I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to decide whether the title of this post should be “The Resurrection”, “Return of the King”, or “Why the Universe is a lot like the Internet”.

I like the second one, so I think that will be it. Now the post -

It’s been a while. I know. But I’ve been away — That’s my excuse.

The truth is, however, that I’ve been back longer than I had been away.

I’ve tried to write something since my return, but everything I write reads like shit. Maybe I’ve lost my — what’s that thing that writers have? — whatever it is, it’s now gone. Or maybe I never had it in the first place.

- That’s a thought.

Now I don’t intend to go all neurotic on you. I trust myself, more than anything. Yes, even that weird looking psychic chic at the corner shop. I don’t trust her one bit. After all, she was the one that told me to trust myself. Cow. I trust her too. It, I guess. I don’t know. Milk is good though. Except if you’re lactose intolerant, in which case – not so much. Bummer.

But then, there’s a fine line between trusting yourself and Vanity.

Pride and Prejudice.

Arrogance and Dance.

They’re all nouns. But in the vastness of the language ballroom, there’s that invisible thin line which “Dance” crosses at the end night, after the fat lady sings, to become a verb; Arrogance doesn’t dare. You might find him after, having beer with his friends saying things like “Nouns are the superior beings in language”, forgetting that he couldn’t have uttered that sentence without the help of, say, a verb. Which begs the question, doesn’t it make me sound arrogant, implying that I’m a king by naming this post “Return of the King”? But then, do I care?

Now that’s indifference, an undesirable quality for a leader — especially a king. Which makes this entire post, a lie. Being that I only aim for truth, I must refrain from using such false titles.

It’s sad how many lonely characters of the alphabet I’ve brought together these past few weeks that gave birth to words that unite to breathe life into brilliant little sentences, only to suffer gruesome deaths because they couldn’t work together as a paragraph, a blog post, or a goddamn chapter in the non-existent novel I’m not writing. Whatever happened to the dream of the kid who wanted to write just one true sentence? What kid? Exactly!

I figured the longer I wait, the worse my writing will become. So why not just come all out and suck write here, write now. Or something slightly less graphic. Point is, this is me at my absolute worst. Why do my dirty laundry in public, you ask? Because I don’t care. Yeah right — I guess that’s also the reason why I keep emphasizing how terrible this is; how I’m actually way better.

Maybe.

I guess only time will tell.

So I saw this One-Page Screenplay idea on MovieLine.com and decided to give it a short. And this is what I came up with -

Basically, it’s a cross between Rian Johnson’s One-Page Screenplay and the Opening Scene from Sam Raimi’s Army Of Darkness. Much love and respect to both guys

So I just saw “Here. My Explosion…“, the latest feature from indie filmmaker Reid Gershbein. The film can best be described as being a pseudo-mumblecore feature.

It’s about Sera (Eleese Longino), an artist who has a weird relationship with coffee. Or more accurately, coffee cups from which she’d drunk from. The empty coffee cups make magical things happen to objects around them, when she’s not watching. Yes, I think the basic concept is new and fresh too. And I like new and fresh

So the film basically revolves around how this “magic” affects Sera, her friends: Tom (Seth Burnham) and Francois (Jeffery Davis). And Francois’s two girlfriends: Lil (Lee Kuhn) and Tegan (Jennifer Jajeh).

The first thing you’ll notice about Here My Explosion is how over-saturated its colours are. To some extent, the effect works really well. I love how all the saturated establishing shots of the city look with the tilt-shift effect added in post to give the illusion of depth. I also like the wide shots that weren’t establishing. There’s this one shot in the beginning of the film of Francois and Lil walking into his house that stuck in head because of how magical and dreamy it looked.

On the other hand, the over-saturated close-up shots don’t look quite as good. In some of those shots, the skin of the actors look too orange and fake. Other times, it’s not the actors, but an object in the background that’s distracting. There’s this one scene when Tegan and Sera first met that’s like that. Sera was trying to tell Tegan about her art, but I couldn’t concentrate because my attention was being distracted by the hyper-saturated red coming from the flowers behind them.

Why do I call this film a Pseudo-mumblecore? Well, it’s mumblecore because it was shot like a mumblecore film with multiple handled shots, shaky-cam and close-ups that wouldn’t have made sense anywhere else. It’s Pseudo- because it didn’t feel or sound too mumblecore. This is of course a good thing because nothing rapes my ears like the awkward filler-saturated dialogue of mumblecore films. It’s like, you know, kinda like, sorta… Goddamnit! Say something already!!!

Reid knows when to shoot handled and when to keep the camera stationary. He did an amazing job giving the film a “real” feel without being too distracting for the audience. For that, I give props to him. Although, there’s this one scene that didn’t feel right. Sera and Francois were in the car: She’s driving and he’s sitting comfortably in the back seat with no one in the passenger’s side. You don’t see friends driving around like that. It’s just not natural. The only thing missing was a  black suit, and she’d be his very own personal chauffeur.

Let me say it right here and now – I love the theme song. It is simple, yet very catchy. I simply love it. It appears in the very beginning, randomly in the middle and at the end credits of the film.

As for the audio, I have a love-hate relationship with it. At times, it’s clean. So clean, in fact it’ll have you wishing there was more background noise so you can have a more natural sound. Other times, the noise is too bad you’ll have to listen extra hard in order to hear what the actors are saying.

Also, there’s this one scene that was totally silent. Granted, no one was talking, but Sera was moving around and a little music might have helped. The theme-song maybe? Just saying.

Like earlier suggested, I like the dialogue. For the most part, it was natural without being too mumblecore. Everything a character said almost always felt right, with the exception being the ending. I didn’t buy that whole segment with the Colombians.

For the record, I like Sera’s final monologue at the end

Reid did a good job casting most of the parts. I like Eleese Longino, and I think she works really well as Sera. I buy her as an alternative-artist who’s a little confused about life’s little mysteries. Also, she’s beautiful. Really. Don’t take my word for it, all the characters think so too. They all have a crush on her. Yes, you read that right – ALL OF THEM!

Jeffery Davis as Francois the Ladies Man was perfect too. Jennifer Jajeh plays Tegan well enough, and I think she’s very likable.

Two people I have a problem with are Lee Kuhn and Seth Burnham as Lil and Tom respectively. I don’t know if it’s Lee’s fault or Lil the character’s, but Lil is lifeless throughout the whole film. But that’s mild-criticism at best, being that she doesn’t have that much screen time.

My biggest problem though, was Seth as Tom – the multi-millionaire entrepreneur. To that, I say Bollocks! But that’s hardly Seth’s fault. I mean – Does the film need a multi-millionaire entrepreneur in the first place, who feels that he should tell everyone how much money he has every chance he gets? In my not-so-proffesional opinion, IT DOESN’T. Don’t get me wrong, the character can be there. He just shouldn’t go around telling everyone how much money he has. But if he must, then he should at the very least look the part.

In the end, seeing that I love the story, acting, music and the pseudo-mumblecore feel to it, I have no choice but recommend Here My Explosion. If you’ve seen a mumblecore film… or Dogme95… or any non “Hollywood” film… and liked it, then you should definitely see Here. My Explosion. It’s as good a film as any in that category.

Download/Watch HME right now – HERE.

Also, if you like it, follow Reid on Twitter – @thraveboy.

I slowly looked around this dimly lit room. What am I doing here? I thought. Who are these people sitting on tables all around me? They all look the same; with their matching black suits, and faces buried six-feet under an assorted combo of beauty products they saw somewhere on the pages of a fashion magazine, right next to an airbrushed picture of some skinny anorexic model named… whoever.

For a moment, my mind slipped back to an earlier time, two weeks ago to be exact; a dinner party not very much unlike this one. It had a lot less people, yet they didn’t all look the same. “Diversity” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.

The hall is divided into four quadrants, each of which has thirteen or so tables. I am on a table somewhere in the middle of this grand hall, seated with arguably the most normal, or closest-to normal people in a 5-mile radius.

I’m all for people changing and experimenting with fashion; doesn’t matter how outrageous or ridiculous. I’m fine with you wearing anything from Black overalls, to Larry-King suspenders, to tight ridiculous fuck-me pants, as long as you do it for you, and not just because a thousand fucking idiots are wearing it too. I believe your dressing should reflect more who you are, as a person, than where you are at that moment in time.

Maybe it’s because of this Facebook frenzy we’re currently all in. Everyone wants to get the best possible shots of themselves in those over-priced suits and dresses they blew all their pocket-monies on. Because they know that they might never get another chance to wear these expensive pieces of fabric ever again. Well, at least not until one of these events come back around, which, if they’re lucky, might take quite a while.

I remember one particular picture from that other dinner, two weeks ago. There I was, smiling, wearing a red graphic-tee, blue straight-cut jeans and red Converse All Stars. Just your stereotypical average anybody, from wherever. Beside me, on my left, was this guy in a brown business suit, looking very corporate down to his spotless brown leather shoes. He reminded me of that Enron dude from TV a couple of years ago. Next to him, was this other guy, dressed in what I’d like to call the over-sized white-trifecta: Shirt, Pants, and Sneakers, all 2 sizes too big. He was also rocking a huge shiny chain half the size of his head around his neck. All he seemed to be missing was a shiny pistol to match, and he’d be that rapper that got killed in that late night drive-by shoot-out you didn’t see in your local channel’s nine o’clock news. He had his arms around a girl, who was wearing a long pink tube-type dress covered in a multi-colored, mind-bending, hallucination-inducing flower print. Going strictly by our clothes, you would be crazy to think that we would even so much as hang-out together, let alone be these semi-strangers sitting on the same table at the same fucking dinner party.

There is a touch on my shoulder, and when I turn, it is this girl, wearing a little black dress, who might have been beautiful, and who I might have known from somewhere. Jamais Vu. Or maybe it’s just all these layers of make-up on her face that are preventing me from recognizing her. She says something, but I didn’t hear because I am looking at her shoes. They are bright yellow, bordering on gold. I guess that is her idea of standing out, being bold.
She wants us to take a picture together. I look at the camera, and for a split second, I zone out. I wonder what happens when this girl puts her legs together and clicks these shoes three times. Definitely not Kansas!

What breaks my heart is the fact that the jackass who shot us doesn’t know the first thing about taking decent photographs. I have all these things in my head that I want to say to the asshole. I know photography isn’t exactly rocket science dude, I’m thinking. But it’s still got rules asshole. Sure, they are not the gospel, but they’re fucking guidelines, at the very least. So for the love of God, just because it’s called a point-and-shoot camera doesn’t mean you can just point to wherever your dick is facing and fucking shoot! This is not the Wild West, and this, most definitely, is not your goddamn bedroom!

The picture from the dinner of two weeks ago was really good though. I was smiling, and everyone, in their own little way, looked great. The girl standing on my right added even more diversity to an already over-diversified line-up. She was wearing a black micro-mini skirt with a slightly smaller strapless top to match her knee high, black leather high-heel boots. Her face looked like something that broke out of a testing lab at a big cosmetic & beauty products company, one you might know from the cover of some fashion magazine you were never cool enough to come across. She was also spotting thick black eye-liner and heavy mascara. She looked like the stereotypical Goth-chick from all the Hollywood movies, if the said Goth-chick was also a hooker in Amsterdam’s Red Light District.

Back at this event, I wonder why some of the people wear these suits and dresses, when they are so very clearly uncomfortable in them. Maybe it’s the delusion that they’ll look stupid or silly if they wore something a little more comfortable and different, which is very ironic, considering that’s exactly how they end up looking: Clueless fucking conformist-sheep! Maybe it’s in their blood. Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe whichever way they went, they would have still ended up looking fucking stupid.

See also: Fate.

See also: Predestination paradox.

It wasn’t until the end of the night when I saw this one guy wearing a white muscle-tee under a sleeveless green hoodie that I started seriously doubting myself. He shattered my belief on fashion, diversity and everything I knew about standing out in social situations. It was the equivalent of being four all over again, and finding out that the whole tooth-fairy thing was all a big fat lie.

He was also wearing faded black baggy jeans to go with his huge grey military-style boots. A thick grey scarf around his neck and a single black gym-glove on his left hand to complete, what I assume was “the look” he was going for. I wasn’t exactly sure what look that was, but if it was the “Uber-Douche” look he was trying for, he totally nailed it!

Maybe standing-out isn’t such a great idea. After all, it was the quest to be different that made the Goth-Hooker chick from two weeks ago wear a crystal white diamond-encrusted wedding gown to this dinner party. Maybe it’s wise to heed the old proverb, When in Rome…

Apparently, I tell my stories in hypertime. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but it may have something to do with my pacing. Maybe how I don’t let one thing sink in before throwing in another. It’s the equivalent of force-feeding a patient on a hospital bed; you might get the job done alright, but at the end of the day, the process isn’t exciting for either of you.

Don’t rush, just because it’s not exciting, doesn’t mean it’s not interesting. That statement just keeps playing back in my head, over and over. I should read it one more time, just in case the one in my head scratches, gets grainy or worse, starts skipping and driving me crazy.

Don’t rush, just because it’s not exciting, doesn’t mean it’s not interesting.

This is my shot at not rushing. This is me writing not exciting, hoping it turns out interesting, even if just a little. Come to think of it, what is interesting? What does it mean when someone says something is “interesting”? I intend to find out.

But first things first, I need to slowdown time.