I made a film. [Hold
for applause and/or wanking motion] It is
difficult to pinpoint a specific motivation beyond simply wanting to, an
admittedly broad enough class in the taxonomy of desires to cover genera from
“Iono” all the way to “why not.” Making
the film was the means to an end which was making a film. Which is all really just to say: I didn’t have any grand designs re what to do
once/if the film was completed. And so
it remains. The problem with putting
things off until the times come is that ultimately the time will come:
Notwithstanding a long, sad list of mistakes and regrets over
limitations in equipment, time, experience, ability, and most everything else save
perhaps moxie, and aided by enough distance to reflect on what was done
properly and enough alcohol to forget the rest, I am fairly happy with the
result. A masterpiece it is not, but
there’s a lot on screen that I’m really proud of (blah blah blah), and it’s a
pride dwarfed by (blah) the amount of fun (blah) I had in making it (blah). Banal clichés aside, once the smile of smug
self-satisfaction relaxed into its usual scowl and the memories of laughs dimmed
to vague recollections of something happening to someone somewhere, what was I
left with? Seventeen minutes of playful
whimsy viewed by no more than a few dozen friends (none of whom are my
otherwise amazing and supportive and, apparently, extremely busy wife), a handful
of festival rejections (another one happily came in while writing this!), and a
lingering niggle of chagrin seem to be the more notable contents of my Me and I
gift bag. The unfulfilled wish for the film to reach a
wider, praise-lavishing, acolyte-turning audience not only sits as an embarrassingly
vain disappointment unto itself but also compromises what I hoped would and
should be a singularly satisfying accomplishment. My thoughts regarding the experience of
making the film, of real achievement, are now intertwined with unpleasant feelings
of unrequited longing, unfulfilled promise, and, weirdly, paradise lost. I have cast a
pall on myself.
Assuming the drive to create was as pure as I want to
believe, why must it now be sullied by a demand for attention often seen in
your garden-variety mental patient? Part
of it is functional in that some form of positive feedback would have facilitated
or at least made making another film more likely, if not via wheel greasing
of future cast and crew then by validating the push to carry on, to avoid filmmaking
being added to the list of creative larks that shriveled malnourished and unattended to on the vine of my aesthetic life (see,
e.g., my discarded standup career). But there’s
another part of it that reeks of pure egoism. It’s
probably normal, but I’m not sure it’s helpful.
I did something I think is pretty great.
Why can’t that be enough? And
will it ever be? Will the drive to
create lead me to do something even better, or will the fear and expectation of
recognitional failure prevent me from even trying?
These are important questions, and the answers are elusive.
