I know I said I was traveling further north. I was lying. I traveled west; far west. A few days ago this email from Gestation blinked into my inbox:

“To All Concerned, a private screening of Delirious has been set up for Hugh Hefner at The Playboy Mansion.”

I kid you not. The phone call I got from Gestation a day later proved it was no joke. Hefner had liked the film so much he wanted to meet me. Gestation quickly arranged a flight. 6 hours later I was in LA.

I won’t bore you with the details of the Mansion. I’m sure you’ve all seen the videos and Girls of Summer DVD’s like I have. Suffice it to say there were not nearly as many stains on the carpets and furniture as I had imagined. The meeting took place in The Oaken Office, Hef’s private business suite. As I had imagined however, Hef was accompanied by three blonde sisters wearing glasses and bikini workout outfits as they sat on the floor taking notes. Hef looked a little tired but his grip was strong when he shook my hand. “I really enjoyed your film, Tom. It showed true vision and style.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hefner,” I managed to reply.“

“And the acting was really great,” added Truedi, one of the blondes at his feet. Hef looked down at her with a smile. “Who did you like the best, True?”

“Oh, Bushemi,” she stated, surprising me by using the correct pronunciation. “Me too,” said Kailee, peering over her glasses. “He kind of reminded me of you, Uncle Hef.”

“Well, I think that’s a compliment,” Hef chuckled.

“It is, it is!” Emberly cried. “He’s so sexy.”

Hef patted her head and quickly got down to business. “You know, Tom, many people have said that when I started Playboy I turned sex into an art form. I consider myself an artist. And it greatly troubles me to see an artist like yourself struggling so hard to survive. I have to ask you: why, just two weeks after it opened, Delirious is only playing the late show in Santa Monica?”

I regarded him for a moment before inquiring, “What’s your relationship with Gestation, Mr. Hefner?”

“I believe I met Arnold at last month’s Pyjama Poetry Party. George has been here once or twice but he always brings his wife,” Hefner mused. Kailee then spoke so softly it seemed she was talking to herself. “I thought that was his mother.”

“Are you in business with them?” I ventured carefully.

Hef frowned in thought. “No,” he said. “I think they just come over here to get laid.” He turned and all three blonde heads nodded in unison.“

“Well, good,” I said. “Because you asked me an honest question and I’d like to give you an honest answer. I’m extremely grateful to Gestation for financing and releasing my film. But I think in this over-crowded marketplace they were too cautious. They didn’t spend enough to help audiences find the film. And so, it just died.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Kailee said. “You got such great reviews.”

“You did,” echoed Emberly. “I loved the piece in The New Yorker.”

“Thank you, Emberly,” I said, amazed I’d remembered her name. “We even got 2 Thumbs Up from Ebert and Roeper but instead of pushing that forward Gestation cut back all its advertising in LA this week. They said the numbers didn’t justify the expense.”

“How long did it take you to make it?” Truedi asked quietly.

“Six years,” I replied. Truedi shook her head softly as she wrote the number down on her yellow legal pad. Hef stood up suddenly, surprising everyone. “Rule Number One:” he snarled, “You’ve got to spend money to make money!”

I was stunned. Not only was this self-built billionaire agreeing with me he was also quoting one of Buscemi’s lines from the film! “Alright, girls,” Hef snapped. “Take off those clothes and hand them to me!”

Emberly leapt to her feet with a sharp cry of surprise and ran sobbing from the room. Hef’s heavy sigh did little to soften the offended glare in the eyes of Truedi and Kailee. “I meant, type up those notes and hand them to me,” the weary man corrected himself. He grabbed my shoulder and lead me out of the room. “Let’s go to the Grotto for a man to man.”

I know you’re all thinking this is crazy. Imagine how I felt. Literally a day before I was in Vermont grinding through poplar trees with a dull, smoky chain saw and now I was sitting beside a semi-nude Hugh Hefner in the lukewarm water of his famed underground Grotto. Hef wore a leopard print thong. Mine was fluorescent orange graciously provided by the staff. Before turning to me Hef waved half-heartedly to Charlie Sheen and Kevin Costner standing in the waist deep water with colorful drinks in their hands. “You got screwed, Tom,” Hef said.

“Did I?”

“No question,” Hef stated. “You see, Power runs this business. It’s the only thing anybody responds to. It’s the only thing that makes anybody do anything. You had no Power. So, they screwed you.”

I took the joint he handed me. “I fought as hard as I could, Hef.”

“I know you did, but they had you by the balls. You’ve got to figure out a way to get them by the balls.” Hef took off his thong and flung it onto the silver tray of the topless Asian girl swimming by with champagne. “I think I can help you,” he said, stretching out again with a soft grunt of contentment. “You made a great flick. It’s a work of art.”

“Well, thanks, Hef,” I said. “I really appreciate that.”

“I told you; I’m an artist,” Hef replied. “I recognize other artists and I’d like you to make me a movie.”

I choked on my toke and almost dropped the joint in the water. “Are you serious?”  

“Absotively. Let me tell you where I’m going with this. I’ve checked out the Delirious website and I’ve seen all the video skits you did to promote the film. They’re fuckin’ genius.”

“Well, no, Hef. I had a lot of help with them; especially from this kid, Chioke Nassor.”

“Good,” Hef said. “Bring Chokey along. “I’d like you to do a bunch of short films for me.”  

“Oh,” I said, instantly depressed. “Not a feature?”

“No,” Hef went on quickly now, “A bunch of shorts. You’ve got a real touch with them. My favorite was the clip with Gina Gershon.”

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s a fine actress and a good friend.”

“She’s fricken hot,” Hef muttered. “I offered her a million bucks to do a spread for Playboy after Showgirls came out. She turned me down. Can you believe it?”

 “Well,” I said, “I’m not sure everybody is comfortable with that kind of thing…”

“Comfortable? Hell, I’d stick a Ringding up my butt for a million bucks,” Hef snapped with still palpable offense. “Wouldn’t you?”

Before I could answer Hef yelled out, his voice echoing along the low-slung caves and channels of the Grotto. “Aw, Kimberlee! Come on! How many times have I told you, leave the hair alone!!”

Far across the Grotto, backlit by a flickering turquoise light, a shocked, terrified and topless Kimberlee held what appeared to be a drowned hamster in her outstretched hand. Behind her a nude and now bald Kevin Kostner was swimming away as hard as he could. Hef finally turned his attention back to me. “Look, Tom, here’s the deal. The clip you made with Gina was super hot. You know why? Because it was so smart and funny and because you never showed the SEX! You understand me?” “Yeah, I think I do,” I said, slightly distracted by Kimberlee climbing up the narrow Grotto steps holding the soggy pelt at arm’s length.

Friday, Aug. 24.

I’m taking it easy today. I made such a mess in the back yard that Jane had to call a tree service to come in and repair the damage.

I wonder if such a service exists for crazed filmmakers. My snit yesterday has done little but further convince the folks at Gestation that I’m kkkkkrrrraaazzzzyyyy. And like all good parents they instantly got angry and cut off all communication. No one is talking to me now. The silence is deafening. Or maybe it’s just the enraged scream of the chainsaw still echoing in my brain.

A few days ago I was all set to take a leisurely blogstroll backwards through the gentle garden of memory; to trace the origin of the second main idea in Delirious; that of Stardom. I will return to it, I promise–if anybody wants to hear it. But, I thought you might find it interesting to observe this current drama with me while it happens. I will request however that the moment I begin to sound like Lenny Bruce strangling in his own rage, someone will let me know.

First, why am I bugging out? Any highschool guidance counselor can tell you that rage comes from fear. Filmmaking is not a profession you can do alone. It’s not like painting a picture you can hang in the bathroom or lean against the wall in the garage if it doesn’t turn out. No matter how small the budget every movie requires the faith and participation of hundreds of people. Just getting a foot of film to run through the camera takes years of tedious pursuit of  The Money. Of course I try to keep my budgets as low as possible. But even so, if you needed to raise a million bucks, where would you get it? That’s a lot of money to hit your parents and ex-girlfriends up for.

So, you take the script to every single financing source that exists, or may one day exist. Then by some miracle you convince someone to give you the cash. No matter what their “artistic” faith in the film is, they have one objective for which you cannot blame them–to make their money back. And if the film, when it finally reaches the screen, plays for a week the repercussions affect everyone. The financier loses his cash and his faith in the filmmaker. The filmmaker then loses his credibility in the marketplace. As much as I genuinely value all the comments encouraging me to just believe in my vision, it is an increasingly arduous challenge to maintain that vision when financiers examine your “track record” and decide the risk of investing in you is not worth taking. I am immensely proud of all my films, even the ones that stumbled either creatively or financially. But this fact is inescapable: The fate of each film determines the ability to make another.

My last film, Double Whammy, was bought by LionsGate at Sundance in 2001. They never released it theatrically even though they signed a contract specifically agreeing to do so. That event had direct impact on how long it took to make Delirious. I would be an arrogant moron if I did not acknowledge my own responsibility in choosing to make both films. Neither is standard Box Office fare. But I still believe there was room in the marketplace for them. I’m not talking about success in Titanic terms. Success for a film like Delirious would be for it to be seen by enough people to give Gestation a profit and to encourage future investors to write me another check. There is no greater luxury for me than to be able to make another film. To contemplate right now the possibility that my next film, as a result of either mishandling or audience indifference, might take me another six years is…terrifying.

I also don’t believe in the hypnotic mantra of Box Office. I think numbers are obscene. But, in a business where nobody knows anything, numbers (being tangible) become realer than steel and just as cold and rigid. They give eternal validation to the distributors, financiers, stars and directors. Magazines and entertainment news channels regularly list an actor’s or director’s films with the box office grosses of each one. This public display of box office figures has taken on the weight of a religious proclamation. The numbers trumpet, “Look at me! I have gigantic value and power because all the commas and decimal points are irrefutable!”

And then of course the opposite is true; if your Numbers are terrible they get shoved in your face at every opportunity. This has happened on every one of my films. The numbers prove they are right. No matter that the ad campaign consists of a mouse running down Broadway with Living In Oblivion tattoed on its tail. Numbers don’t lie. No matter that Delirious has won major awards around the world and has received strong reviews here. You don’t have the Numbers; in other words people don’t want to see your film. And if they are persistent enough, and you are weary enough then the whispers of self-doubt creep up and start murmering in your ear, “They’re right. It’s your fault for making a film no one wants to see.” And you have to fight harder now because the battle is not only with the Numbers but with yourself. Right then is when they sharpen every steely numeral and stab you in the heart with them. Every time you open your mouth to say, “Wait. Wait. Can’t we just give it another few days?” the answer comes back: No; the Numbers. The Numbers.

Everywhere I went with Delirious, even in Istanbul, I was asked the same question: what is happening with American independent film? The answer I gave was always the same but the truth of my words did not hit home until 4 days ago. Gestation has said in their defense that the marketplace is brutally over-crowded. They are right. If a film–any film–doesn’t perform in the Opening Weekend theater owners quickly replace it with another instead of letting it build an audience. So, what does this mean? A small, independent film like Delirious has to pack the same box office punch as Superbad in order to survive. And if that is the new rule, then someone help me here; how does that make independent films different from Hollywood studio films?

It doesn’t. American independent film does not exist anymore. This is not sour grapes or cranky, defeatist pessimism. It is a statement of fact based upon the reality that is right in front of us. This is why this fight for a film’s survival sometimes takes on the intensity of life and death. Of course actual life and death is eminently more important, but there is something nearly as crucial in the struggle to establish and perpetuate a life career–no matter what it is; filmmaker, artist, musician, writer, chainsaw operator.

This why I sometimes get kkkkrrraaaazzzzy. This is why sometimes I speak up, I ask questions, I become “inflammatory.” This why I get labelled, “Indie auteur with a short fuse.” Because The Golden Rule in this business is, Don’t Say Anything. If you piss people off you burn bridges. They won’t work with you again; they won’t give you money and they won’t distribute your films. And this doesn’t just apply to producers, distributors and financiers. Sometimes a journalist will take offense at something you’ve said and retaliate with similar speed, vehemence and permanence.

A friend scolded me recently, “You can’t win by getting angry. You have to fight back by being crazy like a fox.” Good advice. I’ll try it; even though every fox I’ve ever seen has been either running from dogs or hiding under a rock.

ZEN MANTRA FROM MONA: “When clearing trees always make sure to leave two for the hammock.” Seriously, this could go in every fortune cookie in the world. Well, done Ms. EM.

THIS JUST IN: Gestation has taken out a significant-sized ad in today’s NY Times. They took my suggestion and listed all the strong reviews. To my great astonishment they have also placed an ad (smaller) in the LA Times. I sent an email expressing my appreciation and my willingness to continue doing press for the film. Now the only thing that has to happen is that someone actually goes to see the film this weekend. I’ll let you know Monday.

Left NY today. Heading north up into the Vermont woods. I leave Delirious on its own, playing on two screens daily. With every mile that passes beneath the wheels I feel a sharp twinge of distress, like I’m abandoning a newborn infant on the sidewalk. With every mile I hear it crying. It is hungry. Alone. Terrified. And surely without me there to protect it, it will perish.

Oh, for the love of christ, Tom–you sound like Sally Struthers channeling Sally Fields.

You’re absolutely right. I apologize. The birth metaphors always get me. I’m in a strange limbo. The film is out. There is very little I can do about it now. The moving on is necessary and completely disorienting especially with the post partum depression sneaking up and peering in every window. Where am I now that the 6 year conception is complete? Who fucking knows? I feel like I’m on acid (an experience I’ve had only twice, once by accident) and everything I look at slowly and quietly turns inside out.  

So, where do we go from here? Shall we go back to the beginning? Back to the little sperm that sidled up the Fallopian Tube of my brain and said to the sexy egg standing there, “Hey, babe; wanna dance?”

I was on 67th and Park. I remember that. I was doing a shot for my movie, The Real Blonde. The light was fading. Daryl Hannah was crossing the street toward the camera. I was frantic with haste. This was the last take we would get before the light went. The shot was almost complete when to my utter astonishment some paparazzo jumped into the frame and began shooting Daryl.

I went insane. I ran up to the guy, grabbed him by the neck and flung him into the street.  “You fucking idiot!” I yelled, “Get out of my shot!” In an instant he was bleating like an enraged goat, “You touched me! You fucker, I’m suing you! I’m suing you!”

I was speechless. This whackjob ruins my shot and he’s suing me?! How did he come up with that kind of logic? What goes on in his brain that makes him so instantly and irrefutably the offended party? That was it, right there—that question started it all. I felt like a biologist looking at a species; both fascinated and repulsed by the paparazzi at the same time. What draws someone to their profession? What do they get out of it? How do they justify their heartless, vicious intrusions into people’s privacy?

A few years later I ran into this same guy at a party. Something made me walk up to him and say, “Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” I’ll never forget the way he flinched, as if I was going to punch him. I told him I was thinking about doing a film on paparazzi and asked if I could hang out with him for a while. His name was Chester and his initial defensiveness evaporated the instant he saw that I was seriously interested in paying attention to him.

I ended up spending over 2 months with him. He took me to parties, fashion shows and movie premieres. He drove me around in his car. He allowed me into his apartment. The first time I rang his buzzer a scowling Ukrainian super poked his head out the door and said, “Who you look for?!” When I told him he spat and turned his back on me, “That fokkeen asshaul!” This was indeed how the world looked at Chester and his profession. Bottom feeders. Maggots. Parasites. Vultures. I asked Chester how he felt about this perception.

“Fuck ‘em all,” he said. “I’m just doing my job. These people judging me are the same ones who rush out and buy the magazines with all my pictures in them.” Then he shrugged and thought for a moment. “But some of these paparazzi fucks are scumbags and they ruin it for the rest of us licensed professionals.” He showed me his press card, proud to have the tangible proof he was not a member of the cesspool. And this was the way Chester responded to every one of my questions; first defending himself and all paparazzi and then absolving himself by insisting he was above them. It quickly made something clear to me–he was a total schizophrenic. Part of him believed he was good, righteous and even equal to the celebrities he stalked. The other part was absolutely convinced he was a dirty, slimy, disgusting piece of excrement. And these two identities were in constant, relentless war with each other.

Coincidentally at this time I was making some realizations about family dysfunction. In particular the way a child will fight to maintain the belief that a parent is noble and good even when the parent is in fact a monster. This need to keep the parent good is so great the child will ultimately make him/herself the one at fault; the one to blame; the one clearly unworthy of being loved and deserving of such horrific treatment. This had a lot of resonance for me especially in Chester’s presence.

Every night I’d get out of his litter-strewn car, take a long, hot shower and write down my observations in a journal I was keeping. There was no central idea for a film yet. There were not even scenes, only fragments. But I knew without a doubt I had my main character.

THIS JUST IN: apparently my pangs of distress about the abandoned infant were not unfounded. Delirious has just been pulled from its two original screens in NY and and moved to a different single theater. The same thing has happened in LA. Not really in the mood to write much more tonight. Good night, my friends.

Dear Friends,

Mr. DiCillo is under sedation at the moment. He has asked me to fill in for him while he is out. Just before going under he requested I inform you that one of his last acts before his breakdown was the completion of the final episode in the DiCillo DeMeans DiCillo video clip series. It can be viewed HERE. 

His last words to me were, “God help us all…” 

Thank you for your patience and understanding. 

Dr. Everett L. Owen, PH. D

NY Behavioral Institute of Clinical Psychology (NYBICP)

Here’s a funny story for you.  Just finished two days of NY press for the film. Nothing much to report there. Except one guy asked me at a “roundtable” if I’d ever shoot films for other directors again. Could have just been the jet lag but I almost threw him out the window. No, that’s not the funny story. 

The premiere of the film was sponsored by the GenArt Film Festival last Friday here in NY. The audience comprised primarily their guests who were excited to see the movie and to see Steve Buscemi, Callie Thorne and Kevin Corrigan who were the only actors in the film actually in town. I had met Kieran Culkin a few months ago. I invited him and his younger brother Rory. So, that was our celebrity guest list. We did the traditional red carpet photo shots (though in this case it was actually brown plaid because we were in the lower level of the Tribeca Grand Hotel). There were a surprisingly large number of paparazzi who went lunged after the Culkin brothers like hunger-crazed hyenas. Then I quickly introduced the film and went upstairs to eat while the film played.

At the dinner were my producer Bob Salerno and his wife Tina, my wife Jane and Steve Buscemi and his wife Jo. Callie and Kevin stayed to watch the film.Still no funny story yet. 

After dinner we headed back down to the theater to do a Q&A. Just as I was about to walk in front of the audience Salerno whispered to me, “Someone said Michael Pitt is in the audience.” I went out, introduced the cast then looked up and said, “I just heard a rumor that Michael Pitt is here. Is that true?”

A moment later Michael stood up and joined us on stage to a surge of applause from the crowd. I embraced him. There. Right there. That’s the funny story. You know why? Because there are certain stories in this business that 

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