Somehow I made it to the Burbank airport in the morning. I stared at the DELAYED notice above my flight for about 15 minutes before I realized it meant I was going to miss my connection in Dallas which meant I was not going to get to Champain, Illinois in time for the screening of Delirious.

Unless I took a cab to LAX and caught a different flight. Which I did. Which cost me. Which got me to Champain at about 10:30 pm. I was starving. Loreen, my local liaison at the festival, took me down Main Street trying to find one of the 30 pizza joints/bars still serving pizza. Champain is a college town. The local merchants have discovered that after 10 pm college students don’t need to eat; they need to drink.

On every corner stood huge clots of kids wearing matching yellow T-shirts which declared, “Tuesday Night Bar Crawl!!!” Some of them were already crawling. Loreen finally found a place on the outskirts of town that was just shutting down but because the manager knew her he would heat up a couple slices for us. We were the only people in the place. As we plowed into our soggy Gutbusters I felt like I was in a Coen Brothers movie directed by David Lynch. And that was before Loreen informed me she believed in God because of sunshine and because she’d already seen 3 flying saucers in her life.

The following morning I found myself on a panel along with film critics Richard Roeper and Lisa Rosman, the actor Rufus Sewell (Cold Comfort Farm), the director Bill Forsythe (Local Hero) and several independent producers and directors. The subject of the panel was, “The State of American Independent Film.” As I looked out over the audience I wondered if at the last minute the festival had bussed in residents from a local retirement home to fill the seats. Everyone was at least 65.

But the discussion was spirited and lively. Several people lamented the fact that independent filmmakers were having such a hard time in the current blockbuster climate. A question was directed to me about how to cope with this catastrophe. It could have been the powdery residue of my recent evening at Tregor’s that prompted my response:

“I’m not sure I understand why independent filmmakers  automatically feel they should be welcomed,  protected and nurtured like some helpless, holy babies. I have tremendous sympathy for anyone trying to make a more personal kind of film but filmmaking is an intensely competitive profession. If you want to succeed you have to fight. You have to earn the right to be a filmmaker. No one is just going to hand it to you. And no one cares if you make a movie. No one cares if you don’t make a movie. It is entirely up to you whether you do or you don’t.”

Several of the more senior members of the audience nodded their silvery heads in knowing consent. Or they could have been just nodding off. Then a woman in the audience stated, “I’m 78. I have some money. I hear your stories of needing cash. I want you to know I’m ready to invest a sizeable sum in a film.”

The rush toward her after the panel ended slowed when it was revealed her sizeable sum tapped out at $150. Still I felt a great admiration for this septuagenarian trying to help the Cause and I wondered if there was any way I could get my hands on that $150 so I could cover the cost of the taxi fare I’d spent from Burbank to LAX.

At 1 pm Delirious was to screen at the festival’s ornate Virginia Theatre. The place was packed by the time I arrived. I learned only then that Roger Ebert would not be there. His wife Chaz told me his health issues prevented him from traveling. She then asked me if I would introduce the film myself as Richard Roeper was running late.

I hadn’t planned on this. I was intending to just sit and watch the film before the Q&A afterwards. It wasn’t until I walked onto the stage and looked out at the audience that I realized what I would say.

“I made a vow to myself and to Roger that I would not discuss any of the distribution nightmares that plagued Delirious. In fact, it is entirely due to Roger that I am here. In my darkest hour I wrote him an email with 5 questions. We had never met. In the email I expressed my confusion about what had happened to my film and to my astonishment Roger wrote back and answered every one of my questions in detail. It was a huge help to me in a very troubling time. I’ve seen performances and screenings dedicated to people and I’ve thought to myself, how silly. How can you dedicate a screening to someone? Well, now I know how you can. This one is for Roger.”

It was a dream screening. The laughter was so intense and abrupt huge sections of crucial dialogue were drowned out. Afterwards I went on stage with Richard Roeper and Lisa Rosman. We all received life-sized golden statues of Roger Ebert’s upraised thumb. I weakened and broke my vow.

“I know just where to tell my distributors to stick this,” I muttered into the microphone.

The discussion with Roeper and Rosman was sharp and astute. At one point Roeper noted his admiration for Steve Buscemi’s performance. I told a story about how just before a take I’d whispered a direction to Steve, suggesting he use some of his feelings for his own father. During the next take Steve broke down.

It is one of my most cherished moments in the film. As I came to that part of the story a huge swell of emotion suddenly gripped me and I had to fight to keep from bursting into tears. It took me several moments to resume. Everyone saw it. No one said a word.

Experiencing this in front of over 1200 people is more than a little terrifying.

But this is not the first time it has happened with Delirious. I thought about it afterwards and I realized why this deep well of emotion keeps following at my elbow. There isn’t a single frame in the film that I didn’t pour my soul into. Creating something is as close to immortality that we get. It’s the creation itself that is eternal; not the fame. And it was my life up there.

When the Q&A ended I lingered outside the theatre for a long time, just kind of walking back and forth in dazed exhaustion. I sensed the presence of Roger Ebert everywhere. The same spirit is in every one of his reviews, whether written or televised. He loves movies. He loves to share his joy with others. His film criticism is never nasty, self-absorbed or mean-spirited. If he likes something he tells you why. His openness and generosity clearly affected everyone at the festival.

At that moment I said to myself, “This is probably the last time Delirious will screen in front of an audience. Nothing could have given me a more rewarding closing experience.”

Just then my cellphone rang. A strangely familiar voice snapped me out of my state of dreamy rumination.

“Yo, T. Wassup.”

“Tregor?”

“Yeah, bro. What’s goin’ on?”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Hey, I’m in Surveillance. Gettin’ a phone number’s easier than buyin’ a cheeseburger. And what’s with all the fuckin’ questions?!”

“I’m just kind of surprised to hear from you, that’s all.”

“Well, get over it. I got some good news. You know that particular “issue” we discussed?”

“What issue?”

“You’re startin’ to bug me, T. I’m talkin’ about the “issue” we discussed on my balcony less than 36 fuckin’ hours ago.”

It all came crawling back like some sick, yellow nightmare. Tregor’s laugh crackled through the phone with a harsh spike of static. “Payback, bro. Now you remember?”

At that moment Richard Roeper and Lisa Rosman walked by, both waving in peaceful, new-found solidarity with me. My return wave was feeble and distracted.

“What did you do, Tregor?” I asked finally when they’d passed.

“I told you I had your back, T.”

I lost it. “Goddammit, Tregor! If you did any bodily harm to those guys at Gestation–!”

“Oh, shut up, T. What do you take me for; a moron? You think immona risk more carceration for you? Fuck no. There’s thousands of different ways to extract payback besides swordal mutilation.”

“What did you do?!”

“You wanna know what I did?”

“Yes!”

“I snuck into Arnold’s house and put catshit in a pair of his shoes!”

I couldn’t speak for a long moment. “Tell me you’re kidding,” I managed finally.

“No!” Tregor blurted in delight. “See, it’s like I told you, T. The Plan is we don’t do one big thing. We do a bunch of little things and just keep doin’ ‘em. On and on, for years. We never let up. I got a million different idears.”

“You put catshit in Arnold’s shoes?”

Tregor was so excited he was panting into the phone. “Fuckin’ genius, right?! Imagine him tomorrow. He gets dressed; he’s all set to put in another day as a typical Hollywood asshole. He sits down, puts on his shoes and BAM! Their fulla catshit!”

His sudden bleat of laughter was so loud I had to pull the cellphone away from my ear.

“Can you imagine that!” I heard him cackle. “Payback, bro!! Sure feels good, don’t it?! And there’s a lot more where that came from!”

“No, there isn’t, Tregor!!” I suddenly shouted. Rufus Sewell glanced up at me in startled surprise from an interview he was giving 50 feet away. “There’s no more where that came from!” I hissed into the phone.

Now Tregor was silent for a moment. “What’re you sayin’, T?” he stated quietly.

“I’m saying, that’s it, Tregor.”

“You chickenin’ out?”

“I’m telling you it’s over. You hear me? I never asked for your help. I don’t want it.”

“You goin’ solo?” he sneered. “You’ll never make it.”

“Yeah? Well, I know this much; whatever those guys at Gestation did it’s not going to change a thing by putting catshit in their shoes!”

“You’re right. Dogshit’s better.”

“No, man! Nothing!”

I heard Tregor breathing softly into the phone. “You don’t want my help, T?”

“No.” I winced, then took a deep breath and said it. “I like you, Tregor, but I don’t think there’s any need for us to speak to each other again.”

The phone was quiet for a long, long moment. Finally Tregor said, “Oh, I don’t know. I think you’ll be hearin’ from me, T.”

And then he hung up.

The Doors documentary is slowly slipping into shape. Every day though is intense. I’m trying to keep track of a hundred hours of footage in my brain, sifting through it over and over to glean the richest pieces. And the brain doesn’t shut off when I turn out the light.

Thankfully, things have been quieter over here on the weedy side of The Loftes. I’ve found that working out for an hour when I get home helps me sleep. Yes, The Loftes has a Fitnesse Centre too. Usually the place is empty when I get in there around 6:30. That’s why I was surprised to see a guy in a white track suit smashing some weights around last night when I walked in.

I was still on edge from another notice I’d received from the Management that morning:

Dear Tenants, all are invited to a special evening with Capt. Rodeo from the 24th Precinct on Sunday near the Cafe Nooke. In light of the recent “incident” Capt. Rodeo will explain proper use of your personal firearms on an individual basis. Muffins and lattes will be served.

That’s why I kept an eye on my gymmate. He was about 45, short and thick with a knotty bald head and a sharply protruding chin. He looked like he might have come from a 1-night stand between Popeye’s father and Bluto’s mother. He did a set of bicep curls with two 50lb dumbells, threw them to the floor and suddenly walked up to me, gasping for breath.

“Hey, dude. I’m Tregor.”

When his hand came up I flinched and almost counter-punched. But it was a handshake he was offering. Nonetheless, when I took it I kept looking in his squinty little eyes to see if he knew I was the Tom who’d yelled out the window for him to shut up only one Tuesday ago.

After 5 minutes I still saw no sign of recognition. By then Tregor had decided I was his new best friend. I told him I’d been studying boxing for 3 years. He said he could tell. We talked about a couple of fights we’d seen recently and then he said,

“I used to fight; bareknuckle in Reno. See my hand? No knuckles. All wore off. I fought 2 minute rounds until one of us coont get up. An’ I’ll tell you, Tommy, many times that person was me.”

As close as we’d become I still didn’t feel totally at ease with Tregor. I kept wondering if Donny had actually told him my name. And I suppose him telling me he’d spent two thirds of his life in “carceration” might not have helped. He said he’d been one crazy motherfucker. He’d shot people, been shot, stabbed, run heroin, sold coke, sold women, lived high, lived low–all his experiences serving only to prove to him that the world was one giant shithole.

“Well, Treg,” I said. “I guess I’ve felt that way too sometimes but you know, life’s not all bad.”

He squinted at me for a long moment. “Yeah, maybe you’re right, T. See, I’ve turned my whole life around now. I’ve got a samurai sword in my apartment. Sharp as shit but I’ve never even used it.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Yep, I got a lot of things goin’ on now. I run my own security company. Called ‘Hey You.’ Every heard of it?”

“No, I’m not really from here.”

Tregor stepped up close again. “See, my current fiancee is in the adult entertainment business. And a lot of those adult stars–chicks now I’m talkin’ about–they get hassled. A lot sick fucks out there, Tom. These dirtbags start followin’ these girls. Stalkin’ ‘em. An’ me, I’m stalkin’ them. See, a stalker never looks behind him. He’s always lookin’ ahead, focusin’ on the girl he’s stalkin’. So I just ease up on him, tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey You–that’s the name of my company–and BAP I give ‘im the tazer.”

“You’re allowed to shock people?”

“You bet yer ass. 250 volts, motherfucker. Then he’s down and I’ll give him one or two bootkicks in the head. Always aim for the ear–that hurts like shit. You should hear ‘em scream. Then I’ll drag ‘em up, look ‘em in the eye and BAM BAM give ‘em a left then a straight right to the teeth  just so they remember me.”

“Wow. Sounds like a pretty intense business, Tregor.”

I was about to start some shadow boxing when he stopped me. He stepped up and peered at me closely. “What apartment are you in, T?”

“399,” I lied.

“Lookin’ over the pool?”

“No, I’m way in the back.” This was true.

He stepped closer. “You ain’t never been in a fight, have you?”

“How can you tell?”

“Your nose ain’t broke. See mine? Broke at least 35 times. I set it myself at least twice. First time I broke it I was between some girl’s legs. Doin’ some conny lingus.”

I stared at him. “And you broke your nose?”

“Yeah. I was into it. You ever done conny lingus?” Tregor asked with genuine curiosity.

I admitted I had.

“Good for you, Tommy. Girls dig that. Bein’ around the adult entertainment business you learn a few things. Check it out. Straight chicks would rather do a muff–divin’ scene with another chick than have to get it on with a dude. You know why?”

“No, I don’t,” I confessed.

“Because they don’t have to deal with a guy’s bullshit. With another chick it’s just lickety-split and then, ‘See you tomorrow, Candy’. With a dude it always gets weird and personal. He’s always askin’, ‘How was it for you, babe? Do you dig me? Was I the best you ever had?’”

Tregor walked away from me then turned back with a weary sigh of disgust. “You see, T? Men are scumbags. All of ‘em. And you know what? Women are too.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I said, “Well, Treg, that kind of leaves out any hope for humanity, doesn’t it?”

This time he stared at me for a full 10 seconds. Finally he said, “You know what, Tommy? I like you. You got a positive attitude. That’s somethin’ I been workin’ on. I’m havin’ a party on my balcony Thursday night. I want you there.”

“Oh, thanks, Tregor,” I said. “But, I’m getting up pretty early these days.”

“Fuck that,” Tregor snorted. “Come by for 10 minutes. There’ll be some ladies there from the adult entertainment business. You won’t be disappointed. Plus, I wanna show you this genuine samurai sword I got.”

Before I could reply he shook my hand and walked out.

Richard Widmark died on Thursday.  I happened to read his obituary in the paper. I was struck by a coincidence. Here’s what the 93 year old actor said about Hollywood;

“The guys who run Hollywood today have no self-respect. What interests them is not movies but the bottom line. Look at ‘Dumb and Dumber,’ which turns idiocy into something positive, or ‘Forrest Gump,’ a hymn to stupidity. ‘Intellectual’ has become a dirty word.”

Here’s the coincidence. A few years ago I wrote down this fragment of a song or poem; whichever I thought would be forgotten first;

Everywhere I look I see
The creep of idiocity.
Dumb and Dumber is the rage
In this sub-atomic age.

This either makes me a cranky old fart or Widmark one hip fucking dude. You make the call. If you don’t know his work you should check it out. He was a very intense and committed actor. Start with “Kiss of Death” where he brings Tommy Udo to snarling life on the screen.

I do believe Widmark is right though. Not too long ago I overheard two wangstas talking on the subway. One said to the other, “Yo, and someone put a swastika all over the dude’s desk. You know what a swastika is?”

And his bud replied, “Yeah, it’s one of those little hats Jewish people wear.”

I shiite you not. It only further convinced me we really do live in a world where stupidity is revered almost as much as breast size. Especially at the movies. Clearly Hollywood believes everyone is a moron. Just look at the imbecilic leaps of basic logic in most Hollywood films. When a plot point arises that makes no sense you can actually hear them saying, “It doesn’t matter; no one in the theater will even notice.”

And they don’t notice. If you happen to mention this to someone who’s just walked out of Lard of the Rings with a hardon, their instantaneous response will be, “Yeah, dude; but the special effects were awesome!!!”

It is as if no one minds that someone has snuck up on them during the movie, cut open the top of their skull and taken a shit in their brain.  But, yeah; Special FX. I love ‘em. They’re right next to Special ED in most high schools.

I don’t believe Widmark is talking about booksmarts. I think he’s talking about the genuine appreciation of learning, the joy of discovering new things. He’s talking about the incredible freedom that comes from using the mind to its fullest. He’s talking about intellect as the key to developing true awareness.

And people are terrified of this. We live in an age where even our own president still says ‘nucular’ while his rigid, quivering forefinger is ready to poke at the button he can’t even read. 

The more I learn about The Doors, in particular Jim Morrison, the more I realize we are a nation asleep. Morrison didn’t have the answer. All he knew was that the basic requirement of life was to be completely alive; in all senses. Open your minds. Open your eyes. Really see what is going on around you.

Sure, Morrison burnt out. But I do believe he was truly on fire. To shut your eyes and sink into the slick, glossy embrace of gossip and superstition is equivalent to committing moral suicide.

The Delirious DVD with full extras is set to be released May 4. I’ve had no communication with anyone at Gestation since August. I regret nothing. If I alienated or angered anyone it was simply because I refused to lie–or be lied to. I am more proud of this film than anything I’ve ever done.

I’m proud of the way I fought for it; every step of the way. I burned so many bridges my fingerprints are gone. I would do it again in second.

To Richard Widmark; goodbye. You have my eternal respect.

I am not home.

I am in Loss Angeleze for at least 2 months, directing a feature documentary about The Doors. I got here last Sunday. I started work on Monday. I think today is Friday. The work has been so instant and intense I have no idea where I am. Two days ago I found myself inside a refrigerated vault in the depths of Hollywood, wearing a provided parka to help ward off the chill, looking through all the archival material someone has saved of The Doors. At one point I held in my hands the only existing master tape of Light My Fire.

I’m very excited about putting this film together. My task is to look through every inch of material ever shot or recorded of The Doors. At night, I get out of the editing room, stagger past a life-sized painted statue of Woody Woodpecker, get into my rented car and remember to take a right off the lot at Universal Studios. I drive for about 10 minutes. I take another right. I park the car. I go up into the apartment provided to me and I crash with millions of frames of Jim Morrison flashing behind my eyelids.

Is it a bizarre coincidence that Will Crewdson and I have finished another song? This is one I wrote. I sent Will my vocal and drum track and he added all the guitars, percussion and synths; in fact he did so much it is absurd for me to write anything more. You should go here and simply listen.

In the interim some developments on the Delirious front. The first DVD release is coming up in March. This will be primarily for Blockbuster rentals. Then, in May there will be a second non-Blockbuster release with extras which will include my commentary, a very cool Behind the Scenes featurette with me and Buscemi, the full music video of the song Alison Lohman performs in the film and three of the video podcasts we did to promote the film.

And now, it really is time for me to crash.

More to come.

Guess what? I just found out my first film, Johnny Suede, has been released on DVD by Anchor Bay. The reason I just found out about it now could be a very lengthy post that maybe I’ll undertake one morning after dropping acid and snorting a quart of scotch.

The DVD includes my commentary. It could have included a lot more but…see the paragraph above. The film stars Brad Pitt, Catherine Keener, Nick Cave and Samuel L. Jackson in a small part. This is not a plug for the dvd. If you’re interested fine. If not, don’t worry about it.

I just remembered that Sam Jackson came in and auditioned for me.

Other memories are sneaking up now, like hungry zombies outside the Kwikee Mart. I spent months trying to find the right actor to play Johnny. I must have auditioned at least 300 guys. Most came in thinking the part was some moronic version of The Fonz from “Happy Days.” In August of 1989, after exhausting all the possibilities in NYC the casting director, Marcia Shulman and I went out to LA to sift through the talent pickings there.

The production at that point had no money. The producers arranged for Marcia and me to stay at the Highland Gardens motel famed mainly for the fact that Janis Joplin had died there. There was a swimming pool. No one swam in it. It was filled with greenish-black sludge.

The motel let us use a ”suite” to cast in. The auditions were held in the kitchenette with Marcia and I sitting a foot away in the dining nook. One afternoon I looked out the window and saw a tall woman dressed in a short, black skirt, black nylons and leopard-skin ankle boots. As she paced by the contaminated pool she carefully wielded a matching leopard-skin umbrella to keep the sun off of her. It took me a moment to recognize Tina Louise who’d played Ginger on “Gilligan’s Island.” She came up and I cast her as Johnny’s girlfriend’s mother the moment she finished reading.

Later that day Marcia flipped me a head-shot and informed me the next actor didn’t have much on his resume. In fact he only had two things; he’d done a small Canadian TV series and he’d just finished shooting what he’d listed as his only real film credit—something called Thelma and Louise that no one had heard about because it hadn’t even been edited yet.

The day before, Marcia and I had been eating lunch in a hamburger joint on La Cienaga. We saw some kid a few booths away. He looked interesting. We brought him in for a reading, thinking, “Hey, maybe this is one of those stars-discovered-in-a-greasy-hamburger-joint kind of stories. He was awful. Still, he was very depressed when we didn’t cast him.

I took another look at the photo Marcia had handed me and said, “What the fuck, bring him in.” The actor’s name was Brad Pitt. Call me an idiot if you want but I was certain of 2 things the moment he walked in: 1. He was Johnny. 2. He was going to be a star.

He did his audition without me saying a word to him. And without me saying a word to him he understood that beneath his posturing exterior Johnny was really a lost soul–someone who literally had no idea who he was. This lead Brad to a brave acting choice; to bring a hesitant vulnerability to the character–something no one else had been able to do; even with my prompting.

When he walked out I knew I had my lead. However the producers were not so convinced. They said, “This kid’s a nobody. We’re not letting you cast him.” The absurdity of this comment might be better understood if you keep in mind the entire budget of the film was under $500,000.

The producers made me meet another actor; a real “star.” The Star would not come in to audition. He did however agree to “meet me in character.” Seconds after that meeting began I got the very clear sense that the character who met me was one I was never, ever going to cast.

The producers were not happy with my position. So, on Friday, we parted company. On Monday I had a new deal with a Swiss producer, Ruth Waldburger who looked at Brad’s audition tape and agreed with my assessment of his potential. Ruth also agreed to handle the lawsuit so instantly and generously provided to us by the Friday producers.

While at the Highland Gardens I encountered another actor who made an impression on me. Catherine Keener came in to audition for the part of Yvonne, Johnny’s girlfriend. I have sometimes compared her audition to someone driving a golfball into a very small cinderblock room. The ensuing ricochets unnerved me so much I didn’t realize this barely controlled chaos was exactly what the part needed. In the middle of the night I got out of bed, knocked on the wall and yelled quietly to Marcia, “We’re casting Catherine Keener as Yvonne!”

We shot the film in 30 days in NYC in November and December of 1990. I remember this because at one point I looked up and Brad and Catherine were in my apartment eating Thanksgiving dinner. The shoot was for the most part a nightmare. Some great things happened of course. But for my first film it seemed the avalanche of disasters was just a little too relentless to be completely enjoyable.

In the 2nd week of filming the fire department wouldn’t let us back into the building we’d meticulously painted and propped for Johnny’s apartment. Over the weekend the entire building (already on the verge of demolition) had settled 5 feet to the left and it was now deemed unsafe for occupancy let alone something as idiotic as filmmaking. We had to finish shooting in another apartment and to this day I’m amazed no one has ever remarked upon the obvious and strangely changing layout as the film progresses.

Before shooting we had some difficulty in specifying Johnny’s wardrobe with the costume designer. The character was fixated on the late ’50’s. I wanted clothing that came from that era but didn’t want stuff that was strictly nostalgic. I wanted costumes that made the character visually different and unique but with an understated elegance.

Nothing worked. So, the day before shooting Brad and I went through my closet and pulled out every piece of Thrift Store gold I’d accumulated over the past 10 years. Luckily, everything fit him. All my favorite, one-of-a-kind, deeply personal, irreplaceable stuff.

We shot the film in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which back in 1990 really was not a place anyone was too eager to build a Starbucks in. Two weeks into shooting the assistant director came running up and cried, “Some left the wardrobe van unattended and all the costumes have been stolen!”

A day later they found the guys who’d stolen them. My relief was short-lived; about 30 seconds actually. The police informed us that the thieves had apparently liked Johnny’s clothes so much they were not returning them. The cops advised us if we wanted to continue shooting in Williamsburg we should accept these “terms.”

So, all Johnny’s wardrobe had to be faked. Copies of everything we’d already shot Brad in were quickly made. Although we couldn’t afford the original materials, on film the pants, shirtjacs and sharkskin suits all looked perfectly fine. At the end of the shoot the costume department gave me the copies as a gift. I took them home and hung them in my closet. One day I actually tried to wear one of the shirts. A week later I threw everything away. 

The film was accepted into the Locarno International Film Festival in Switzerland. It was the first film festival I’d ever been to. A buyer from Miramax saw the film and urged Harvey Weinstein to do something he’d never done; buy a film without seeing it. The buyer convinced him that Brad was going to be a star. The deal was clinched when the film won Best Picture.

A month later when Harvey was sitting in front of me at the Toronto film festival I saw another distributor lean forward and chuckle into Harvey’s ear, “Well, I hope you like it.”

I think Harvey really did like it. We had a test screening in New York City a few weeks later. He sat beside me , turning and grinning when the audience broke into laughter and applause. At the end he gave me an emphatic thumbs up.

Then the cards came in. The results were not to his liking. Harvey then endeavored to fix the problem. His plan was to cut 15 minutes out of the film and put a voice-over on. I told him that if he showed me where the 15 minutes could be cut while maintaining the film’s narrative logic then I would consider it.

This idea was soon jettisoned in favor of the voice-over. I wasn’t happy about either idea. The film had just won top honors at a major European festival. I didn’t see any reason why this version (my original Director’s cut) could not be presented to American audiences.

But this was my first film. And it was my first lesson in how murky the waters of “negotiation” can be. A voice-over was added to the film. I cringe every time I think of it, especially knowing that after all that, it had absolutely no effect on the film’s performance. 

Some people saw the film. Some people even liked it. Someone liked the name so much they started a clothing line without even offering me 10%. I’m the first one to admit the film has many of the inconsistencies of a First film. But it is my first child and I will always cherish it. I still think Brad’s performance is startlingly brave and astute. I still think Catherine Keener is as magical in the film as anything else she’s gone on to do. If you rent it check out the scene where Yvonne teaches Johnny about the “watermelon seed”.

I think the story, that of a young man’s gradual realization that he has no idea who he is, is still valid and engaging. Which is why I’m so thrilled that this version being released on DVD by Anchor Bay is the original Director’s Cut, heretofore never seen in this country.

Minus the fucking voice-over.