Essays

My Favorite Indie Film Clichés

On April 13, 2009, In Essays, Movies, Work, By LisaT

It’s only been a few days since the arrival of my Netflix Roku Digital Player and already and I am well on my way to viewing on all the movies I’ve been meaning to see since missing them in the theaters, as well as catching up on old favorites.

Now that I’m working from home full-time again, I’ve come full circle…on a variety of levels. When I first started at SocialiteLife.com, I sat at a table in my kitchen/dining room/office in my studio apartment in Hollywood to write my posts. After a stint working in an office, I have returned to my roots and am back in my apartment, where I blog from 9 to 5, so to speak.

I’m a much happier Office Monkey, since I am happiest when I’m allowed to roam cage-free. And I’m also reminded of my first favorite job ever. It was at the local video store in Richmond Hill, Georgia. Before Blockbuster had infiltrated our little southern town, I spent the the summer before my freshman year of college watching videos behind the register while bartering free movies for free pizza with the kids who worked at the pizzeria two shops over.

That was when I first became obsessed with movies and got into my head that one day, I’d maybe like to have a job that had something to do with the making of them. And now, I’ve recommitted myself to Los Angeles and am remembering what it is I love so much about films, storytelling and…bad independent movies!

There is a special place in my heart for those low-budget flicks from the 90s and early 2000s with high aspirations of gaining notice on the film festival circuit and, of course, teaching us a lesson. Of course, I do love really good independent movies, or mainstream films with independent tendencies but even the best of them are guilty of at least one of these independent film clichés. So let’s dive right in, shall we? Here they are, in no particular order:

1. Elvis Presley: This guy is one of the most consistent indie film staples I can think of. A character obsessed with The King invariably turns up at some point, whether it be a cameo by an impersonator simply passing through, or a major plot point in the form of a journey to Graceland. In a pinch, Frank Sinatra will counts as a serviceable substitute.

2. An in-depth discussion of an iconic movie/television character: An independent film director, especially a bad one also credited as writer of the piece, is always looking for an opportunity to show off his encyclopedic knowledge of film and television history. A conversation between the main characters, often over a poker game or some other such activity around a table most convenient for filming circular POV longshots, gives the director a chance to engage in some witty banter that shows off his or her ability to place big and small screen history within the context of current popular culture.

3. The South: This is a much beloved setting for independent filmmakers, especially those who have never spent any time there. In the world of indie film, the southern United States is a collection of ramshackle shanties and all-night diners and if you’re not a protagonist toiling in a dead-end existence that usually involves you wearing an apron while dreaming of a better life “far, far away,” then you’re probably said protagonist’s abusive/alcoholic father or husband. Other familiar characters include a wise older black woman or man offering sage advice at opportune intervals, a slutty but entertaining waitress or barmaid with large hair and/or a best friend who died in some sort of tragic accident years ago.

4. A bungled heist: The characters plotting a “big job” range in competence from hilariously inept to just plain unlucky. Their attempt to plot the perfect crime usually involves strategic planning, fast talking and enlisting the help of a certain dangerous, older ally. The level of violence escalates, the more competent the criminal. These guys LOVE quoting the Bible for some reason.

Granted, there are probably many more that I’m missing, but I’m pretty confident in my assertion that these gems constitute the backbone of bad indie film. Oh yes, and we love discussing relationships, the meaning of life, quoting Nietzsche and/or allusions to the French New Wave when we are bad indie movie makers. Keep in mind, though, each one of these clichés once started as a fresh idea. It just takes some serious digging to find out when that actually was.

Tagged with: Film • Independent Film • Indie Film • Movies • Reviews

Hollywood and My Seven Year Itch

On March 27, 2009, In Essays, Family, Finances, Friends, Relationships, Work, By LisaT

Coming up this September, I’ll be celebrating my 7th year of living Los Angeles. Our relationship has not been an easy one. Of course, we did start things under awkward circumstances.

I headed out here shortly after graduating from college, mere months after my dad’s death, still not completely sure what exactly I was hoping to find across the country from my family. Purely coincidentally, I signed the lease to my first apartment on September 11, 2002. Good times.

This wobbly start notwithstanding, I dove headfirst into figuring out how to go about attaining that television writing career that seemed so incredibly out of reach. Two years, I believe was the amount of time I estimated I would need to decide if this path was worth pursuing.

It was around that time that my now ex-boyfriend and I broke up. We had moved out here together and in hindsight, I was tagging along more than actively deciding that Los Angeles was the place where I needed to be.

But it’s a testament to my resolve that I had by that point decided that yes, I was going to have a go at this rather than take our split as a good excuse to move back home and in with my mother who still halfway jokingly reminds me that she “could always renovate the house to add on a guest home for, oh I don’t know, anyone who might ever need to come live with me.” Me, her only unmarried daughter who doesn’t own a home.

Yes, I did opt to remain in Los Angeles but I found myself behaving like a noncommittal boyfriend who was sticking around until something better came along. Sure, we could enjoy each other’s company as long as things stayed light and nobody pressed me about any long-term plans. To be fair, L.A. doesn’t exactly make it easy. High prices, traffic and the constant circulation of people moving to and from the city often gave me the impression that living here, I would never be any more than an ant carrying a giant leaf on my shoulders from cubicle to cubicle. My fickle mistress was beautiful but demanding, keeping me away from the family I loved, who was living so far away.

Not so many weeks ago, in fact, I was feeling so disconnected and homesick that my daydream of returning back to Georgia to pursue a more modest, but less soul-sucking existence pervaded my every thought. My nieces and nephew were growing older every day and even though I was returning back every Christmas (and at least one other time a year, usually), there were milestones passing me by that seemed to pile up next to me like bricks in a wall. I was miserable.

Very recently, however, the tide has turned. Certain specific pressures have been alleviated with clever solutions. (Yes, I’m being vague on purpose.) My life has regained the rhythm it once had two years ago, after a series of disruptive events, and it dawned on me that much of this pressure was something I had placed on myself. Instead of setting healthy boundaries, I was allowing myself to exist in a dysfunctional relationship with Los Angeles. With my dream job dangling above my head, I was hypnotized into believing that I couldn’t say no. But then wonder of all wonders, I did start saying no. With every “no,” I shook myself free of the fear that was ruling my life and making me resent the very place had once represented hope for me.

When I started to think about what I would be leaving behind in the event of an exodus to Georgia, I began to imagine for the first time what it would feel like to be homesick for Los Angeles. Not so much the city itself, but the life I have here.

The other night, I sat on the couch in the livingroom of my friend Dan, with our friend Meredith as we watched Melrose Place on DVD, eating the pizza we had ordered spur of the moment. I told Meredith I was planning my first vacation in almost six years. “Do you know when the last time was I took a vacation? When we all went to Hawaii? That was six years ago.” Meredith laughed and shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe how long we’ve been friends now,” she mused.

“We” who went to Hawaii consisted of four relatively new friends of mine, Ilana, Meredith, Lisa B. and myself. Since then, Ilana has moved into Lisa B.’s apartment, and then it was bequeathed to me, where I sit as I type this. Lisa has moved back to NYC and Meredith is living with her boyfriend to whom she is now engaged. Sitting on the couch while someone was pushed into the pool on the TV screen while wearing a wedding dress, it dawned on me that I had a history here now. Even though the items contained in my one-bedroom apartment were few, up and leaving would be a lot more difficult than I had fantasized.

That would make this the part of the story where I got down on one knee for this city of mine, since, as you may have noticed, I’ve decided that I’m clearly the man in this relationship. But, true to my role, I have decided that perhaps the fact that we’re practically almost common-law at this point and that I’ve all but explicitly promised not to leave in the middle of the night without leaving a note should be enough.

(Just to be clear, that is a fake Emmy I’m holding. For the time being.)

Tagged with: Los Angeles • Work

The Best Policy

On March 24, 2009, In Essays, Family, Friends, Relationships, By LisaT

Of course I’m guilty of little white lies like everyone else.

A slight exaggeration of traffic conditions on the way to an appointment is par for the course, especially here in Los Angeles. There are also the tiny lies of omission I commit on a regular basis, like biting my tongue when dinner conversation turns to the merits of any Kevin Smith movie aside from Clerks.

These half-truths don’t weigh on my conscience. But there’s something about having to fake an emotion that makes me sick to my stomach.

Networking! Making Connections! These are the nonsensical slogans told to every bright-eyed newcomer looking to break into the well-guarded fortress of the Entertainment Industry. For me, this meant canvassing the town with my resume and attending an occasional awkward mixer, where unemployed strangers exchanged business cards all bearing some variation of a handful of templates from VistaPrint.com.

After a few years, I learned that this “networking” process didn’t have to be as insidious as it appeared. I didn’t have to fake being friends with people just to advance my career. I’d never been one to chase after a boy I liked, so why would I start acting desperate now?

In fact, the older I get, the less willing I am to flash a fake smile or take the bait of someone fishing for a compliment, even if the individual’s method is the metaphoric equivalent of tossing a stick of dynamite in a pond. It’s a dance, really, skipping around leading questions with a one-two-step of quippy remarks or any other such deflection tactics. Granted, I could just tell the truth. But I’m still too lazy to engage in those kinds of conversations when I can avoid them altogether. That’s why I tend to limit them to my most highly-valued relationships.

There’s a freedom that comes with this revelation. Those facial muscles reserved for feigned interest are on a permanent vacation. Energy that isn’t wasted on pretending to be something I’m not can be better spent on other activities, like clipping coupons for my favorite brand of ice cream.

When my mother turned forty, I remember how she excitedly informed me she felt as if a weight had been lifted because the constraints of worrying what other people would think had been removed. And now that I’m nearing thirty, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should be considered an advanced placement student in this subject.

Tagged with: Essays • Family • Friends • Relationships

Babies, Biological Clocks and Battlestar Galactica

On March 5, 2009, In Essays, Family, Finances, Health, Kids, Relationships, Work, By LisaT

When I reached the age my mother had been when she gave birth to me, I felt—as most people do—a sense of shock. Twenty-four years old was far too young to have a child! Even more distressing was the fact that at the age of twenty-seven, my mother and father were the proud parents of three little girls. At that age, I was living alone in my studio apartment in Hollywood without health insurance. My boyfriend and I had been dating for about two years and the only way a baby would have factored into my life successfully would have been if the child had agreed to live in my walk-in closet and split the utilities. Clearly, I had chosen a vastly different path than the one followed by my parents.

I had always suspected that I wanted to have kids. At my father’s funeral, I realized this suspicion had developed into a full-blown assertion, but with no particular time frame in mind. At the age of twenty-four, I was still job-hopping and in the midst of a breakup that probably should have taken place shortly after graduating from college, but which dragged on out of comfort and familiarity. But I WAY DIGRESS. It was when I realized that yes, I did want to get married (to someone…eventually) and have babies with whomever that may be that it hit me. Holy crap, I thought, it might not be ticking, but the existence of my biological clock had been confirmed. The feeling was much like discovering a vital use for my tonsils or spleen—one that had previously not been made obvious to me.

My mother and I have had long conversations about the choice I’ve made to pursue a career first vs. starting a family first. As a woman who became focused on her career full-time only after she had raised her children, she looks at the benefits I enjoy as a result of my youth and independence with a twinge of envy. As a person whose grass isn’t necessarily as green as it appears, I am quick to remind her that the stability of the family life I eventually plan on pursuing is as of yet out of reach. Sacrifices have been made on my part as well, as a result of my ambition.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually quite happy with the way my life has played out. As the only unmarried daughter, I found myself taking on the role of an only child in the households of both my younger-but-married sisters as well as my mother’s. I’m not expected to own things like patio furniture, matching plates or gravy bowls and I take full advantage of that fact.

But back to my original question: How does this whole “biological clock ticking” thing work anyways? When would I know when I was ready to procreate? My mother can’t provide much insight because she’d already popped out three kids before she’d even had a chance to let her clock wind up. Before we were born, she thought she’d like to try having pet monkeys in preparation of committing to taking care of some human babies.

As a total nerd, I like to imagine it happens much the way that the four of the final five Cylon models discovered their true identities. One day, you have this song—much like a lullaby—that echoes in your head over and over until you realize that the original mission you set out to accomplish is pretty much null and void. With a new directive in mind, you either try to find a way to reconcile your previous trajectory to accommodate your new goal or you toss your ass out of the airlock.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Stylin’ and Racial Profilin’

On February 23, 2009, In About Me, Essays, Television, Work, By LisaT

One of the first jobs I ever got after moving to Los Angeles to pursue my big, bad dream of writing for television was that of a television extra. All it took was a simple trip down to the Central Casting offices one afternoon to fill out a brief survey and have your picture taken and the following day, you could start calling the phone lines for casting information.

This would be the first time since filling out scholarship applications that my Hispanic heritage would come in handy in a way that I could measure monetarily. Often mistaken for Jewish, Italian or occasionally in Glendale, a tall Armenian girl, I practically needed to carry around a picture of my Colombian-born mother in my pocket to convince people that I really, truly was a first-generation American, bonafide Latina. The fact that I’m too embarrassed that my Spanish is less than fluent to attempt to speak it with anyone outside my family also doesn’t help. Oh yeah and neither does the name “Lisa Marie Timmons.”

I realized that attempting to book myself for both white and Hispanic and sometimes “other” gigs would increase my chances at getting work, i.e. my ability to pay my rent. So that is exactly how I ended up getting arrested on The Shield twice.

It wasn’t too often that I’d have to take advantage of my “ethnic flexibility,” but it did come in handy when I noticed that certain jobs weren’t filling up as quickly as others. For example, when I phoned in about the gig looking to hire “cholas, 18 to look younger,” my phone call surprisingly went through on the first ring. “Trust me,” I said when the casting agent hesitated after pulling up my picture, “I really am Hispanic and when I put on my clothes, jewelry and makeup, it will look good.”

The next natural step was, of course, getting on the Internet to research what exactly a “chola” was. I wasn’t from the West Coast and grew up on an army base in Germany, where we had one channel for nearly ten years. Most of the other Latino kids on base were Puerto Rican, many of whom sported colored contacts and severe highlights. Luckily, Google was already being widely used and I had plenty of black eyeliner.

I woke up that morning, dutifully ironing creases into my boyfriend’s borrowed khaki pants, applied my make-up and whipped out all the jewelry ever given to me by my Abuelita since I had turned thirteen. With my hair still wet, I ran some gel through my long, brown, naturally wavy hair and carefully applied my makeup, which consisted of lots of carefully drawn black lines.

The hustle and bustle of getting ready had kept me preoccupied so that it wasn’t until I was driving to the set location that my nerves started getting the best of me. This was Los Angeles, full of real Mexicans—some of whom were real cholas—who would probably take as kindly to me, a posturing half-Colombian “white girl” stealing jobs that should rightfully be reserved for them and theirs, as less recent immigrants to this melting pot of a country often exhibit towards migrant workers from south of the border. At least I felt a little better knowing I had no ambition of actually becoming an actor, which for some reason, made my current employment seem less permanent, and therefore less presumptuous.

Upon my arrival, I was instructed to head to wardrobe, where I was asked if they’d given me my clothes. At least I had done my research in the fashion department. A quick stop to hair and makeup resulted in the addition of a little more gel and a few more black lines, but apparently, I’d done a good job. For once in my life, I looked convincingly Hispanic enough so that someone walking down the street might actually speak to me in Spanish, which would be an unique experience. I felt a glimmer of possessing my specific cultural identity by embracing a stereotype that was somewhat universally recognized. At least it was easier than walking around with a bunch of fruit on my head, leading a burro by my side as he carried huge sacks of coffee beans.

Walking toward the other girls cast for the scene, I noticed that they were darker-skinned than me and possessed decidedly more native South and Central American features, with their sharp cheekbones and enviably (well, to me, at least) flatter noses. My honking schnazz of a nose hung in the air like a red flag signaling my European ancestry and I felt my anxiety slowly returning.

“Oh my GOD! You look amazing!” one of my cohorts blurted out once I introduced myself. I smiled shyly, “I’m actually half-Colombian. I wasn’t really sure what to wear, so I just put on my boyfriend’s clothes.” Her “valley girl” accent became more obvious as she continued talking, “I know, right? I had no idea what to wear! I had to look it up on the Internet. I mean, I’m Mexican, but I’m from Fresno. I don’t know what a ‘chola’ looks like.”

And with that, I smiled and felt an immediate kinship in our shared identity of ethnic confusion.

I’ve always held that declaring your pride in your heritage, however removed the connection, is a very tricky practice because it means that you should also be prepared to bear the burden of the sins of the very people you’re attempting to venerate. I prefer to use it as an anthropological tool, a cultural context. Like how my boyfriend of Irish-German descent thinks it’s insane that my ears were pierced at 3 mos. of age. Maybe it’s because I wholeheartedly embraced the “melting pot” concept from a young age and from having lived overseas, that I’ve realized first and foremost, I’m an American.

Once in Germany, a fellow pupil of mine at the off-post high school I attended as a guest student—a German boy—told me that he wasn’t surprised to find out that I was American because “all Americans look alike, except the movie stars.” Back then, I bristled at the comment. But now, I just laugh. Because maybe it’s true and that’s why everyone tries so goddamn hard to become famous. Perhaps being famous has managed to become the ultimate coveted minority identity in the United States. Or maybe I’ve just been working in the entertainment industry for far too long.