A Mother's Reckoning: Living In The Aftermath Of Tragedy By Sue Klebold

   

  When murderers casually stroll the halls of a High School, our sympathies are often scattered. Our hearts tend to go out to the victims who have been killed or maimed and their families. We ache for the community whose sense of security and well being has been badly shaken, possibly for years to come, and we mourn for ourselves.  We constantly ask "why do things like this keep happening?" Whenever one of these real-life horror stories happen, we feel sorry for ourselves almost as much as we feel sorry for those directly affected, because we know, in our heart of hearts, that those who were killed could just as easily have been people that we love, or ourselves.

  When the murderers strike so heartlessly against others, there are people who usually escape our sympathies while getting a full blast of our resentment. The family of the murderers. There is an impulse to lay the blame at the feet of the people closest to the killers.  It's an understandable reaction, particularly if the killers have ended their own lives, and are not alive to face the consequences of society. Those consequences are often delivered to their families and they serve as punching-bags by proxy. When a community is so deeply wounded, the impulse many people have is that somebody has to pay. And since school shooters are usually wayward youths, the most direct recipients of vitriol from the citizenry are the parents. They raised the monster, so they had to know what was happening, right?

  Sue Klebold, mother of Columbine Murderer Dylan Klebold, (I am usually against sharing the names of mass killers, but I think in the case of the Columbine murderers, the proverbial cat is out of the bag at this point, and it would be impossible to not share it here.) has a different point of view to share. She had no inkling that her son was up to anything sinister. From her point of view, her son was the same person he had always been leading up to April 20th, 1999.  He was irritable, and could get annoyed, but by and large he was the same loving person she always knew.

     Once the murders happened, she would spend years trying to make amends with the families of the victims and try desperately to reconcile the gentle-hearted, kind son she had known with the blood thirsty killer who had helped snuff out thirteen innocent lives, before turning his gun on himself.

   It is a tale of a raw grief so intense that Sue and her husband, Tom would often wish for death. Not only did they have to mourn the son they had lost, and the people he had killed, but the community who had opened their arms to the victims of the families, turned a cold shoulder to the Klebold family. Sue doesn't resent Littleton for their snub; she would have been enraged if the tables had been turned on her son. But it didn't make her grief any easier.

  The book is ultimately many things; It's a heartfelt apology to the people affected by Dylan's crimes. She makes it clear that she had no idea what was happening, and had she the opportunity to trade her life for the victims of Columbine, she would gladly take it. She can not turn back time, so the best she can do is try to make amends for something which can never be fully resolved.

  It is a brutal exercise in hind-sight. Sue pores through her recollections of the last years of her son equipped with both the knowledge of the murders and information she has gleaned from the many mental health (she calls it "brain health") experts she has spoken to and cited in the book. Previous innocuous-seeming events are given a frightening new significance. Klebold goes through great lengths to explain how she perceived things when they were happening, so we understand why she didn't try to stop her son; She just didn't know. She readily admits that she believes had she interpreted the events and things Dylan had said in the actual context that they were happening, and not through her own point of view, she could have prevented the massacre from happening. And that is something she lives with every day of her life.

  The book is also a road-map. How she went from a pariah who wished for death to someone willing to step forward in society, wanting to live again.  It's like an inversion of His Name Is Ron, but instead of an innocent victim, it is about a killer. She hates what her son did, but loves him nonetheless. A balance she thought she may never have been able to master without an accrued understanding of what happened at Columbine and inside of her son's mind.   If you want  to see a mass murder from a perspective we almost never hear from, I suggest this book. Sue Klebold will buy your sympathy and it is richly deserved.  A fascinating book, worth the read. A.

Runners Late: The Never Completed Movie- What's up?

Zack Shannon (L) and Alan Burrell (R) as
 Steve and Gene in Truffle Runners

   The last night of principal photography for my film Truffle Runners took place on the night of October 14th, 2015. It was a session that lasted into the wee hours of the following morning, almost two years ago. Unless you've been paying close attention, (which, let's be honest, you probably haven't) you probably cannot believe that it has been that long. "Wow. What has taken you so long?" You are probably asking. Well, dear reader, I'll tell you.

   First, there was a matter of securing a workable rough cut. A rough-cut is exactly what it sounds like. An ugly, patchy, premonition of what the film will eventually look like. An unrefined, unpolished look at what we can basically expect a film to look like. Nowhere near the final product, but a suggestion of it.  After the rough cut is done, work continues on editing; Switching out one take for another, making visual alterations on clips to make them look better, cutting out small fluff to make the scenes flow better- that is a process that goes on after the rough cut is done.  A rough cut is a skeleton of a film. And though you may not get the impression from my description, it is a coveted benchmark for a filmmaker to reach. It took many months to achieve, but I finished my rough cut over a year ago and have been slowly picking at it ever since.  "Your rough cut is done, and you are still not finished? WHAT is your major malfunction, Private Crenshaw?"

Three letters. A.D.R.

ADR?!?!?

  Unless you're a high-brow cinema aficionado like myself who prefers their foie gras to be positively drenched in creme fraiche, you're probably busily scratching at an itch through your moth-eaten ten year old Tommy Hilfiger tee-shirt with a bemused look on your face. Perhaps you think I have begun typing satanic chants through my blog? Perhaps, you think, you are destined for an eternity of darkness simply for having read those dreaded letters, "A.D.R."  Rest assured, you are not damned. I will not resort to devil-talk on my page. No sir, no ma'am. Not even in Trump's America. Not now, not ever. Never! That is the Geoff Crenshaw guarantee.

There will be no Devil talk in this blog.

 
    A.D.R, stands for automatic dialogue replacement, which, if you ask me, is a misnomer. Not the "dialogue replacement" portion, but the "automatic" part. The process is anything but automatic.  It entails several hours of making some poor actor or actress repeat their lines into a microphone as they watch their on-screen counterparts saying the same lines with relative ease. It's the process of an actor or actress trying to recapture a moment exactly as they had executed it in the past. In the case of my actors, two or more years before. Here's an experiment for you- draw a circle. It doesn't have to be perfect. Have you done it yet? Good. Now draw another circle, exactly the same way, right on top of the original circle. The presence of two drawn circles cannot be detectable to the eye. Pretty difficult, huh? Well that is almost exactly what A.D.R entails. Why do we do it?
 
     We do it for any myriad of reasons. It could be deficient sound quality in the original take. Or, maybe, it is a shifting tone in the ambient background noise of two different shots that no amount of post work can correct.  If a line wasn't recorded adequately, or if we didn't have a sound-person on hand for a scene, I go through with the A.D.R process. Now, I am not here to besmirch the names of two great sound men, Tim Kahn and Pierce Locurto. (Two men I readily endorse and would use again based on my experiences with them.) They simply were not always available to do sound for my film. So where they weren't around to pump up my film with their mad skills, I have to pump up with ADR and Foley (sound effects)

   For myself, I was surprised to find the actual A.D.R process isn't too terrible. It's just a tad time consuming, if  a little boring. For the actors/actress of Truffle Runners, the paraphrased opinions run a wide gauntlet. From "This is fun," to "This is necessary," to "This is tantamount to forced castration."  I have sympathy for all three opinions. A.D.R doesn't have the same creative energy or glamour that on-location work does.  (Though make no mistake, shooting a film is hard work. If you're doing it right.)

  Imagine you are an actor who spent a great deal of a scene hyperventilating while delivering a great deal of dialogue? Probably slightly tiring on location, when the scene was being filmed. But trying to replicate the exact breathing patterns while also replicating exact speaking patterns and delivery? Over and over?!?!?  The celebrated thespian, and the noted singer of the instant classic Assholes Are Forever, (Find it online, if you can)  Alan Burrell found himself in such a quandary. I looked on as the brave soldier panted his way through the ADR session, much like a thirsty dog. Sweat gathered on his fevered brow, as he panted line, after breathy line. As the session went on, I began to fear for Al-Pal's health. (One of my many nicknames for him.) I called for more breaks than usual, and when he said he wanted to be done that day, I didn't argue. Had we persisted with A.D.R, I had a vision of him placing the back of his hand against his forehead as he swayed in his chair like a mighty palm tree in a hurricane. Then, in my mind's eye, he would have crumpled to the ground, like a beleaguered daisy, just as Scarlet O'Hara did in Gone With The Wind after she witnessed her beloved daughter Bonnie Blue Butler fall off a horse to her death.  Anyway, I do believe Alan was within fifteen minutes of doing the Scarlet O'Hara faint.  Can you imagine that? Poor Alan probably slept in an iron lung for a whole week after that.

Poor Scarlett O'Hara after witnessing the death of her
beloved daughter Bonnie Blue Butler.
How I imagine Alan would have been if we kept
up on his heavy-panting session of ADR.

  While most A.D.R sessions are not quite that exhausting to the actor, the are very time consuming and can get to be a drag. Watching yourself and listening to your self over and over and over, when you are an actor- I imagine, can become an activity conducive to feelings of self-consciousness, no matter how great the performances are. (They are great.) The average ADR session can last anywhere from between three to five hours. Each session typically fills up a scene. Maybe two if we're lucky. And scenes that need ADR, need it from all of the on-screen participants, which ends up taking an amount of time I don't care to do the math for right now.  But the actual process of recording A.D.R is a looooong one. Particularly when, in cases like ours, the film will have at least 70% of the dialouge A.D.R'd.   Fun stuff!

    Frankly, my least favorite aspect of A.D.R is also my least favorite aspect of the photography process of film-making; scheduling. Though when you climb upon the dragon of film-making, you know that scheduling will be a beast that you will have to slay. But it is truly the most exhausting part of the job. As a filmmaker, I like to be as hands-on as possible, dipping my fingers is as many aspects of the process as I can- writing, camera work, directing, editing, and as much as I dread it, when the wheels hit the road, in an emergency, I can handle post audio-work alright. I come to set knowing exactly what I want (except for blocking, which is figured out at the location) and I do my best to convey what that is to the actors and various crew members who may be on hand.  But despite my desire to have control over my projects, there is one responsibility I would gladly relinquish; the responsibility of scheduler.

   I would want my designated scheduler to be someone equally determined to finish the film, but less intimidated by the Goliathian obstacle that is the scheduling of actors. I would show up on set when the scheduler worked out the shoot date. Then I'd go home and edit the scene and just wait for the next shoot. Oh, that would be heavenly. But that blessing hasn't befallen me yet. I've spoken to other filmmakers who have confessed to me that this process has sent them into various anxiety-induced modes, not limited to insomnia, shaking, or a body-crunching fetal-position. (Waking up out of a dead sleep to run to the bathroom to vomit was my modus operandi during a particularly hectic period during the shooting of Truffle Runners. Three times in one week.) I'm not trying to beg for sympathy, or imply a desire for it. But I want to convey how scheduling can make film-making, particularly low/no-budget film-making,  seem like the act of carving Mount Rushmore with a toothpick. When you are shooting a scene, you can need anywhere between one person (which makes scheduling mercifully easy, if crew members are also on board.) to three or four or five. Which makes scheduling a bloody nightmare. Four or five actors means four or five people with their own personal lives with their own social engagements and obligations. Navigating those to find some days or nights of filming that is suitable for everyone, is a bloody nightmare.

  Scheduling for ADR isn't quite as bad as it is for the photography portion of it. But it's still frustrating. Let's face it. Life still gets in the way. And the changing landscape of life creates new geography that demands different navigation that what we had grown accustomed to in the past..  Zack Shannon, one of the sensational leads in the film landed a job and moved east to Pendleton.  Pendleton, Oregon, while still in the same state, is nearly three hundred miles away from the Truffle Runners' home base. This severely complicates his availability to finish his A.D.R. But don't worry. We are determined to find a way to complete the work.   Other participants are all within a reasonable traveling distance, but, alas. They still have their lives to deal with. Lives replete with the obstacles, obligations and limitations of any regular life. Being in the movies, even ones made by Dual Engines Production Company *shameless plug* don't spare you from the grind of everyday life.  I am lucky, damned lucky if I get each of them once a month. Sometimes it can be two or three months. In Zack's case it is usually more.

West Ramsey works on his A.D.R for Truffle Runners. 

  I hope that explains adequately, the reasons that Truffle Runners wasn't released a long time ago. Hey, the silver lining is that three of our actors, West Ramsey,  Jordan Yaroslavsky and Calvin Morie McCarthy have finished their A.D.R. (Though I may bring a couple of them back at some point for some minor re-dos) I have fervently hoped that I could score a release before we exit the year of 2017. I'm not certain we will be able to achieve that goal.  With each passing day, week, and month, the specter of a 2018 release looms larger and larger. But I am still clawing for a 2017 release, and I will do so until Ryan Seacrest does his typically tepid permanent Dick Clark pinch-hitting gig and rings in the new year. If that happens, I won't like it, but I will deal with it and give you the film on the other side of the ball-drop.

   It may be immodest of me to say this, but I think Alan Burrell does some of his finest acting in this film (If you don't know who he is, worry not. You will once you see this film, and you will love him.) If you are familiar with him, I think his performance here may change how you look at him. He is not a good actor. He's a great actor, and I am damn proud to have worked with him.  Zack Shannon is great. Not an aspiring actor at all. He's a personal friend of mine who did this as a favor to me. But he stood toe to toe with the "actual" actors in the group and held his ground perfectly, and if I may say so, delivered his own excellent performance. Myra Wicks is incredible. She can conjure any emotion, mild or extreme, within a minute. It seems modest to call what she does "acting" rather than what it seems like; sorcery. And, again, I am immodest. But I think West Ramsey does some of his best work in this film too. And with his track record of over fifty films, made over the last ten years, that is a mighty feat. But every time West appears in the film as the gangster, Harvey Millikin, he will absolutely capture your attention.   And let me not close this paragraph without acknowledging a powerful influence on the film: my producer, and good friend, Sir Benjamin David Eastman. The majority of his small influences on the film will not be detectable to the average viewer. His suggestions that reshaped parts of the film will likely fall upon the deaf ears of history, and even my memory, but they will be appreciated by me all the same.  His more obvious contribution to the film is the music. I describe the mood I want, and he gives it to me. Just like I asked for it. Not sure how he does it, but he does it. And the music serves the film well.

 So it may still be a little while before I declare the film to be finished. Once I have all of the A.D.R I need, and all of the Foley recorded and in place where it belongs in the film, I will spend  a little while watching the entire movie obsessively. Over and over again. I'll be looking for tiny flaws I can fix. Anything. I will polish it more obsessively than Mommie Dearest mopping the floor. But eventually, there will come a time when I have to force myself to stop. There will come a time when I have to tell myself that I've done all I can and send the baby out into the world. Once I export the film into a screenable file to be shown at a premiere, later to be plastered onto a DVD, it is locked into history. It's no longer a project. It is  a film. For better or worse, Truffle Runners will be submitted to the judgement of the world, no longer safe  from prying eyes, and criticism. No more changes can be made after that. It is there, a small part of the cinematic public record. The moment when  you decide to make that transition from project to film is a momentous one, just as much as a the first screenplay reading, or the first and last day of shooting, and it is more terrifying than all three of those events combined. I eagerly look forward to it.

  Casually, I refer to it as my film. And I confess, I do feel possessive of it. But really, everyone who worked on it and stuck with it all this time have a slice of ownership of it too. It's our film. All of us have a stake in it, and an enthusiasm to get it finished.  And we will. I can't speak for the others, but for me it will be a welcome occasion. Once the premiere is over, and other possible screenings have been contemplated, and every other aspect of the film is settled, I will get to do what I have wanted to do so badly for a long time; move on and do something else. There are other films for me to make. I have multiple screenplays waiting for me to touch, and I am enthusiastically ready to pursue them. While the Truffle Runners journey has been monumental, it has been a long one. Two previous attempts to make it came before this one, and the time is nigh to turn the page. To bravely step forward into a different, new film. To lovingly tuck the project I so often refer to as "T.R" into where it belongs; safely in the bosom of film history.

(L to R)  Myra Wicks, Alan Burrell, and Me.) 

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes: Lessons From The Crematory by Caitlin Doughty

Caitlin Doughty with a skull
of unconfirmed authenticity

      To describe Caitlin Doughty adequately would be a challenge. However, I think I should give it my best try.  Imagine, if you will, Wednesday Addams grew up and became a kindergarten teacher. One obsessed with death. And dying. One who oozes a macabre aura from every pore, but also speaks in such a way as to not make the little children in her care scream with terror, even though she's quite capable should she decide to turn off the charm.   That, pretty much describes Caitlin Doughty. Except she isn't a kindergartner teacher. She's a YouTube celebrity. And she's a mortician. You may think that's a bizarre combination. And you'd be right. Like a freshly embalmed corpse, she's pumped to the gills with an Addamsian creepy vibe. (I don't think she would find that comparison insulting.) But she's fascinating, and her videos become addictive once you start watching them, because despite the creep-factor, she is also quite likable. 

       I have no idea how I happened to stumble upon her YouTube channel Ask A Mortician . But when I saw the name "Ask A Mortician" in a list of suggested videos in the side scroll bar, I couldn't help but immediately click the link. Then, once the video ended, something unexpected happened. I watched another one. Then another one. Then another one. Her basic gig in the videos was simple. As an experienced mortician, she took on the responsibility of answering people's burning questions about death, and specifically, certain questions about what happens to our bodies after we die. The queries have proven to be fertile ground for Doughty's YouTube career, because the channel has been going strong for six plus years. I have to warn you, some of her videos are not for the faint of heart. 

   If Caitlin Doughty's YouTube channel isn't for the faint of heart, neither is her autobiography, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. It's amusing, it's gruesome, it's horrifying, it's sad, and it's... fascinating. Like I said, it isn't for everyone. It's perfect for someone with an inquisitive mind, and someone who is curious about the goings on of the funeral industry. (Because, who isn't?)  But there is another caveat which should be added; I would not recommend the book to anybody who is struggling with the loss of a loved one. If such a death is preoccupying your mind, it may not be advisable to fill your head with images of certain processes described in the pages of this book.   

   The book is many things. First and foremost, it's a memoir. She began life as a history major. I forget the exact major, but it was something like "the history of Witchcraft in medieval Europe." While a fascinating thing for her to learn, she was disappointed to find out it didn't lead to many job prospects outside of Academia, which is a field she was not interested in. But she did what any bright happy-go-lucky young woman would do; she walked into a crematory and applied for a job. She was basically hired on the spot, and on her first shift, was ordered to shave a corpse.  The next several chapters weave through many tribulations of her career and personal life. Everything from learning through awkward trail and error how to deal with the bereaved, to the time she, horrifyingly, became covered in an unexpected deluge of human fat.   

  But the book isn't just a memoir. It's also a cultural guide. She tells us about the customs of many tribes of the past. One of which used cannibalism to pay their respects to the dead. It was not only acceptable for the tribes to eat the dead, it was expected. I'll spare you further details, because I don't want to ruin the book for you. But you will learn a lot.

      Even more than memoir, even more than a cultural guide, the book is a manifesto. She wants to change how people mourn the dead. She believes it has become too impersonal, and the loved ones of the deceased should be in the room to wash and clothe the bodies of the departed. She thinks that death has become too hidden from our society, and we need to see bodies and interact with them more to remind us that we are mortal, and to help us better mourn the losses of those we love. I'm not sure I agree, but you should read her case for it in her book.  

  In similar vein of activism, she notes that in recent years, the funeral industry has become de-localized. The majority of funeral homes are now owned by a single conglomerate, Service Corps International, more commonly branded as Dignity. I've noticed the Dignity logo on the signs of many cemeteries, and have personally found the branding a tad tasteless. But Caitlin's concerns go beyond the McDonald's like branding of the funeral industry. 

  I suggest you read her book if you think it might be for you. You will enjoy it.   A. 

His Name Is Ron By The Goldman Family (with William and Marilyn Hoffer)

     In light of the recent parole of "alleged" murderer O.J Simpson, (yes, I know he was acquitted for that crime and he was in prison for something else, but come on. We all know he did it.)  I figured I would write a review of the book  His Name Is Ron by the Goldman Family and ghostwriters William and Marilyn Hoffer. The book doesn't pull punches with you emotionally. When you first begin reading the text, we enter the lives of the Goldman family on the day they found out that their beloved Son and brother Ron Goldman was murdered. Their recreation of their experience then and during the following months and years are heart-wrenching.
        Even without really getting a chance to know Ron Goldman at first, the opening pages are terribly hard to read. The sadness and horror of the moment translate so starkly to the page that I couldn't finish the first chapter in one sitting. It was rough medicine to take. All I could think while reading it is how much I wanted to reach through the book and hug the Goldman Family. Moments after Fred was notified of Ron's death, the image of the younger Goldman's face was flashed across television sets across the country. This filled Fred with a new horror- What if his daughter, Ron's sister Kim heard the news over the radio on her drive home from work? Luckily, that potential crisis was averted. But that didn't spare Kim or any of the other Goldman's from intense pain.
      Throughout the rest of the book, we are gradually introduced to the often secondary-in-the-media "friend-of-Nicole," Ron Goldman. We see him through family flashbacks and random stories that pop up through the book.  He was by no means a perfect guy, but he was a good guy.
  One story that stuck out to me was one about Ron when he worked at a home for people with cerebral palsy. He viewed them as human beings deserving of dignity. One day when he was taking some of the clientele out to eat at a fast food restaurant, the frustrated cashier couldn't understand one of the patients and asked Ron to relay the order. Ron looked at the guy, and said "She's right here. Why don't you ask her?"
     Through the book other stories of Ron Goldman come up. In moments where a random thing or song or place triggers a memory in any of their minds, we get to see just a little more of Ron Goldman. A man who lived, and was more than just the supplement to the O.J/Nicole story.
   We are treated to a Goldman-eye view of both the Criminal trial and the Civil trial. Both events are interesting to look at through their vantage point. One deeply frustrating, and one is affirming.
    Though this isn't written in any self-aggrandizing way, I've always thought the Goldmans, particularly Kim and Fred were the only real heroes of the O.J Simpson saga. When the unthinkable, "Not Guilty" verdict happened, they refused to leave well enough alone. Despite calls from ignorant folks with misplaced sympathies for the Goldmans to "leave O.J alone" they have been relentless in their pursuit of justice for Ron, and I think he would be extremely proud of their doggedness. A doggedness that they never violated any moral or ethical boundaries to maintain. (When you read the book, look for the part where Fred Goldman turns down an offer by a dubious gentleman to have O.J Simpson assassinated.)
      Some have made cute puns of their names, (Gold-diggers is the obvious one) to demean them. They claim, as the nickname indicates, that the Goldman family is only after money. Reading this book, I don't doubt for a minute that they would trade the Civil court award money for the resurrection of their lost loved one. I have nothing but respect for the Goldman family, and this book is interesting, heartbreaking, and eye-opening. Most of all, it's a loving tribute to a son and brother they lost too soon.



My only complaint about the book, is it tells of experiences of multiple people, who collaborated in the story but they chose to write the book from Fred Goldman's point of view. So it reads as if he knew the thoughts and inner-motivations of everybody involved. It gives him an omnipresent vibe that strikes me as a little bit... off.  Otherwise, I loved the book and recommend it. A-

Book Review: No Easy Answers: The Truth Behind Death At Columbine by Brooks Brown and Rob Merritt

  

   

   Before the Columbine massacre, Brooks Brown was more or less a regular teenager. By that, I mean he was within the spectrum of what a "regular" teenager is. That spectrum is pretty wide. As he points out in his book, that particular demographic features a wide tableau of independent cultures, which always seem to germinate under one roof; that of the High School. They are young, growing minds each struggling to find their own voice, desperate to stand out against a world that seems homogenized and indifferent to their concerns. In the incubator of high school, where everybody is struggling to find out who they are, identity experimentation expands far and wide in groups which are self-segregated according to tastes in activities, attitudes, and preferences in pop culture. These groups usually seem to vary as thus: The athletic jocks, the trendy and popular preps, the band geeks, the wallflowers, the dark and moody goths, and the rebellious punks. In some schools the lines of these groups are blurred to a point where everybody can get along with each other, regardless of how you identify yourself. In other schools, these lines are nearly as clear and rigid as those between warring factions. Columbine was the latter. As a young man who seemed to feel pushed into the margins of scholastic society by aggressive jocks, and athlete-worshiping faculty who turned a blind eye to their bullying, Brooks seemed to fall into the last group- the rebellious punks.

 Falling into place with Columbine's other outsiders, Brooks found himself in the company of other people who felt bullied and marginalized by the society they grew up in. Two of these people, who I feel uncomfortable mentioning by name, would go on to pull off what was at that time, one of the most terrible crimes to pierce the public consciousness. These kids would go on to be lionized by TIME magazine as "The Monsters Next Door."  Their crimes would serve as a template for other unstable people, as future murderers would end up citing them as their inspirations. Faced with the sheer brutality and heartlessness of the killings, a shocked nation seemed to think that nothing could have stopped the killers from bringing down the rain of death on that Colorado High School. Brooks Brown and his family knew better.

  A year before the tragedy, Brooks became embroiled in a heated and prolonged battle with one of the future murderers of Columbine. This person, feeling burned by Brooks took to his website and unleashed his vociferous and unrelenting rage into the relatively new forum of cyber space. This rage included threats to murder large groups of people. He wanted to "kill everybody," and as an afterthought, "Brooks Brown." The specifying afterthought is ironic, because, to my knowledge, Brooks Brown would be the only person specifically spared by the murderer that day.

   At the time of their discovery, long before the massacre, the Brown family submitted copies of  the webpage to local police. The officer assured the family things would be "taken care of."  When the murders happened, the local Jefferson County police department  claimed that there had been no red flags. No warning. They said nothing could have been done to stop what had happened. Brooks and his family disagreed and publicly refuted the department, granting several media interviews saying they had handed the them the information the killer had posted on his website, and asserted their belief that if the police had adequately investigated the threats, the budding stockpile of arms and pipe-bombs would have been discovered, thus preventing the massacre. Humiliated by this, Jefferson Country Sheriff John Stone went on TV and publicly named Brooks as a suspect in the Columbine murders. 

    As Brooks became a public pariah, he had to face perhaps one of the greatest struggles of any of his living uninjured classmates, He had to juggle living with crippling grief and heartbreak while navigating his ostracization from the rest of a deeply bereaved community.  Branded a murderer in public, and called out as such by strangers on the street, it became his mission and that of his family to clear his name.  

  The book is many things. It's a story of  horror, as Brooks explains in great detail where he was and what went through his mind as he heard the first shots of the massacre echo across campus, and the state of his panicked mind as he ran for his life. He explains his trepidation later in the day as he spend time desperately trying to figure out which of his friends were alive, and which ones  were dead.  

  It is a front seat  ticket to a disturbing evolution as Brooks offers a hindsight perspective of two mixed up kids slowly becoming bloodthirsty murderers. The book is as much of him trying to make sense of what he feels is the ultimate betrayal by his two friends, as it is a rousing criticism of what he thinks are fear-mongering hypotheses that fall short of accuracy. 

 It is, albeit briefly, a somber requiem for the victims of the murders. He particularly makes note of his affection for Rachel Scott, the first person killed in the attacks. One moment that hits home is how he describes watching one of his friends fall to his knees in tears when he sees Rachel's casketed body after her funeral. The heartbreak  is vividly described, and felt. 

 It is a modern day crucible, as Brooks is named a suspect, and various people in his town either avoid him, or confront him, publicly screaming at him for his part in a crime he wasn't involved in.   The officials pulled so many shady tricks, that are exposed in the book, that it is hard not to feel angry while reading it. 

It is all those things, and it is also an extremely easy book to read. It is 277 pages, and chapters alternate between those written by Brooks Brown, which is a memoir, and those of Rob Merritt, which is more of an omnipotent perspective which draws on interviews with Brooks' parents, and various news stories. The pattern becomes quickly apparent. Once you get used to it, it is a very easy read, albeit dark and heartbreaking at times. You can finish it in a day or two.

 On a final note, many things written on the subject of Columbine seem exploitative or sensational. The killers are often turned into dark folk anti-heroes.  This book gives us a straight perspective, from a guy who spent years close to them. There was nothing special about these guys. They were just bullied teens who didn't have the courage to survive their misfortune. They were cowards who murdered thirteen innocent people before their own suicide and thought it was glory. As Brooks Brown would readily tell you, there was nothing glorious about it. 

 The book is great, and I recommend it highly.

My Thoughts On Greg Sestero's The Disaster Artist

      For many years, Tommy Wiseau's cinematic masterpiece The Room has been the target of much awe from it's fans, even though it had been torpedoed by critics upon it's initial release. This was long before we discovered the charm hidden under the rubble. It is an example of film-making which has gone spectacularly wrong. Only the most rudimentary  elements survive the continuum of the plot; Johnny loves Lisa. Lisa betrays Johnny. Mark is Johnny's best friend. Mark also betrays Johnny. Everybody betrays Johnny.  The movie is terrible.

    Yes, the movie is terrible. But part of what keeps people coming to theaters around the world is the mysterious, enigmatic director.  Nobody knows where Tommy Wiseau came from. His accent sounds like an awkward mixture of French and Eastern European. Yet he's often claimed publicly that he was from New Orleans. Fans have long since called bullshit on that, though it delights us to no end when he repeatedly makes the claim. Even though it's largely unknown, somehow, he managed to conquer the American dream and rise from abject obscurity to make the most notoriously bad film of all time. Yes, it's bad. But it is the biggest cult hit on the scene since the release of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

     You may love the film, as I do. Or you may hate the film with a vengeance comparable to the furnaces of Hell. You would be perfectly within your right. One thing you can not say about The Room, however, is that it's forgettable. It is not forgettable. Stephen Soderberg's Haywire  is forgettable. (Only two months after having seen it, my friend Ben had to explain the entire plot of the story before I was able to vaguely locate it in the recesses of my memory.) Tommy Wiseau's The Room certainly isn't.  

 In fact, much like my grandparents recall the assassination of John F. Kennedy, much like my mom recalls the 1986 Space Shuttle Challenger disaster, and much like how I remember the awful events of September Eleventh, 2001, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the first time I saw the trailer for Tommy Wiseau's magnum opus. I'm sure many other long-time fans can offer up a similar memory. I was in my old house in Beaverton, minding my own business. It was a slow evening, replete with facebook activities. Suddenly, I see the messages icon go red, with notifications. They were adding up incredibly fast.  Puzzled, I clicked on the icon, and saw my friend and comrade in arms Ben Eastman was sending me a slough of messages.  I don't recall them exactly, but it was something like "Have you watched the link I sent you?"  "You need to watch it."  "Watch it RIGHT NOW."   "NOW!"  "DO IT!" Okay, Ben. Cool your jets.

     I scrolled up through the twenty or so messages that Ben had just sent me in a matter of ten seconds, and found the link, and I clicked on it.   THIS is what I saw.   As my mouth was hanging open from disbelief, the only thought I could find in my head was "I have to see this film."

     And I did. I couldn't stand it the first time. But it slowly grew on me. I've had the honor Tommy Wiseau three times (I am actually meeting him again in a few days when he returns to Portland) I met Greg Sestero once.  But recently, he came out with a book that adequately explains the question that has haunted fans like myself for many years. "What in the hell happened?"

     As a filmmaker myself, the book is an exercise in absolute terror.Tommy makes every decision in a disastrously wrong way and needlessly alienates his entire crew. Though even with the terror, I have never read a book which made me laugh more. I've rarely read a book as touching as The Disaster Artist.   Yes, it's blunt. It's harsh in it's criticisms of Tommy Wiseau. It mocks him, and repeatedly points out his inadequacies with relish. However, much to my astonishment, even with all of the anecdotes that reflect very poorly on Tommy, it also manages to be a totally loving tribute to a man who has somehow captured the imagination of millions with a complete disaster of a movie.  

     Another remarkable feat of the book is it sheds light on many of the mysteries that have surrounded the film since it came out. It answered many of the questions I had, and vanquished much of the mystery. Yet it somehow only enhances the experience of The Room. There is no diminishing of the experience even with the book's revelations.   It's not a cheap, dubious celebrity tell-all. It's a truly wonderful book, sure to lift your spirits.

Tribute To A King- Eight Years Later

  Eight years ago today, April, 17th 2005, was one of the worst days of my life. I didn't know it at the time, but I would find out the very next day. It would be one of the most emotionally devastating moments I would ever experience. And there is little doubt that it changed my life forever.
   

   When you are a kid , and you leave behind your home and everything you've ever known, it can be a very intimidating experience.It is true that the Beaverton/Hillsboro area is only about fifty miles north of Keizer, where I had lived and gone to school before. However, when you’re twelve years old, fifty miles might as well be five hundred. I only moved once as a kid, but I remember arriving in the new town, and what it felt like to be a stranger in the midst of other kids who seemed to have established connections already. When you are a stranger in a strange land, and you’re shy by nature,it is your prayer that somebody in the faceless crowd of people will step forward to hold out the olive branch of friendship. As it turned out, Joe was that person for me.

   It was at Brown Middle School during the first week of seventh grade in 2002. I was at my locker getting something for a class, when this giant came up next to me. He was at least two inches taller than I was. That wasn’t something I was used to at the time. People always made comments to me about how tall I was, so to see someone who was even taller was a bit of a trip. He introduced himself, and said he had recognized me from thebus. I shook his hand, and he asked if I wanted to be his friend. I accepted.

            Over the next two and a half years,there were many memories I had with Joe. I wish I could list them in order, but the passage of time has made that a very difficult thing to do. I remember one awkward situation, where I was in the most pathetic version of a Mexican standoff in history with some punk who lived in my neighborhood. It was a kid who went to school at the Beaverton District, (Joe and I were patrons of the Hillsboro school district and the center of my Neighborhood was the cut-offline)   Joe and I had been hanging out that day, with me riding my bike, and Joe on foot. We were by the park in my old neighborhood. The kickstand on my bike kept coming loose and falling off,so I had to pick it up and carry it with my hands.   I don’t know what his problem was, but for some reason, this little douche on the bicycle had a brick, and was threatening to hit me with it. I thought he was just screwing with me for his amusement,but I wasn’t totally sure, so I used the only object I had as a deterrent for him, and the only means I had to defend myself- my bicycle kickstand.  I remember Joe was about five feet behind me,barely hiding his amusement at the spectacle.  That kid and I were no more than ten feet away from each other. He kept brandishing the brick as if he planned to throw it,and I was, in self defense, doing the same with my kickstand. I was consciously aware at the time of how ridiculous I looked, but I sure wasn't going to take a brick in the face without trying to protect myself.   For most of the time, Joe was just standing there, laughing his ass off at the pathetic display that was unraveling before him, until eventually he got tired of it. He had no brick, and he had no kickstand, but he just rushed the punk,and yelled “Get the fuck out of here!” and the little twerp dropped the brick and rode his bike in the opposite direction as fast as he could.  He turned around, and I’ll never forget the look of absolute joy on his face- both in his achievement in getting the kid to leave, but also in the ridiculous stand-off he had witnessed. We shared a riotous laugh.

            Then there was another time when I had planned on just hanging out, maybe we would play a game on his PlayStation 2, or ride our bikes. Joe had other things in mind. He  wanted to swim in the inflatable pool in his back yard.  I had no trunks with me, so I just removed my coat and shoes, and took out whatever I had in my pockets and climbed in wearing my usual clothing of Jeans and a T-shirt and socks. (Why not,right?) After getting used to the temperature, Joe characteristically decided to roughhouse. He came up to me, and started dunking me under the water over and over again. Joe was a really big guy, and it was difficult to over power him- then he pushed me under the water and held me there for a while. I tried to get to the surface, but he wouldn’t relent- I knew he was having a grand time. He finally let go when I reached up and started pushing down the edge of the pool as hard as I could, and water started spilling out. He didn’t want me flooding his backyard.  When Joe heard his mom’s car pull into the driveway, he quickly ushered me away and told me togo home. Apparently he wasn’t supposed to have people over that day. (Sorry,Denise. I didn’t know.)  I just remember walking home, and leaving a ridiculously huge trail of water behind me. 

            Joe and I would occasionally tease each other. I could not resist going for the obvious joke almost every time I saw him, and it pissed him off to no end. When I would see him, I’d walk up and always say “You must be Joking!” (Joe King), or some variation of it. When he didn’t get pissed by it, he would retort with “Hello, Geoff Mackey”, Mackey being the surname of my then-stepfather. It was one of those stupid inside jokes that only amused us.

            During Eighth Grade, there was a contest during lunch. It was a game of Tug-of-war. This version of it was performed on the stage in the cafeteria, and it was a one on one match. When a person was toppled, there was a line who would try to beat the winner. Large buckets were turned upside down, and participants were to balance on them with their knees, while also trying to topple their opponent. Joe decided to participate, and I witnessed one of the most impressive reigning championships I can remember. He kept grinning as he toppled student after student, teacher after teacher in quick succession. He was a thirteen year old kid toppling his peers and elders as easily as they were dominos. Joe was undefeated. Well,almost. At the very end of the match, the school custodian, Wally Lira, a very big man who I thought looked like Morpheus from The Matrix decided to take on Mister King. When their match started, I could see Joe was straining to hold onto the rope, even as his bucket was shifting under the pressure. Two titans of Tug-of-war were in an ultimate showdown. And after a minute, Joe’s bucket gave way, and he was on the floor. He was smiling and laughing.

            I remember in high school, he was clearly getting bored in class. And he started bucking his desk backwards,while neighing like a horse. The front two legs lifted off of the ground. I found it hilarious but the teacher did not. After he did it several times, and after the teacher warned him many times, he finally stopped, and turned to me, with an excited look on his face. “Hey Geoff, do you know I can make battery bombs?” He took two double-A batteries and spent the rest of class rubbing them together, and under his desk, trying to turn them into “bombs”.  Honestly, there was never a dull moment with that guy. That was one of my last memories of seeing him before he died.   


       He had moved away to Deer Island three months prior. He had been in a fight at school, and I think he had been expelled. He had a track record for getting into fights. Joe was a great friend to have, but he wasn't perfect. He had a bit of a temper. When we would walk home from school, one of his favorite things to do was punch the mail boxes we passed on the street. I remember stretches in middle school where I wouldn't see him at school for weeks at a time.  I'd spend time wondering what could have happened, and when he came back to school, he let me know he had been in a fight. His fighting extended into Freshman year of high school, and before long, Century sent him packing.
  He found new stomping grounds in Deer Island, Oregon, and attended school at St. Helens High. One evening, when I was busy working on homework, the phone rang.It was Joe. Mom told me to try to keep it short, because I needed to finish my assignments. Joe and I spoke for ten minutes or so. I asked him how he was doing, and he said he was doing great. He told me how much better he thought St. Helens High School was than Century. For one thing, Unlike Century, St .Helens had an open campus. If he wanted to, he could go to Taco Bell for lunch.He wasn’t just confined to cafeteria food like he was at Century. In his opinion, the girls were “much hotter” than those at Century, and he said he thought most of the girls were even hotter than the girl who had been the target of his affections for a few years. He loved how polite everyone was at his new school, and he said he would be happier going to school there.  Mom came into the room, and told me to wrap up my conversation. I told Joe I had to leave, and he gave me his Deer Island phone number. He suggested I visit him sometime, and I told him I would talk to him again soon. Unfortunately, neither event ever took place.
            Just less than a week after our final conversation, on April 17^th, 2005 Joe and his family agreed to help some of their friends in Deer Island move. They piled into a white 1985 Subaru station wagon and hit the road. Unfortunately, one of these roads was long and very curvy in a heavily wooded area. To make matters worse, there was a torrential downpour that day. To my knowledge, I have never met or spoken to any of the survivors of the accident, but I remember hearing the details on the news.Canaan road, is a road in a very forested area of Deer Island. There are many curves on that road, and unfortunately, the geography of the area is such that installing guard rails would be a very difficult task.  In several areas, the road runs parallel to  very steep forest embankments that go fifty to a hundred feet down, with only tall, thick pine trees to break the void. As the driver brought the car toward that fateful curve of Canaan Road, it must have hydroplaned. As the car approached the edge of the embankment, he tried to turn the steering wheel in vain. The car would not turn.  The brakes were totally useless.  Nothing the driver tried worked, and as the Subaru went over the edge of the road, all four wheels left the ground. The car was flying through the air.  I have no idea how this happened, Joe must not have been wearing his seat-belt  but somehow,mid-flight, his body came between the top of the seats of the car, and the ceiling, right before the car struck a tree,  and ricocheted sending the car flying once more- top first- into another tree. Everybody in the car was safe- except for, and because of one person.
   Joe was sandwiched between the ceiling of the car, and the top of the seats. When the car struck the second tree, the roof caved in on top of Joe’s body. His body provided enough cover to protect everyone else from the crushing force of the roof. He continued breathing for several minutes. His father must have been nearby, because he made it to the crash site, and down to where Joe was. I am not sure, but I think he was conscious at the time, but he had broken his neck, and he was unable to speak.  I heard that Joe’s father told him how much he loved him. A few moments later, while in his father’s arms, Joe left us.
  

    The next day I was in Jag Read, it was 25 minutes out of the day where students would meet in a designated classroom and read books. It was abolished after my Freshman year. I was reading a book and half eavesdropping on a conversation one of the teachers was having with a student.Mostly, I was focused on the book I was reading. Then during the conversation,like a bolt from the blue, I heard the teacher casually ask a girl in my class, “Did you hear about Joe King? He was killed in a car accident this weekend.” I felt a sudden, unyielding freezing feeling run through my chest and into my extremities. The kind you get when particularly awful news comes to you. “Yeah,he died this weekend.” I was frozen. Absolutely stunned right there in the middle of class. I couldn't even move for a couple of minutes.  When I was finally able to get up, I went over and asked the teacher if I could leave to get a drink of water. It was an excuse. Being the macho-man I am, I wasn’t going to ask if I could go outside to cry my eyes out. He said no. Absolutely upset, and kind of pissed at the rejection, I went back to my desk, The other teacher, the lady, spoke to him a sI was sitting down. The guy who had turned me down just seconds earlier, said “Actually,Geoff, why don’t you go get that drink?” The lady teacher gave me a kind smile.She had my back. I’ve always been grateful to her for that. The man, on the other hand, was an insensitive prick. You shouldn't have to overhear someone else's conversation to find out your best friend has died.

    When I made it out to the hallway, and I saw nobody was around, I lost my composure for a few minutes. I leaned against the wall to catch my breath. When I finally gathered enough strength, I went to the front office of Century, and called my mom to pick me up. She came and took me home.

  Even though Joe had been gone from Century for over three months, news of his death spread through the school like wildfire. I did not want to go back under the circumstances; I just wanted to stay home.But I also realized I was still alive, and I could not stop living just because Joe had. People knew of my friendship with Joe, and because he was such a hot topic at school, they decided to ask me a whole bunch of questions about him.  I didn’t mind answering them, it actually helped with my grief and anger, though I did get annoyed at the ridiculous questions. “Did Joe die a virgn?” I don't know. He was fourteen years old. What do you think? “Do you think your last phone call with Joe was his way of saying  goodbye to you?” Are you actually asking me if I think Joe knew he was going to die? I sincerely doubt it. We made vague plans to hang out again in the future.Despite the idiots who asked those questions, most of them were nice to answer,and the temporary school-wide obsession with him was surprisingly very helpful to me in dealing with the loss.

I never had the impression that Joe was a particularly popular kid, but I remember being touched by how many people showed up to his funeral service. The auditorium at St. Helens High was pretty full. On stage, there was his casket, and just across from it there rested a giant throne, clearly symbolic of his last name. In the throne, there were a few of his belongings. That day, I didn’t have it in me to go up and speak for him, (Today was the first time in eight years that I have said anything publicly about him) but everyone who did speak said glowingly nice things about him. The most beautiful part of the day, in my opinion, was when all of the guests, one by one, came forward, and laid red roses on his coffin lid.  When everybody returned to their seats, the view was beautiful. The sad wooden box on stage was transformed into a gorgeous hill of roses, illuminated just perfectly by the state lights so the red rose mountain appeared to be glowing.  When everyone else was in the main hallway outside of the auditorium, I returned one last time. The coffin was closed, but I touched it one last time to say goodbye to my friend.
EPILOUGE-  When Joe died, he saved four lives.  Had he remained in his seat when the car went over the ravine, I have no doubt he would have died anyway, but under those circumstances, the others would have gone as well.  Despite my own obvious reasons for wishing he had stayed home that day, I know his presence is the only thing that kept his co-passengers alive.  Even though his death at age fourteen was a senseless tragedy, I take comfort in the fact he didn't die in vain.  Whether by his own intention, or if he got the short straw of fate,he saved the lives of four others including a seven year old, and Joe died a heroic death.  I miss him terribly.