cell phone. When I arrived home from work, I saw that I received some messages on my home machine as well. My mother had called me to tell me that my grandfather was having a bit of a good day, and had been asking for me. She thought I should give him a call as soon as possible. I called him, and my Aunt put me on the phone with him immediately. He barely had the breath to speak, though he had the will to spare. I told him to take it easy and if he couldn’t talk, then not to worry about that. He fought off his limitations and spoke. What he said to me was “Tommy, Grandpa hit a double with the bases loaded”. These were the last words my grandfather ever spoke to me.

I grew to love baseball out of love for my grandfather who played the game at home and in the military during WW II. I can remember calling him frequently from games at Shea Stadium so we could share our NY Mets together. Even if we couldn’t have a cold beer and a hot dog together at Shea, I could tell him what the atmosphere was like in the park, and we could discuss how one of our own, an Italian American, Mike Piazza would be the one to help them win it again.

My grandfather was an enormous Brooklyn Dodgers fan, but when the bums left Brooklyn, Gramps found a new team in the Mets who eventually would come to be my team as well. This was solidified in 1986 when I officially figured out that Keith Hernandez played the game the way I would like to live my life. The way my grandfather lived his. Keith Hernandez had a tremendous knowledge of the game and a near flawless approach to it. He executed and excelled. Keith never did too much or too little, but just what the situation called for to put runners across, or stop the opposition from getting on base. Keith would have appreciated my Grandfather’s last words to me, as he was just that type of guy that knew what he was capable of. If he had it in him to hit a double to keep the team in it, he would do that rather than aspire for the home run that would make the team win it. When my grandfather said he hit a double with the bases loaded, he meant he was proud of doing what was in him to win, and not to worry about what he was suffering through now, he tasted glory and it was worth it.

I found out yesterday that With Anchovies...Without Mamma became an official selection of the 2010 Treasure Coast International Film Festival. I have taken a tremendous amount of joy and pride from this selection over the last day. First off, it came at a much needed time, pressing me to keep my head in the game and not give in to discouragement or distraction.

Second, the festival is located not far from the NY Mets Spring Training facility, Tradition Field, in Port St. Lucie Florida. The festival begins on February 18th which is also the time that pitchers and catchers report to camp. I’ve always put a great deal of stock in a new baseball season. There is something magical about it, as it is a clean slate and no one can predict the results. Treasure Coast may not be the homerun shot of Cannes or Sundance, but there is something so perfect about it for me. I am a facing my own new season and this selection has brought me sentiment and a sense of life’s poetry. With this festivaI, I to have an opportunity to knock a double with the bases loaded, much like Keith Hernandez would, but far more importantly, like my Grandfather would have.

Embrace the Reset

It’s a new year and the weight of hope and expectation is up to it’s usual Gleason-esque proportions. The soul is fIt’s a new year and the weight of hope and expectation is up to it’s usual Gleason-esque proportions. The soul is fattened on the frustrations of yesteryear and the need for timely change. New year, new decade, new hope, new me.

When I decided to write Mamma, it was mostly because of the fact that I was seeing exhaustion and convenience stabbing tradition in the neck before my eyes. One of the primary examples of this was the Italian American cultural pearl, the Feast of Seven Fishes being pawned off by my own family for a tray of cold cuts or worse yet, take out from an Italian Restaurant. I made a promise to myself that I would not only comment on it in my wok, but do my best to stop these heinous acts of cultural bastardization. I would fight this war with an army or I would go it alone. Either way, action needed to be taken.

2009 comes on, I find my voice and I finish my film With Anchovies...Without Mamma. This was never a film that I felt had a message that was accessible to everyone. It’s message is buried beneath beats of the dark and the absurd. I do believe though that the message is woven tightly within the fiber of the story. If the viewer is open and willing, it certainly is there for them. So in essence, I accomplished a modicum of what I set out to accomplish. I stated my case, and I felt very good about it. Empowered even. So what was left for me to do in 09? Finish the year off with an ambitious Feast of the Seven Fishes dinner to wash away the sins of the cold cuts, and the take out. I decided I was going to put together a table of food that would embody all the gluttony of Satyricon minus the young boys and togas. I did this, and I did it tenfold. I stood over a stove, watching through the window in my kitchen as friends fed on shrimp, bowls of mussels, calamari, salted cod and whatever else was slung out there. They smiled, they laughed and they were part of a tradition that brought my family so many memorable holidays. I felt like a chubby happy old Italian lady whose only true pleasure was to watch people enjoy food. It was amazing. Then like all things, the night came to an end. Unfortunately for me, the end came down harder than expected. Shortly after the last guest had left, I was ridden with chills and a lurking fever that was crawling through my system with bad intentions and a refusal to go easy on me. I never get sick, so I have to feel like this virus was a little like the guy that gets fired from his corporate job and comes back with a AK47 and shoots up the office. I was laid out. Christmas was cruel. I ended up spending Christmas Day in the hospital asking “Why? Why can’t this just happen any other time.” Fa la la la la la la la LA.

I felt robbed of my holiday, and worse yet, I felt like God was trying to knock me down a peg and tell me “It is never as good as you think it is, pal. I am going to be on you till your days end.” After I recovered from my 105 fever and violent stomach pains, I realized that I was starting to feel better than ever. The cynicism was finally beginning to dissolve. What I was getting wasn’t kicked in the head, what I was getting was a much needed reset. Better yet, I was getting that reset just in time for the new year. As many changes that were born in 09, I have to feel like they were just a prologue to many, bigger changes to come. Changes that I am fully in charge of. I told myself to embrace the reset and move forward. Finish the trailer for the film, devise new plans to promote the project, and stick to a schedule to finish the script that you have been dragging your heels on for the past three months.

I may have a bad taste in my mouth, but I can’t judge 09 on one bad virus, and one tough week. After all, I made a movie and some mean Christmas calamari. Life is pretty good, but in 2010 life for Mamma is going to be better. attened on the frustrations of yesteryear and the need for timely change. New year, new decade, new hope, new me.

When I decided to write Mamma, it was mostly because of the fact that I was seeing exhaustion and convenience stabbing tradition in the neck before my eyes. One of the primary examples of this was the Italian American cultural pearl, the Feast of Seven Fishes being pawned off by my own family for a tray of cold cuts or worse yet, take out from an Italian Restaurant. I made a promise to myself that I would not only comment on it in my wok, but do my best to stop these heinous acts of cultural bastardization. I would fight this war with an army or I would go it alone. Either way, action needed to be taken. 2009 comes on, I find my voice and I finish my film With Anchovies...Without Mamma. This was never a film that I felt had a message that was accessible to everyone. It’s message is buried beneath beats of the dark and the absurd. I do believe though that the message is woven tightly within the fiber of the story. If the viewer is open and willing, it certainly is there for them. So in essence, I accomplished a modicum of what I set out to accomplish. I stated my case, and I felt very good about it. Empowered even. So what was left for me to do in 09? Finish the year off with an ambitious Feast of the Seven Fishes dinner to wash away the sins of the cold cuts, and the take out. I decided I was going to put together a table of food that would embody all the gluttony of Satyricon minus the young boys and togas. I did this, and I did it tenfold. I stood over a stove, watching through the window in my kitchen as friends fed on shrimp, bowls of mussels, calamari, salted cod and whatever else was slung out there. They smiled, they laughed and they were part of a tradition that brought my family so many memorable holidays. I felt like a chubby happy old Italian lady whose only true pleasure was to watch people enjoy food. It was amazing. Then like all things, the night came to an end. Unfortunately for me, the end came down harder than expected. Shortly after the last guest had left, I was ridden with chills and a lurking fever that was crawling through my system with bad intentions and a refusal to go easy on me. I never get sick, so I have to feel like this virus was a little like the guy that gets fired from his corporate job and comes back with a AK47 and shoots up the office. I was laid out. Christmas was cruel. I ended up spending Christmas Day in the hospital asking “Why? Why can’t this just happen any other time.” Fa la la la la la la la LA.

I felt robbed of my holiday, and worse yet, I felt like God was trying to knock me down a peg and tell me “It is never as good as you think it is, pal. I am going to be on you till your days end.” After I recovered from my 105 fever and violent stomach pains, I realized that I was starting to feel better than ever. The cynicism was finally beginning to dissolve. What I was getting wasn’t kicked in the head, what I was getting was a much needed reset. Better yet, I was getting that reset just in time for the new year. As many changes that were born in 09, I have to feel like they were just a prologue to many, bigger changes to come. Changes that I am fully in charge of. I told myself to embrace the reset and move forward. Finish the trailer for the film, devise new plans to promote the project, and stick to a schedule to finish the script that you have been dragging your heels on for the past three months.

I may have a bad taste in my mouth, but I can’t judge 09 on one bad virus, and one tough week. After all, I made a movie and some mean Christmas calamari. Life is pretty good, but in 2010 life for Mamma is going to be better.

Lost Things and the "Go To Guy"

"Dear St. Anthony, please come around. Something's been lost and can't be found."

"Miracles waited on your word, which you were ever ready to speak for those in trouble or anxiety."

One theory that rings true for most Italian Americans is that they form a relationship with Saint Anthony early on in their lives. If you come from parents, or grandparents of any sort of Roman Catholic faith, it is ingrained into you early on that if anything is wrong, Saint Anthony will fix it, as he is the Saint of miracles, if anything is lost Saint Anthony will find it, as he is the Saint of lost things. Pretty much one stop spiritual shopping. When you were young, you were constantly losing stuff, and or hoping for a miracles to assist you in situations like that math final you need to ace to avoid going summer school. Saint Anthony became a guy you talked to on a regular basis.

My cynicism comes in waves. I am well aware of this. I wrote a small monologue in my short film about the soul growing hard as you get older, and I do believe that. You see to much in your life as time passes and your knowledge of the world grows to the point that reason stands to be hopes biggest adversary. Ultimately faith is born of hope, so when hope is gone, you're left with a brain swollen with theories and ideas and a soul thats greatest task is to decipher right and wrong.

Those who know me know I almost always wear a medal of Saint Anthony around my neck. I always question my attachment to this medal. I am not quite sure if it comes down to the fact that the medal came from my grandmother (who was part of the dynamic duo of Grams and Gramps that shaped most of my world), that I ultimately believe that a prayer to this man can help me find the words that seem to be lost when that page is blank, or it is way of hanging on to a time when hope became faith, a time that seems out of reach when reason tells me that the world can be cruel and lonely.

I ended up in church this morning. I am not sure what brought me there. The need for clear thought, an attempt at an honest prayer, or the fact that the first time I discovered I wanted to put words down on a page was in church. I've been reeling a bit lately trying to seriously break through on the draft of the feature script of Mamma. I guess I thought that if I walked out of church once, and walked home to fill a few a pages with some words that felt right to me, it could certainly happen again. I am writing on this blog now, so in that sense the clarity must have helped some. As far as a draft of the feature, that remains to be seen. Not sure I will put my head to that task until tomorrow morning, but I think in a way, I am in a decent place. This feature was designed to be a dark and funny commentary on the culture I have always found so warm and satisfying. This was the culture that championed the belief that if you prayed hard enough and believed with everything you had inside of you, good things will happen. I know that is not always the case, but I also know that those around me that believed it found comfort in that sort of divine abandon.

Making a film is maybe not that sort of abandon, but abandon nonetheless. You believe in a story, and that this story can bring something to the people that watch it. That a story can change things, open people up. You can only tell that story though, if you understand it's essence, the truth that exists inside of it. For me, the truth to Mamma lies in the sum of the parts of identity. I guess today I just wanted to remember with hope, rather than disregard with reason. Today I wanted to find something that was lost. In a way I did.

Beauty and the Bitch

Things have gone so well for so long, that I knew, just knew there was a rough patch looming. The home team’s winning streak ends, the wine goes dry, and the sun eventually stops shining.

I guess there is no point in creating a blog like this if you aren’t going to report the good and the bad. This entire filmmaking process is one of extreme emotions. You struggle to get the ideas out, and that struggle hurts. You finally get those ideas out, and that flow of thought is satisfying. You no longer doubt yourself. You could be, you should be, YOU ARE A FILMMAKER. The project takes shape on page and you work as hard as you can to see it through to screen. Schedules weigh you down, finances, scenes you thought made sense don’t make sense anymore. Then it happens. Suddenly it seems to start breathing, taking on a life of it’s own. The project is up on it’s own two legs and not only is it walking, but it is strutting like disco’s back.

You have a finished product, and you screen that product for an audience. People respond. They tell you their feelings, and those feelings match up with your reasons for making the picture in the first place. The timing is spot on. Your vision has gone from one small idea to one very big screen and life could not be better...... Then it’s festival time.

You come to the realization that you truly don’t have a name to push to these selection boards. Not one to be recognized and certainly not one to be sold to their ticket buying public. There is always that hope against hope. Good filmmaking shall overcome. Then you step back, take a look at your local multiplex, or the thousands of one star Netflix pariahs that you come across daily while building your que, and you know that is just not the case. Not the case at all.

I received rejection letters this week from Sundance and Slamdance. Neither was unexpected but neither failed to disappoint either. As I mentioned, there is always that hope against hope. You talk to yourself over and over from submission to notification and you whisper to yourself a bunch of soothing maybes and possiblys, but you know what happens in the end. If you’ve got no press, you get no selection. Seems to be that simple. You can spend a great deal of energy blaming festivals for their politics but in the end you have to take a long look at your film, and yourself. First off, “Does the film fit into the festival?”, and secondly if it does, “What do I do to push it in?”

So here it is: I am taking full responsibility for my rejections from these festivals. I rushed these submissions out without having any sort of gameplan. I am not saying that if I had a plan I would have gotten accepted to two of the most prestigious festivals in the states, but I would have given myself a better chance for sure. It all comes down to promotion that should have been done, that wasn’t even considered at the time. I think I was too busy patting myself on the back for successful screenings and one audience award. I should have had a press kit for Mamma tattooed on my back when I finished the film but instead, I had no press kit at all when I sent out those submissions. When you make a film there is no time to slow down. There is the need to be a oneman studio and to be honest, my marketing department was not only closed but was never open in the first place.

So that’s off my chest and quite a relief. Take it from me, it is easier to blame yourself for your films shortcomings than some invisible festival heads or theories that exist about an industry that no one can quite figure out.

Listen to Mamma!

With Anchovies...Without Mamma has long been a passion project of mine. It is a film that was born within my own frustrations and search for identity. Not only did I want to make this movie, but felt I had to make it. The other scripts I wrote on spec were bigger comedies that were designed for stars, studios and budgets. They were never something that I truly felt were a vehicle to explore my voice as a filmmaker. Mamma was a story that was 100 percent me with 100 percent possibility.

I had a vision for this film, which was greater than the short film that exists now. The story was much broader before I felt the need to pare it down. I knew that to shoot the original script it would call for more money than I was equipped with. In the end, I felt that the best way to approach this journey was with one first small step. I structured a project that I felt retained the soul of the original film, but also helped me develop a vision that was tangible before trying to inspire the confidence of external investors. With the original vision in my back pocket for a future feature length picture, I went into production.

The process was cathartic in a sense, helping me deal with loss within my own life, as well as the loss that existed within the lives of my characters. These factors made everything surreal and hyper-real at the same time. Whatever the case was, I was making this film one way or another. There was no chance to turn my back on it now.

Mamma’s roots stretched for miles in various directions. From a need to speak up about a culture that I felt was fading, to the loss of some people very dear to me, there was no shortage of material to draw from. As I worked in various pizzerias to earn money for school, it all became clear to me. Martin Scorcese’s “Mean Streets” were ridden with mafia while mine came covered in Mozzarella. This was my story to tell.