The Anklebiters, the Starry-Eyed, the Surlies, the Hangers-On, et al.

Three years ago I began a book project called "Out of Focus: A Year in the Life of a Low-Budget Camera Assistant." According to my proposal, the book would follow a cameraman (Sleepy E) through the "often amusing, sometimes dangerous, always disorganized and anarchic world of low-budget fimmaking." It would lead film lovers into the "hilarious mayhem" of the B-movie world, "past Stephen Baldwin, Eric Roberts, and Corey Haim, past the Anklebiters, the Starry-Eyed, the Surlies, the Hangers-On, the Has-Beens, and the Never-Wases." It would explore the author's "love/hate relationship with B-movie schlock" and his "continuing, hapless struggle to escape to the 'big shows.'" It promised a lot of things. There were a few agency nibbles, but I had created publishing poision: a conversational memoir by a nobody, lacking structure, arc, forward movement, universal appeal, etc. It was a relentless series of numbing anecdotes that went nowhere, without the uplift of an ending.

The original idea was to take notes for my fifth year of camerawork in Los Angeles. I gave myself a Five-Year Plan when I relocated here and the plan stated that I would give Hollywood an honest five-year shot, after which I could reconsider my career and my life in LA. But I would not quit prematurely, so stated the Plan. And I agreed. After four years of awfulness there was no real future in sight--it was succeed or fail by the end of that fifth year. And this was the ticking clock that would give the book its "urgency."

Unfortunately, things rarely work out cleanly and I continued to labor on awful low-budget productions that were just slightly better than those I worked on before. My friend Ard (who disappeared in India 8 years ago) always said that Marx's Revolution of the Proletariat would never happen because it didn't take into account the Man and his masterful ability to engender the illusion of forward movement in the minds of the exploited. Similarly, someone was telling me how video slot machines use these same psychological responses against gamers: video slots create the illusion of forward movement (last turn I only had one cherry, now I have two cherries, now I have two bars) while still robbing players of their money. It feels like you are getting closer to winning--that you are making progress--so you continue to play and lose. This is how I felt at the end of my year. I was working on films that were marginally better...enough to make me think there might be a future...and to continue playing. But in the overall scheme of things I was still very much a loser and an even bigger loser because I neither became a smashing success nor a miserable failure. I just continued on, same as it ever was. And I was an even bigger bigger loser because the book project languished and then died. The act of working on the book became a daily reminder of my foundering career. As my career languished, so did the book. They were very much connected.

So I quit the project as that fifth year came to a close. I think about it at times but it's essentially dead and buried, which is too bad because I was three-quarters of the way through a first draft and there is a lot of great tragicomic messybaggy material in it. About a month ago Middlebrow suggested that I pick it up again and finish it. So I've been thinking about it more and more. The structure of the thing would need to be reenvisioned because the immediacy of the Five-Year Plan is long over. Over the last year I've managed to drag myself out of that low-budget world, thank God, so that in itself is kind of a happy ending. But I still resist delving deep into that world again, even just revisiting my old notes. I don't think I have a psychological barrier to this period (although one of my friends certainly thinks I do); it's just a matter of choices: do I want to spend six months getting an ms together or do I want to use that time productively on something new?

Last Tuesday I went out did B-camera on "National Lampoon's Trick or Treat," a comic pre-adolescent horror movie destined for direct-to-DVD sales. I recognized two-thirds of the crew from those Dark Times. The production manager, the script supervisor, the boom operator, the gaffer and two electricians, the key grip and three grips, some production assistants--these people have not graduated from low budget. They are still there, slogging away, barely making minimum wage, working fourteen hours a day, getting yelled at by hacks, expecting and receiving and accepting the Perpetual Beat-Down that is low-budget filmmaking. It was nice to see all of these people but they are stuck there and may never get out. They have to take the work if it comes their way--they can't not work, you know? And my persistent, low-level complaining about the work conditions didn't exactly improve morale (or the conditions), if you know what I mean.

So part of me wants to revisit this time and create a big strange book out of these experiences. But another part wants to think it was all kind of a bad dream. I want to put those years in a little wooden box and throw away the key, just like William Hurt in that underappreciated masterpiece, "The Village." Maybe I'll go on a hike or take a swim in the ocean or learn how to cook something for a change. I can think of a million things to do besides complete this manuscript. Then why do I feel guilty about leaving it undone?