(The Last Blunder is a humorous weekly serial detailing the making of a true independent filmmaking catastrophe. I hope all of you who read along find it entertaining and can relate to it to some degree. The names of the participants have been changed. Any comments, suggestions, compliments, or criticisms can be sent to damianATkaverasfilmDOTcom. Enjoy!)
The Last Blunder: Chapter 9 by Damian K. Lahey
Things proceeded smoothly in the world of The Last Blunder for a couple of weeks. Biff was taking care of getting the grip, electric, and camera packages together. Curley Blonde had taken care of the locations, and we assumed Shifto had taken care of the casting. We weren’t going to be meeting any of the principals anyway. Studs and Billy had faded into the background and Salami was thankfully busy getting the costume department together. Morrison, our D.P. and for all intensive purposes, our director, was bearing the brunt of Spankenstein’s ever increasing retardation. If I knew they were going to be at my house working through the script, I’d hang out at my favorite local dive bar and wonder what I was doing with my life.
Yep. Things were going well. Then I started getting phone calls, increasingly angry phone calls from some of Spankenstein’s clients from his wedding video business. He’d fallen off the face of the earth they were saying. They couldn’t get a hold of him. On his home answering machine was our number, so that’s why they were calling. One afternoon a gentleman called and said that the video he’d commissioned from Spanky was supposed to be his daughter’s wedding gift. It was two months late. I made the mistake of telling this aggravated father of the bride that it was really none of my business. He responded by verbally tearing my head off and saying that he demanded either the wedding video, his money back, or he was going to sue Spanky. He was also an attorney.
I hung up the phone rather irritated. This was trouble from Spanky in a form I hadn’t expected. I picked up the phone and called him. He sounded high and plastered when he answered. He told me it was Suzy Midriff’s 18th birthday. She was finally legal. Whoopee. I told him to come down to the office immediately. I wanted to take care of this while Biff was at the rental house sorting out some financial details. I didn’t want him to know this was happening. I also wanted to put a stop to those phone calls. I didn’t need production assistants playing the answering machine and coming across pissed off clients from Spanky’s floundering videography business.
Twenty minutes later while I was updating our crew and contact lists, Suzy Midriff came into the office all dolled up in a flowered dress, wearing heavy makeup, her bosom bouncy and sweaty - the southern birthday girl in full. Spankentstein followed behind her, blushing with hickeys all over his face and neck. The bottom of his shirt was sticking out of his fly. I guess they’d been out in front of the house doing it in his car. I’d told my assistant production office coordinator she wouldn’t be needed for the day and was grateful I had. Suzy said it was time she and I buried the hatchet. I told her I had no hard feelings and really didn’t have time to deal with her anyway. She said we should do a shot. I told her she needed to go back outside to the car and wait for Spanky.
I let Spanky know about my phone conversation. Spanky acted surprised the guy called the production office. I reminded him that our office number was on his answering machine and he had no excuses. I gave Spanky the opportunity to explain himself. His story was that he had to put the film first. He had no time to take care of work and The Last Blunder. It was too much. I knew how Spanky spent his time. Or rather, I thought I knew. I thought he spent it working on his wedding videos, getting stoned, and porking Midriff. But I was wrong. Not only was he slack about his own production, he was also woefully negligent when it came to his job and his own personal upkeep. He was freaked about the possibility of a lawsuit, though. He agreed that we couldn’t have that happening while trying to make a film. He would have to pay back the money. He couldn’t, of course. Spanky needed to pay rent. Spanky needed car repairs. Spanky needed weed. There was only one option and Spanky knew it all along. It would have to come out of the budget. I told Spanky he needed to pull it together and cut the guy’s video together. That was all there was to it. Spanky hadn’t even digitized the footage. He was helpless. I underestimated him, though. I thought he was afraid enough of Biff to go ahead and cut the thing together and take care of it like a man. But he just didn’t give a shit. He leaned back in his chair and said fuck it. It was money he’d raised and he would do whatever the fuck he wanted to do with it. To a certain degree, he was right. We already didn’t have enough money. What was another a couple grand? I told Spanky I wasn’t going to take the fall for it. He was fine with that. Officially, the conversation would end with us deciding to wait until meeting with Biff before letting Spanky take out any money. After he left, I didn’t feel bad for very long. I finished what I was doing and left the office early for the first time since we’d started.
(I want to thank everybody for reading and hope you continue to read as the misadventures of The Last Blunder continue next week…)
When I wake up tomorrow morning, it won’t be Toronto dreamin’ anymore. I am hours away from hopping on a plane and embarking on the exciting mission of attending my very first Toronto International Film Festival. Please be sure to check out Hammer to Nail (as well as @hammertonail at Twitter) for updates, of which there will hopefully be many! See y’all mofos in Canada…
It’s been almost three months since the smoke began to clear, and in this fast-paced times, it feels even longer than that. So long, in fact, that the whole After Last Season “phenomenon” had begun to feel like a weird childhood dream. Or maybe this is still the dream? Either way, this news is big indeed. Mark Region’s After Last Season is coming to DVD on September 30th. Visit the film’s official website to watch a fittingly bizarre trailer.
For the first time in over five years, I am currently staring at a big fat balance of ZERO.ZERO-ZERO on all three of my credit cards. While I knew this moment was going to happen this month, having just hit the “send” button on the final payment, it has now become an actual-factual-concrete-cement-physical reality. The noises outside my window—cicadas, distant sirens, leaves rustling in the breeze—all sound a touch lighter all of a sudden. I made a commitment to myself at the beginning of 2008 that I was going to return to my old responsible behavior, which was mangled into disregard when I made Cocaine Angel and Silver Jew. Independent filmmaking—if you aren’t inherently wealthy, that is—breeds forced fiscal irresponsibility. It’s funny, though. Part of me feels like now that I’m back at ground zero, I’m ready to take the feature plunge once again. But that isn’t going to happen until next summer at the earliest, which is just fine by me. Peace out, debt!
Pitchfork has reviewed the first single off the new Ola Podrida record, Belly of the Lion, which drops in November on Western Vinyl. I’ve had my hands on Belly of the Lion since early spring, and have played it so much that I overloaded on it (it is, without question, my most played album of 2009). That’s okay, though. When the time comes for its official release, I’ll be ready to rediscover it all over again.
Speaking as objectively as possible, I’m happy to report that Belly of the Lion is as good as, if not better than, David Wingo’s debut. The album comes out right around the same time as Jared Hess’ Gentlemen Broncos, for which Wingo wrote the score. It’s shaping up to be a pretty stellar fall for David Wingo and Ola Podrida. As for that single, “Your Father’s Basement,” you can listen to it by clicking on the link above. Any pop/indie rock song that name-checks Eric B. and Kool G. Rap without a hint of irony, with 100% sweet, nostalgic sincerity, has my automatic pledge of allegiance, but even removing that from the equation, this is a lovely ode to 1980s adolescence. Listen to it. And get ready for Belly of the Lion. It’s without question one of the year’s best.
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