The Black & Blue Orkestre has carved out another track. This one is called “Fade To Black.”

It’s a kind of bluezy emo surf rocker written and sung by DiCillo. Additional vocals and bass by Grog and guitars by Will Crewdson.

We’re inching toward getting enough original stuff for a CD. Let us know what you think.

I love this time of year. There’s a sharp thrill in the air. The holidays are here and people are full of anticipation and excitement. Everyone’s putting their lists together. Not Christmas lists; I mean their 10 Best Lists.

Yes, this is the time of year when people help us figure out which were the best 10 films of the year. Not 9, not 11. There are only 10 which is still a lot and I for one am glad to have someone tell me which ones they are.

The Winners are glad too; the Losers less so. In fact, for the films that don’t make the lists this is not a good time. It is a sad time. And for that reason we will stay away from them and link arms with the Winners for whom these are truly the Champagne Days; golden, sparkling and infinitely full of promise.

I experienced a bit of this thrill vicariously a few years ago. I was good friends with Shane Florian. I hope at least a few of you remember Shane.

Shane Florian & Tom DiCillo at Sundance 2009

He shot to fame with his very first film, Darker Than Black. I was on the subway with him when he got the idea. The train had stalled in between stations and all the lights went out. A drunk, white junkie at the end of the car yelled out, “It’s darker than a cave at midnight in here!”

That’s what Shane wanted to call his film; Cave At Midnight. I gave him the idea to call it Darker Than Black. It starred John Travolta whom Shane had snagged right before Pulp Fiction when Travolta was still on that long, slow, downward slide everyone in this business is so terrified of.

Shane told me straight out he wanted to make his first film “one for the critics.” I was amazed at his foresight and felt like an imbecile having no career strategy like that of my own. In a brilliantly calculated move Shane took the production deep into a subterranean cavern in New Mexico and shot the whole film with the complete absence of light.

John Travolta in Shane Florian's Darker Than Black

And Shane was right; the critics adored his film. It made every 10 Best List in the country, consistently nesting around the 7 or 8 position. Praise for Travolta was equally strong. His performance was heralded as one of his most understated, brooding and mysterious.

Shane sent me copies of every review; that’s how close we were then. Here are a few samples I saved.

“Visually stunning. Florian discovers new shades of shadow. A cinematic achievement no less astonishing than the total eclipse of the sun.”  NY TIMES

“Thrillingly audacious. Florian flirts on the edge of the Seen and the Unseen with the skill of a master gymnast.” WASHINGTON POST

“The darkness of Florian’s vision is chilling in its absoluteness, yet mesmerizing in its emotional power. I saw the film with my father who is partially blind. The experience left us both shattered.” Clive Levender, THE MIAMI HERALD

But the one that affected me the most was this from Menorra Kimble at the LA Times.

“Brilliantly, boldly, joyously–New. Any director who attempts to make a film using light after this cannot be considered anything more than hopelessly obsolete.”

Propelled by these reviews Darker Than Black became a minor hit. Shane quickly got the money to make his next film, Beyond The Pale, with a cast that included Bruce Willis, Meg Ryan, Muhammad Ali and Dustin Hoffman. This time Shane took the entire production to the Arctic and shot on the frozen ice cap only between noon and 2pm on sunny days, using the most light sensitive film stock ever invented.

Some people thought this bold reversal was to counter some of the gentle criticism that his previous film might have lingered too lovingly in the realm of shadow. But Shane told me at the premiere of Beyond The Pale that his sole intent was to make a film “for the audiences.”

Again, his foresight astonished me. Audiences flocked to the film. And, critics loved it too. Beyond The Pale made all the 10 Best lists, this time always bubbling near the 2 or 3 position. Praise for the performances was unanimous, particularly for Meg Ryan.

“Her character is drawn with such clarity and brilliance you can almost see right through her.” HOLLYWOOD REPORTER

Meg Ryan & Dustin Hoffman in Shane Florian's Beyond The Pale

Praise for the film was equally rapturous.

“Luminous, almost blinding in its daring and beauty. A cinematic experience so starkly compelling it almost requires emotional sunglasses.” CHICAGO SUN TIMES

“Dazzlingly original. Painstakingly detailed, with a searing emotional power that is both profoundly simple and simply profound.” VARIETY

“Florian’s film shimmers before the eyes in a stunning visual dance, dominated but not overwhelmed by every conceivable variation of white visible to the human eye.” NEWSWEEK

Those were indeed the Champagne Days. Shane was flying high and moving at the speed of light. We became even closer. He offered to completely finance my next film, Double Whammy. But first he wanted to make what he knew was going to be his masterpiece. Late one night, at the end of the 10 thousandth party, he leaned into my ear in glorious, drunken exhaustion and whispered, “This one I’m going to make for myself.”

He had no trouble getting an A-List cast lead by Will Smith, Kate Winslet, Ryan Gosling and Natalie Portman. They all agreed to let Shane temporarily insert tiny hi-def cameras inside their chests. Shane felt this was the most intimate way to record the raw intensity of pure emotion. “Inside the human heart,” he said to me, “everything is real. A heartbeat cannot be faked.”

This third film was titled Crimson Tears. Its opening weekend broke every box office record in NY and LA. Initial critical response was thunderously positive.

“Rich in texture; blood stirring. Cinema at its purest.” NY OBSERVER

“Shane Florian’s most personal yet rapturously accessible film. The pounding emotional pulse will blow you away.” TIME OUT

In anticipation of a huge national release the studio struck thousands of extra prints. Everything was set for Crimson Tears to be a massive critical and box office smash.

Natalie Portman & Ryan Gosling in Shane Dorian's Crimson Tears

And then the rumors started.

Someone, no one knows exactly who, suggested that the co-chief film critic for the NY Times visit the projection booths at several NY theaters. When he did, he claimed to have seen no film running through the projectors. Nervous projectionists confessed they’d been instructed to simply turn on their empty machines after placing a red filter in front of the bulb.

Needless to say, this revelation had an impact on attendance which dropped by almost a quarter in the second week.  Concerned critics took the opportunity to re-assess Crimson Tears and the first serious negative reviews began to appear.

“Florian no longer trusts his own vision. His use of color is overstated at best and at worst reeks of gimmickry.” LA TIMES

“Gone is the hidden meaning, the subtle nuance of his previous master works. Instead we have the sad spectacle of a once-brilliant filmmaker either unable or unwilling to accept the obvious limitations of his talent.” ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

“Shane Florian has sold out.” NY POST

Attendance fell by another quarter. Shane laughed it off and told me he wasn’t worried. He said the studio was still behind him and in two days Crimson Tears was set to open on 8,000 screens.

Then, somehow a frame from Darker Than Black was sent to the LA Times. Apparently, there was nothing on it. Closer inspection with an electron microscope revealed it was indeed completely black. Film journalists around the country began to speculate that Shane Florian’s acclaimed first film was really nothing more than 103 minutes of black leader.

No one could believe it. Many refused to. Clive Levender from The Miami Herald wrote;

“I know what I saw. I can still feel my father’s tears falling on my shoulder as we sobbed together during the press screening of Darker Than Black.”

But, when similar investigation into prints of Beyond The Pale showed nothing but clear, completely transparent celluloid the awful truth could no longer be denied. Critics and audiences turned on Shane with a vengeance. In its 4th week box office for Crimson Tears fell by half. In a sad, ironic twist Beyond The Pale was nominated for an Oscar, for Best Editing which everyone admitted was seamless.

But that did nothing to stop the sharp downward spiral of Shane’s career. For the first time one of his films did not make a single Top 10 list. Shane was devastated. I knew how much when he shaved his goatee.

Tracey Gorlich at the Chicago Sun Times did include Crimson Tears in a list of 5 films she placed at the end of her Top Ten. These lonely five were presented in a smaller typeface with the explanation they’d ”almost made the list.” But, that didn’t do Shane any good. What was he going to say, “I was on an Almost Made The Top Ten list?” No, he wasn’t. There’s no almost in this business.

I lost touch with Shane after that. Of course he never helped me finance Double Whammy but I don’t hold that against him. We had some good times together. Last I heard he was making promotional films for the Romney campaign.

Here’s a paragraph I came across today. The words are David Lynch’s. They had a lot of resonance for me so I thought I’d share them.

“Negativity is the enemy to creativity. So, if you want more ideas flowing then find happiness in the doing–happiness in the doing. I love, literally LOVE building a thing that ultimately has to feel correct before it’s finished, and that feeling correct is like a drug. It’s like a thing that just kicks you and makes you feel so good. You almost pass out. You fall off your feet.”
David Lynch

There is a very simple, and very profound truth in these words. You can’t create out of pain and bitterness. Pain of course can inspire you, like many other life experiences. But the transformation of that experience into a work of art is the richest when the actual doing of it brings immense, intense pleasure.

This is something I know but too frequently keep forgetting.

I feel a little guilty.

I’m not writing about anything that has to do with film–especially not about anything regarding progress on one of my own.

There is progress but it would only be of interest to those who get excited by watching snails race up a long, dry sidewalk.

I can say this though. I did go to the movies this weekend. And I had two distinct experiences at the theatre.

1. Sitting through the half-hour of trailers and ads was like having a giant sewage plant spewing a million gallons of shit right in your face. You look at these brutal, horrific and horrifically stupid films and and wonder who the idiots are; the people that think anyone wants to watch them or the ones that actually do.

This thought so depressed me I was tempted to slide out of my seat and collapse on the hard, sticky floor.

2. The film I saw was Moneyball. I recommend it. Brad Pitt is pretty phenomenal in it. There is a great little scene that just about crushed me halfway through the film where Brad’s young daughter hesitantly sings him a small fragment of a song she’s written.

She really sings it. And she really plays the guitar. It is an astonishing moment for both of them.

Which brings me to what I’ve been doing for the past month.

The Black & Blue Orkestre has finished another track, Ring Of Fire. This is our version of the classic Johnny Cash song (written by June Carter and Merle Haggard). Let’s just say we honored the power of the original and added some of our own.

Grog wrote and played bass, as well as singing some extended background and trading verses with me. Will Crewdson wrote and performed a mere 99% of the luscious guitars.

It may not be filmmaking but I’ve got to tell you it’s the closest thing to it and right now it is saving my soul.

The Black & Blue Orkestre has been at it again. We just did a cover of the Trogg’s “With A Girl Like You.”

It’s the usual suspects;  Grog on bass and additional vocals; Will Crewdson on rhythm and lead guitar and DiCillo on vocals, arrangement and rhythm guitar.

The idea was to kind of dust it off and muck it up.

Let us know if you think we succeeded.

Flew to Munich for a Retrospective of my films at the end of June. As we left this tragic Tale of our Time was entrancing America:

I was not sorry to leave that world behind for a few days. The festival put us up at the Bayerischer Hof, an elegant old-world hotel that Keith Richards stayed at in the late 60′s. I discovered this because I was reading his autobiography, LIFE, while I was over there.

I also discovered Michael Jackson had stayed at the Hof. We fatefully arrived on the anniversary of his death. After crashing for a few hours I woke to see a cluster of his Munich fans gathered in a park outside the hotel. They’d already set up a shrine beneath the statue of a 9th Century Bavarian cheese baron. For several hours the mourners held hands and moved in a slow circle murmuring the words to Billie Jean.

One woman carried a small wooden box which was treated with sincere reverence by all. It was only after snapping this photo that I realized the weighty portent of its contents:

I must confess that macabre and disturbing spectacle left me quite shaken. I couldn’t help wondering if the entire experience ahead of me would now be colored, tainted so to speak, by this melancholy whiff of the tomb.

I managed to put it out of my mind in time for the walk over to the festival headquarters where my Retrospective was about to begin. A televised photo display inside the hall was impressive and encouraging.

But, when I was asked to perform the ceremonial “Signing of The Large Poster” ritual I grew uneasy again. Yes, it was an honor to be there with Andreas Stroehl, the celebrated head of the Munich Film Festival. And, perhaps it was the jetlag but somehow I just couldn’t appreciate the joke.

Someone had drawn a mustache and goatee on my poster. Sure, I was smiling but inside I was a mass of rage and hurt feelings. I couldn’t believe they’d let someone come in and deface my Large Poster. And on the first day of my Retrospective!

Nevertheless, I signed it; thinking so much about catching that sneaky graffiti bastard and kicking his fucking ass that I barely noticed the mustache had changed. I decided instead to roll with it, to go with the flow. Munich was known to be an edgy, free-spirited festival and maybe I was making too much of it. But, once again I couldn’t help but feel the spell of Michael Jackson’s orphaned nose settling down upon me.

More was yet to come. Later that night as my wife, Jane and I were walking back to the Hof, I saw a guy selling vintage photographs on the sidewalk. They were shots of Elvis, Marilyn, James Dean and the King of Pop himself with his sequined glove; all in elaborate, glittering hand painted frames. Laid out on the sidewalk they looked like a gaudy, kitsch graveyard. I was about to take a picture when a guy ran up to me blurting, “No photo! No photo!”

It kind of pissed me off because clearly these weren’t his photos. Most likely he’d downloaded them from the internet, come up with the glittery frame idea and was now cashing in on them.

So, in the mood I was in I felt completely justified in ignoring him. I raised my camera and pressed the shutter. This is the shot I took.

Yes. Another nose. This guy’s left a smudge on my lens I still can’t get off.

The next few days were blessedly free from occult trauma. I went to the screenings of my films and engaged in lively discussions with the audiences. I like talking directly to people just after they’ve seen a film and I try to be as honest with them as I can. After a screening of The Real Blonde a question arose about the meaning of the title. I said it referred specifically to a woman whose “collar matched her cuffs.”

A large blonde woman in the front row exclaimed, “Yes, her pubics hairs matches her head hairs. I am such a woman!”

She offered proof but I politely declined, not out of squeamishness but because I’d forgotten my glasses.

After Box Of Moonlight a guy scowled at me and said, “When you walked out to speak I looked at you with your long hairs and I said here is just another Hollywood uberkaese (super cheese?) and I was prepared to sneer at your words. But when you spoke I realized my judgment was premature.”

“Oh. OK, thanks,” I said, fiercely restraining the urge to slap him. “Should I cut my hair? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No,” the guy said, scrutinizing me intently. “But perhaps a mustache or goatee would help.”

My pulse exploded. Was this the guy? The graffiti freak? The whole rest of of the discussion I was rattled because I kept looking at his hands to see if he was clutching a magic marker in one of them.

Over the next few days I did some interviews and talked for a while in the Black Box; not a torture chamber but a press room set up by the festival. Anyone wishing to take a break from watching paint dry can venture here ,  here and here.

John Malkovitch was also being honored at the festival. It was great to see him and I was happy he was getting more attention than me but it did kind of piss me off that somehow, someone had made sure no one had defaced his Large Poster.

We hung out for a while one night. He seemed nice enough and I liked him; even though he’d never seen any of my movies. But, hey; he’s a busy guy. A lot going on. He’s into photography like me. He’s got a good eye. He saw three women with identical cleavage and took their picture.

I took a picture of him taking the picture just to show there was no hard feelings. We all had a good laugh. It was good times. It shows how film festivals aren’t just tons of hard work and raging egos and can really be a lot of fun if there is drinking and women in lowcut dresses.

On our last day I was dragged reluctantly on a raft trip down the Isar River. This was a special event chosen by festival director Andreas Stroehl. I was not looking forward to sitting on a raft for 5 hours with only German pilsner for sustenance but as this was Stroehl’s last festival I agreed so as not to hurt his feelings.

We were bussed up into the Bavarian foothills and deposited on a floating platform made of logs. It was an bright, clear day and the July sun was hot and dry. The raft had about 50 people on it; filmmakers from all over the world. The moment we set off I felt something shift in me. Here you can see just how reluctant I was.

About an hour in the raft eased into a deep, wide section of the river and the “captain” informed us this would be a good place to swim. Only a few people had brought bathing suits. Three women jumped in in their dresses. I stripped down to my underwear and dove off the side.

I was completely unprepared for the cold shock. Then I remembered Andreas mentioning the river was fed completely by snow melt. I came up gasping and numb and almost shot right back on the raft.

But then I realized that even though I was floating next to the raft the current was pulling us both down river at a fantastic speed. All I had to do was tread water and let the river pull me along.

About 15 people jumped in. I looked around and saw them gathered in small groups, talking, their bobbing heads ahead of me, behind me. The cold eased off. Our bodies lighter than the heavy raft, we were soon pulled ahead of it by the flow of the river. The people on the receding raft waved and yelled to us. Green, verdant banks rushed past. I felt a sense of peace and joy quite strange and unfamiliar to me. It was almost overpowering.

I forgave the Graffiti Guy and even briefly considered growing a goatee. And then, so quietly and easily I almost didn’t notice it, the Curse of Michael Jackson’s Nose lifted and blew away.

Suddenly, as corny as it sounds,  I realized I was finally…Going with the Flow.

And it made me think about the intense rush of the last six days. The festival had shown all 7 of my films, twice. The audiences weren’t huge but they were eager, engaged and refreshingly appreciative. They gave an amazing gift to me; their interest–and I will never forget it.

It was enlightening watching all the movies together. I couldn’t believe how many people had worked on them. As the names drifted past in the credits they brought back all the intensity of shooting; all the intricate relationships that had formed, all the people I’d interacted with so intimately and then moved on.

It was surprising to see which films held up. I was astonished at the strong reaction to Double Whammy, a film that I’d almost turned my back on due to it’s agonizing non-release here in the US. Seeing it again, almost 10 years later I was relieved to see the sharpness still in the humor, the edge of absurdity still flickering in it.

These are my first 7 films. Each one is totally different. Each one has its strengths and weaknesses; its flaws and moments of joy. None of them would ever have gotten made if I hadn’t fought for them as if my life depended on it. But, each was a labor of love.

How unbelievably lucky and grateful I would be to make another.

A few weeks ago a documentary called Freedom Riders aired on PBS. It’s a strong piece about a milestone event in the American civil rights struggle and I recommend it highly. I was struck by a song in it called, “I’m On My Way”, by Barbara Dane. Her voice is amazing; very rich and strong, and the song has a real power that persists to this day.

Halfway between departing for Munich and running the slow-motion oatmeal gauntlet of trying to get financing for my three new scripts, I was unexpectedly inspired to do a re-mix of the song. I wanted a friend of mine to hear it and tried to post it on YouTube only to discover you need images with the audio in order to post.

So, I put this little video together. The footage is stuff I’ve shot over the years with a compact digital video camera someone slipped into my coat pocket after an interview at Sundance in 2006.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just my frame of mind these days but setting out and actually making something is incredibly satisfying. Especially when it doesn’t entail begging for money or writing a letter to the star of the most recent ComicBookActionHero film because getting him to say yes might greenlantern your film.

I know I’m an idiot for even thinking that making a “real” film could be a fraction as enjoyable as this but here it is, my first home music video.

The Munich Film Festival’s retrospective of my films is moving forward. I’m heading over at the end of June. They’re going to show all 7 films which is pretty amazing to me. Not that they’re going to show them, but that I actually made them.

They’re starting with Johnny Suede which has never screened in Germany. I don’t know who this guy is with Brad Pitt but apparently they share the same hair product.

I did an interview with the Festival website recently. Some good questions. Some may find a few of the answers familiar; some may not. Here’s a sample.

Over the years, you kept screening your films at Munich. What kept you coming back? What do you like about the city?
TD. One of the things an independent director looks for when bringing a film to a European festival is the openness and curiosity of its audiences, the festival’s devotion and support of filmmakers, the taste of the city’s pilsner and the quality of porn on the hotel television. In my experience I have found Munich to excel in all these areas.

Alright Wayne, you axed for it. Well, actually you didn’t but here you go anyway.

The financier of The Real Blonde told me at the beginning of production he felt it was time for me to make a “bigger film,” one that would play in Middle America. His first demand was that I not cast Catherine Keener, who had been in all my films up to that point, and for whom I’d written the part.

I say this only to illustrate that from the outset the battles were deeply personal and relentless and although I lost a few of them I also won some crucial ones. Catherine did end up playing the part; brilliantly.

But, other aspects of the script suffered from this insistence on making the film more commercial. The ending, with the stolen dog finding its way home was never intended to carry so much weight, or to be taken so literally. There was a scene just before it dealing with Maxwell Caulfield and his abusive relationship with Bridget Wilson, which was intended to add a contrast and counterbalance to this.

Under pressure, it was cut and as a result the film ends in a way that I never intended, nor do I believe.

But, one of my favorite scenes involved Caulfield’s obsession with finding a woman who is a real blonde. This of course is an idiotic quest, but like all obsessions it had a sliver of truth in it that interested me.

A theme in the film is the idea that most of the things its characters are concerned with are fake or artificial. Matthew Modine comes face to face with Madonna only to realize it is her body double, Elizabeth Berkely. I was interested in how frequently we can’t see the truth that stands right in front of us, and can’t tell the difference between what is real and what isn’t.

Ultimately, Caulfield’s obsession drives him to devalue, and demean  Bridget Wilson, the only woman who truly loves him.

We all are driven by things we feel we need to obtain in order to be Happy. Most of the time these things are either unobtainable, or revealed to be useless when they are finally obtained. I’m repeating my fixation on the notion that the last place we look for self-value or meaning is simply within ourselves.

So, I filmed a scene where Caulfield, the affable, successful playboy soap star, sneaks into a porno booth on 42nd Street. He stands behind a tiny glass window and peers into a darkened, circular room, around which other men can be seen in identical windows. They are like viewers in some strange porno aquarium at the bottom of the sea.

The focus of their gaze is a woman half-reclining on a cheap, rotating stage. A disco ball circles slowly, scattering shards of light around the room. The woman is not attractive. She is not svelte. But, to Caulfield’s rapt amazement, she is a real blonde and that is all he cares about.

Absurd? Yes. Intense? Yes. The scene was one of the most cinematically rich and disturbing that I have ever shot. To me it perfectly suggested the uneasy underbelly of the film. But, just before the film was released the financier declared the scene would kill the film in the Heartland and insisted it be cut. I refused. He insisted harder. I said I was taking my name off the film. He said go ahead.

I sought the advice of everyone I knew in the business, personally and professionally. The sum of opinions was, yes, it will hurt you to cut the scene but for the good of your career, and the film, just swallow it and do it. And so, against every grain of my artistic instinct, I did. Little did I know that casting Steve Buscemi in the film as the indie director who moves up to directing Madonna videos would have so much personal resonance.

The film bombed. It never even got within 10,000 miles of Middle America. But honestly, that didn’t bother me even a fraction as much as knowing what I’d allowed to die on the cutting room floor.

I still wake up at night thinking about it.

Well, the actual Grammy arrived yesterday. I’m glad it did. It has a great weight to it. And I like the shape; it’s like a big, shiny, metal flower.

I’d been waiting for it as a motivation to put up a fresh post. I hear you, Elaine–I have been remiss. I do miss the exchanges with everyone; and god knows there are so many things to write about.

Osama dead in Pakistan, Obama born in America and Donald Trump clearly from Moronica. I feel it only fair that Trump now explains without reservation why he persists in wearing a dead cat on his head.

For me things are up in the air right now. So much seems so nebulous; which is probably why I’ve avoided trespassing here; it means having to face and acknowledge the actual state of things.

I’m going to Germany at the end of June. The Munich Film Festival is having a retrospective of all my films, from Johnny Suede to When You’re Strange. I’m excited by this, and incredibly honored, but a part of me flinches at the reminder of how many years have passed since I made Delirious.

There is progress on raising financing for the three feature scripts I’ve written. It comes in fractions of inches, but it comes. Someone asked me recently how I keep going. The question unsettled me. I couldn’t answer right away. Part of me was wondering if the question inferred another question, “Why do you keep going?”

I finally responded that I’ve had some thrilling successes and some crushing disappointments but since none of the setbacks have rendered me physically incapacitated I really have no excuse to keep me from picking up the phone and starting another round of calls.

But, for the first time I also answered that deep within my being I believe I have a vision that is unique; at least one that is absolutely particular to me. And I feel an unexplainable obligation to nurture, sustain and support that crazy thang.