- “Drunk on the Moon” by Tom Waits, 1974

Chapter 3: Meeting Jacob

Song Selection: Muddy Waters – Manish Boy

Every city has a moment in its history when the entire world is watching. The privileged and the connected tend to have front seats to these milestone events, while the rest of the population looks through the screens of their television sets, flat or otherwise. This mass viewing makes the non-privileged feel like they are still part of the scene, the decision, the concert, the parade. When, in reality, the masses have much less influence than they think they do. But that’s OK: perception is reality.

On June 14, 2007, the entire planet was watching Cleveland. The Cleveland Cavaliers had advanced to the NBA Finals and, while outmatched by the Spurs, like every other underdog town in America, the local population truly believed that, for the first time in decades, the 216 had a chance at winning. And, so, whoever had access or was owed a favor, had a ticket to the Quicken Loans Arena, known locally as simply The Q. The rest of the population stayed home, or went to a local pub, to watch what may be a historical moment.

Jacob could have easily watched from his company’s box seats. Correction: from his father’s company’s box seats. Like so many other young men in town, Jewish men to be exact, Jacob stood to inherit and then continue his father’s real estate legacy. And, while dad built his from the ground up, Jacob was simply born to it. Just like Prince William was born into his birthright. The difference being that while William’s fortune depends on the tax payers of his countrymen who, for whatever reason, find it perfectly normal to work hard and then give their money away to preserve some sort of outdated sovereignty, Jacob’s father earned his. Which paved for a much easier path for his son.

That night, Jacob, 33, could have easily spent his evening watching that pivotal game. However, instead, he found himself with the commoners, at Flannery’s Pub on East 4th Street. Most of the street was still underdeveloped and while a more fine establishment would have suited him, it made for a convenient early dinner with his fiance, Rebecca, who, at 25, knew that her only role in life, her only true ambition, was to marry a rich Jewish man. This is what her parents groomed her for. This is why her surprising admission to Brandeis, despite a 2.5 high school GPA, raised a few eye brows at the local Israel fundraisers. But what surprised, and disappointed, her family, was that, after four years at Brandeis, she came home without a profession and, even worse, without a rich Jewish man to marry.

However, her time away from home didn’t all go to waste. One of her Women’s Studies cohorts, over a poetry slam at Chums, mentioned that she had a single cousin in Cleveland, one that graduated from Ohio State, and was to inherit his father’s business. “How very bourgeoisie,” Rebecca at first thought. Her parents agreed. But then they quickly realized that she, with her Women’s Studies $100K diploma, was out of options. So reluctantly, they encouraged their daughter to go on a date with Jacob. Rebecca obliged her parents.  Two years later, Jacob proposed.

And, tonight, they found themselves in the midst of a crowded Irish pub in Downtown Cleveland, where all the hanging television screens played the big game. Rebecca, the Beachwood princess, 25, attractive and wearing Prada, is picking over her salad. Jacob, dark-haired, handsome and dressed in in a Burberry suit, nurses his empty glass, trying to get the attention of their waiter.

REBECCA

…the florist has committed to August 14th, but the caterer has another event that day…so I told him, ‘Look, do you want to do the biggest event in the city this summer or not?  Jean Grezuese is doing the styling, so Cleveland Magazine is going to make our wedding the feature in their August issue.

Rebecca pauses and notices that Jacob has tuned out.

REBECCA (CONT’D)

Jacob…You alright there?

JACOB

(looking away from the tv)

I’m sorry hon, this is the final game. It’s the championship and our city is in it.

REBECCA

I don’t see what is so interesting about basketball.  They score like a hundred goals…So, anyway, everything except for the catering is set.  We’ve got people coming from Israel, Vancouver, New York and Switzerland for our big day…

As she continues on her monologue, most of it fades away from Jacob’s consciousness.

JACOB

Switzerland?

Rebecca tilts her head and rolls her eyes.

REBECCA

My mother’s brother. 

Jacob tunes in, if briefly.

JACOB

Ahhhh…Millberg?

Rebecca smiles sarcastically.

REBECCA

Yes. He’s works to recover Holocaust funds.

Rebecca says this with the determination of a newly minted politician.

JACOB

Really?  What does he do with the money?

REBECCA

(startled by the question)

It goes to the JWF. To plant trees in Israel…Or something.

JACOB

(raising an eyebrow)

I’m sure.

REBECCA

Are you kidding?  These people are really important, and they will be really helpful to our life together.

Rebecca looks down and resumes picking at her salad. All the while, she imagines the wedding checks arriving in several months.

JACOB

I know, you’re right. I’ve just been a bit distracted…

REBECCA

Did your mother review the list?

JACOB

List?

Rebecca, irritated, quits her salad and throws her napkin on her plate.

REBECCA

Ok, I can’t believe you!  The invite list. Our planner emailed it to your office for you to give to your mother!  The invitations need to go out ASAP!

JACOB

I’m sure it’s there. Besides, I GUARANTEE my mom will approve.

At this point, Jacob glances over to the TV above the bar and notices the waitress.

REBECCA

If we don’t get our ducks in a row, this thing won’t fly.  Honey, we have SO many great people working on this…you think it’s easy to pull off THE most glamorous wedding in Cleveland this year?

JACOB

(looking back at Rebecca)

Why this year?  Why not for all time?  I know it’s like your Superbowl, I’m doing everything….

Jacob’s phone rings in his jacket pocket.

JACOB (CONT’D)

I’m sorry, hon, can you hold on?

Jacob walks over to the bar, reaching for his phone. The female bartender, mid 20’s, pretty, with a Joan Jett haircut and overall punk look, is wearing black corset over her tight white t-shirt with tattoo peaking out. She approaches Jacob.

FEMALE BARTENDER

(flirtatiously)

You look like you could use a drink.

JACOB

Vodka. Straight up. Double shot.

(on phone)

Shit! Did you just see this on the news?  What do they say?

Jacob furiously scans the televisions.  The game is on all of them. Puts cell phone away back into pocket. Female Bartender comes back with the drink and puts glass on coaster and slides it over to Jacob.

FEMALE BARTENDER

One double shot of vodka, straight up.

Female Bartender seductively looks at Jacob, who picks up his glass. She then walks away. Jacob, while putting his glass back on coaster, notices that she has scrawled him a note: “I’m going to fuck you. 555-4646.”

Jacob, surprised, glances over at Female Bartender, who’s helping other customers. He puts the shot down and quickly walks back to the table.

JACOB

Honey, I’m really sorry, I just found out my dad’s building is on fire.

REBECCA

(genuinely surprised)

Oh, no. Which one?

JACOB

(points down the street)

Euclid.   I need to run over there.

REBECCA

The casino one?

JACOB

Yep.

REBECCA

So what about the list?

Jacob, nods, picks up his keys from the table and puts them in his pocket.

JACOB

Honey, I’ll have dad print it out.

Jacob leans in and kisses Rebecca on the cheek.

JACOB (CONT’D)

I need to go check out this fire.  My dad wants me to see what’s going on.

REBECCA

That dump should have been torn down years ago. Could be a blessing.

Jacob looks at her incredulously and tosses a $100 bill on the table. He then walks over to the bar, picks up the coaster, puts it in his pocket and exits the Pub. Rebecca misses this as she’s too busy admiring her Tiffany 3-carat engagement ring.

you will not understand

for centuries.”

– e.i. levi, 1968

Chapter 2: Meeting Marianne

Song Selection: Dan Auerbach – Mean Monsoon (Keep It Hid)

Downtown Cleveland birthed creepy alleys. These alleys have their own corners, their own smells and their own secrets. Walking thru these alleys, even during daytime, evokes a sense of paranoia and mistrust: at any second, from any direction, a person, car or object could appear, startling you, making you look up from your Blackberry and notice that, suddenly, you’re no longer walking the streets of a civilized city, but rather, walking behind the buildings that, on surface, may look slick and modern, but, truly, are old, textured and decaying.

One summer afternoon, Marianne ended up in such an alley. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. But most of life isn’t supposed to happen the way it does, the way we never see it unfold, leading us to the less familiar.  That’s because life doesn’t happen according to some master plan. Instead, life happens in those gaps between events: while waiting at the grocery check-out counter, and meeting the love of your life; on the drive home from work and hearing on the radio that a royal princess has been shot;  during the one time, between all your work travels, you decide to surprise your wife and change of the sheets of the bed that you’ve shared for ten years and discover a used condom. This is when life happens. This is when everything changes.

That specific weekday, everything changed for Marianne. Aged 33, with red hair, a slim figure and wearing black pants, a white short-sleeved top and briskly walking down Euclid Avenue, full of fog from the ever-changing weather, Marianne was in a hurry and looked quickly at her inexpensive watch.

MARIANNE

Shit!

Marianne sped up her walk.  A homeless African American man, mid 40’s, dressed in old blue pants and worn out shirt, approached her.

HOMELESS MAN

Excuse me, m’am?

Marianne reluctantly slowed down. She knew how he felt. She’s been in his shoes. Or lack of.

HOMELESS MAN (CONT’D)

M’am, I just got of prison. I got this piece of paper here, can you please read it?

Marianne stopped, took the the crumbled, hand-written notebook paper into her own hands, while her new friend pointed to it and looked closely back at her, with simultaneous desperation and hope. Marianne then read his wrinkled message. In a child’s print penmanship it said, “I just got of prison. I can’t read. I have no one, except my grandma, and she lives in Akron. I need $20 for a Grayhound ticket to see her. I want to rebuild my life. Thank you.”

Marianne looked at the note and looked at the homeless man, while he continued to point at the paper.

HOMELESS MAN (CONT’D)

See, it says right here. They dropped me off in the middle of this city and I just want to get home to my grandma. Can you please help me?

Our heroine hesitated, but she’s also a kind a heart. A lost soul who, like most insecure adults, wasn’t loved enough as a child. Or wasn’t loved in the way she wanted to be loved.  Regardless, she felt for the man. And despite being late for her waitress job, she did the right thing. She did what she felt was right.

MARIANNE

Well, I don’t have a lot of money. But I do know what it’s like to not have a family.

She then reached into purse, took out $10 and handed it to the homeless man.

MARIANNE (CONT’D)

Here you go. Rebuild your life. Good luck to you.

The homeless man, now smiling in gratitude, reached out to shake Marianne’s hand and, always being polite and never wanting to offend, she shook his.

HOMELESS MAN

God bless you.

Suddenly, Marianne heard police and fire sirens, at increasing levels. She turned around to see what was going and as quickly as she turned back, the homeless man was gone.

MARIANNE

(looking around)

You…too.

Smoke replaced the fog. Cop cars and fire trucks appeared everywhere. Marianne, now now dazed in the confusion of what just happened, looked at the nearly invisible street. She couldn’t see anything and looked back at her watch.

MARIANNE (CONT’D)

Fuck!

She then realized that she’d never make it to work on time or via her normal route, so she crossed the street, hoping for better visibility. She then cut into the alley sandwiched between the tall, old buildings. This one specific alley, located parallel to and just South of Euclid Ave. and North of  Huron and tee-ing off into East 9th Street connected busy pedestrian streets in a subversive path, with the mist-filled sewers, provided an atmosphere of utter dichotomy to the activity just outside one of the alley’s three exits.

Marianne hastily cut through this dark, narrow, old alley and passed a Bomb Shelter sign. The uneven cement, partly covering the original cobblestone and the overflowing  garbage dumpsters further frazzled the waitress. All she was so desperately trying to do was get to work. So she could pay her bills. And here she is, in the middle of an alley, deafened by the sirens just on the other side of what were once considered high-rises…

Suddenly, within the chaos, Marianne began to hear the echo of footsteps behind her.  She turned around and, seeing no one, slightly relieved yet still concerned, she turned back around and kept walking. The emergency vehicle sirens kept escalating. And she began to walk even faster.

In fact, she was so focused on her rapid walking, to punch in that work clock on time, that she began to block out the external noise. She learned this trick from living in bad neighborhoods, full of midnight noise and mayhem. As she tuned into herself, everything got very quiet. So quiet that when a rat in front of her, Marianne was genuinely startled.

As the rat ran to the other side of the alley, Marianne quickly realized that she wasn’t alone in this alley.

She stopped.

She turned around.

She saw the figure that was following her all this time. Before Marianne even had a chance to react, the trench coat- wearing predator pulled out a knife, stabbed Marianne in the left shoulder, whispered the following to the fresh victim…

You shouldn’t have ever turned around, bitch.  

…and then turned around and ran away.

Marianne, shocked, placed her right hand on her left shoulder blade. Her white waitress shirt now full of blood and face in disbelief, Marianne passed out and collapsed, falling on the dirty alley floor, sprawled next to one of the overflowing dumpsters.

Seconds later, out of a corner, the rat ran towards Marianne and stayed there, licking the blood off her new neighbor.

Cleveland, The Treatment. Chapter 1: Welcome to Cleveland

Nearly five years ago I set out with the ambitious goal of writing my first script. Since then, it’s been rewritten, edited, re-edited, read by several producers, a few family members and even some friends; people who generously gave of themselves to help this project reach a certain place that it hasn’t yet reached.

A few months ago, I was doing some thinking. This included killing the project entirely. Another was to start from scratch. Neither felt right. There’s something about this story that still keeps me up at night.

So I came up with a third plan of action: I’m going to take another stab at it, but, this time, as an old school treatment, but with a twist. I will write it as a novella and, at the same time, include script-formatted dialog. I’ll also be including other media, breaking traditional treatment rules and, instead, morphing the writing into whatever feels most natural, chapter by chapter.

I’ll also be sharing the chapters with you and if you have ideas, thoughts, feedback, etc., I encourage you to share them with me with blog replies, social media, email, etc. This is the modern world and the interactive relationship between writer and reader is far more intimate and immediate than in the entire history of the arts.

If you begin to care for a character, let me know. If you aren’t clear about behavior or motivation, share this confusion as, chances are if it’s not clear to you, it’s not clear to others. If  a setting or a room lacks description to be as vivid as it possibly can, I’d love to hear what details you think will make it real.

Another stylistic decision I’ve made is that with each entry, I’m going to include a link to a music video so that each chapter has its own soundtrack. I wrote the original script with multiple songs in mind. Additionally, I’ll be including original photography, all taken on my various Cleveland excursions. Sure, the writing has to set the tone, independently. But, why not liberate the senses and have fun along the way?

Finally, I’m aiming for a very specific genre with this story, but will first write the tale and then let you decide what genre you think it conveys. If you and I agree, I will have succeeded.

Thank you for your time and energy. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Cheers,

- Alex,

January 15, 2012

———————————————————————————————————————

“Look Out, Cleveland, the storm is comin’ through,

And it’s runnin’ right up on you.” – Robbie Robertson, 1969

Chapter 1: Welcome to Cleveland

Song Selection: My City Was Gone, by The Pretenders

A city has its own heartbeat. Its own rhythm. Its own way of doing things. Each city has its own norm and either your behavior is within one standard deviation of that ideal or you are cast as an outsider, looking in, hoping to blend. Because in most cities, large or small, to blend is to thrive. Each geography, thru its clothes, music, food, hair styles, traffic patterns, education, industry and real estate, defines the leadership and success of that city, of that place.

Having a sense of place is critical because that sets the compass for one’s behavior and the choices he makes. And those choices, some open and some discreet, propel an individual towards each decade of his life.

A city’s success or failure is the result of a number of collective choices, made by individuals over the course of the city’s history. And, while some cities encourage exploration and travel, some cities prefer things familiar.

Cleveland is that kind of city. Cleveland prefers its people local. Cleveland trusts the locals and is suspect of outsiders. “What’s a girl from L.A. doing in a place like this?” You can replace L.A. with any other big city of choice and hold tight if that city happens to be outside America’s borders.

And, for many years, this focus on nurturing home soil with more local dirt worked for many years. People had their steel mills, their churches and their sports teams. Cleveland served all the needs of people who craved the American Dream.

But, nearly half way into the twentieth century, the world changed and many American soldiers risked and lost their lives fighting the overseas enemies to protect the home soil. This also meant that the local geography could never operate in the days of the past. Some cities caught on, some were lost in nostalgia. Steel meant life, so without all those mills, what was left?

Cleveland, nestled strategically underneath Lake Erie and founded by Moses Cleaveland, was built with hope and ambition by immigrants and African Americans, neither really locals to the land until many generations were born. A population indoctrinated with the, “This is how we do things,” philosophy, looking inward, eventually, had its price.

The gift of all that decay, though, was that it left crevices and within those crevices, secrets could be kept. Every city has its own underground and Cleveland is no exception. The difference is that it has its own secrets, unique to its land, its geography. And, this underground is not limited to the poor or the outcasts. No, moral decay permeates itself into the lives of those who are members of high society, because, at a certain point, people stopped questioning how they got there in the first place. What rules did they have to break? Which politicians received their black bags? Which newspapers did they sponsor?

It’s not to say that no one who made it big did so without a moral compass. That would be a generalization unwarranted for this one, solitary story. Besides, each city has its own level of crime and, as everyone knows, criminals rise thru the trenches when economic times worsen. But this story, this is the story of the 216 area code, one that, unlike much of the local population, crosses the Cuyahoga River, back and forth, constantly, with no apologies and no remorse.

And, on the eve of the city’s resurrection, on June 14, 2007, before the restaurant explosion, before the film industry moved in and exposed the hidden alleys – full of mystery and fog – and during the Cavs final championship game against the Spurs, a few crimes took place. These crimes then led to the unveiling of more crimes. And so on.

Before a church becomes a cathedral, it is first a brick. And, before the first construction worker lays down that first brick, he first lays down the foundation. That foundation will either hold the cathedral in place, for century upon century, or it will, one day, force the cathedral to topple, propel white plight or burn down a river.

This is the story of such a toppling. It’s a story of destruction. It’s a tale that could happen to anyone, anywhere. Except this one happened in Cleveland.

Seventh birthday party, Chicago

“You could’ve done anything — if you’d wanted
And all your friends and family think that you’re lucky.
But the side of you they’ll never see
Is when you’re left alone with the memories
That hold your life together like
Glue.”

- “This is the Day” by The The

I’ve been feeling very itchy about things. Geographically, financially, in every way possible.

I don’t quite understand where life is. And it just feels like there’s a significant gap between where one thinks she’ll be approaching a certain age vs. where one is today. Where I am today.

Next month, I am turning 40.

In Judaism, 40 is the Age of Wisdom. Truthfully, I have never felt more foolish.

Of course, there is a lot to be grateful for: beautiful, talented people are at my side and my work – teaching, coaching and writing – is very meaningful. I show gratitude and do my part to reciprocate and pay it forward for all the goodness that is around me.

In fact, many have called me the eternal optimist, facing the tests of life with a can-do attitude and resilience that may have crushed others by now. I don’t know. I don’t walk in anyone else’s shoes and no one walks in mine.

Here’s what I do know:

The Secret doesn’t work for me. When I intend, things go opposite. When I let go, good things happen.

If the body is a temple, then at 40 it feels more like an ancient ruin. It’s awfully demanding and requires twice the work for half the results that I got when I was 30.

Having worked full time since I was 17, by now, I should have a significant nest egg. But I don’t.

In mid-2011, I realized that I spent two and half years in a depressive state that was triggered by a corporate layoff.  I had no idea how much of my identity was tied to being an executive.  Without a title, what was I? Who was I?

Fifteen years ago, all I wanted was to live on the beach, write books and be married. Yet I’ve spent the past decade and a half moving around and living on three of the five Great Lakes, snow blizzards and all.

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately reflecting on the 90′s, a time when I began to navigate myself. We all make mistakes, by why do one’s own feel so much more deafening and fatalistic?

In June 1995, when I took my very last exam at DePaul University, I was driving home in my car and The The’s “This is The Day” came on the radio. As the lyrics and melody serenaded my soul and as I took the long way home back to suburbia, via Lake Shore Drive, and felt the breeze in my hair, I felt simultaneously relieved that the life of full-time school and full-time work would soon be cut down to just the latter and, also, a strange sense of paralyzed fear: This is it?

And, nearly seventeen years later, this same sting of reality echoes in my heart: Is this it?

True, lots of amazing things have happened in between, some initiated by me, some on their own accord. And during the past nearly six presidential elections that have transpired between now and then, a monumental amount of change occurred, both internal and external. The list, if written, will read like a plea for validation. As in, yeah, all those experiences and accomplishments feel pretty important and significant for that much time.

So what?

Today, as I sit in my newly moved-into apartment, after leaving a house that wasn’t affordable from three months into my mortgage, but one that I had miraculously sustained for two and a half years, and I look outside and see the quiet street, nestled just south of a big, beautiful lake, I wonder, again, Is this it?

Always being the dreamer – being the person with exceptionally high hopes and equal work ethic – approaching the four decade mark feels incredibly anti-climatic. It feels isolated. It makes me hungry. As in perpetually hungry.

I once said to someone, “Pain is the difference between what is and what we want it to be.”

I still believe in the dream, I’m just having a very tough time understanding its proximity.

Perhaps 40 does this to others, as well? I don’t know.

It was ten years ago that, on my 30th birthday, I spent the day in classes, taking multiple midterm exams, including statistics, which may as well as be engineering when it comes to my comprehension skills. This year, I will also be in class all day, this time teaching students, both undergrad and graduate.  Yet another coda to life’s many ironies.

The funny thing is that life has aligned in a good way: I help others achieve their goals. I have wonderful friends and am in a happy relationship. I love the view from my balcony and I see my family in Chicago for life’s big events. Many of these developments have really started to happen over the past two years, most only in the second half of 2011.

Life feels good. Life feels like a giant struggle.

And this is where the core of things really fold: if, when even at its happiest, life still feels this hard, then does it ever get easier?

Do things ever get lighter?

The heaviness of the past three years took a toll on me that was much bigger than I was aware of during the time of its happening. It was like the slow lobster effect, where tiny increments of what makes one whole slowly get taken away, but at such micro bits that one can’t even notice until a large vacuum exists.  And then suddenly you find yourself in a hall of doors and mirrors, having no idea what’s real, what’s an illusion and what’s worth walking thru; you simply know that the door behind you is no longer an option.

Corporate America, for me, was no longer an option. 60 hour work weeks. The politics. The pressure. The cost to my health and personal life. All of it ate away at me in ways I had grown so accustomed to over the two decades I spent there, that the part of me that was me in my core – the writer – had trapped herself in equating success with corporate stature, with rate of promotion and with perceived power.

I have no regrets. These were my lessons to learn.

And now, today, as I approach the fifth decade of life, I pray for that lightness: lightness in spirit, lightness in body, lightness in soul.

I hope 40 is kind to me. I hope it is kind to everyone it meets.

Mostly, I just hope.

Tyler Davidson’s N.E. Ohio produced cinematic masterpiece Take Shelter recently got nominated for five Independent Film Spirit Awards: Best Film, Best Director (Jeff Nichols), Best Lead Actor (Michael Shannon), Best Supporting Actress (Jessica Chastain) and the Piaget Producer’s Award. These accolades add to recognition at Sundance and then Cannes, where the film won the prestigious Critics Week Grand Prize. And, The National Board of Review just named Take Shelter one of its Top Ten Independent Films of the Year.

The humble yet driven professional, Tyler, also a family man with close ties to his community right here in the Cleveland area, has experienced an incredible year. I caught up with the busy, in-demand and extremely polite filmmaker between his flights to L.A. and numerous projects. Given all the activity surrounding his production company, Strange Matter Films, we at Cool Cleveland thought that reaching out to him every three or four weeks and checking in to see what’s new is an up-to-date way to support a great local artist. After all, it was exactly one year ago that we first interviewed Tyler, just as he received the Sundance invitation. And, in a brilliant sequence of events that came full circle this past December, Tyler received the great news that he’s heading back to Sundance with his next project, Compliance.

Cool Cleveland: How did you learn about the Spirit Awards nominations and what was your reaction?

Tyler Davidson: I was having brunch with a fellow producer in New York the day after the Gotham Awards and I knew that the Spirit Awards nominations were coming that day, but I didn’t know when. The other producer looked at his phone, then looked up at me and was shaking his head in disbelief: not only was Take Shelter nominated, but more than any other film.

I was, of course, ecstatic. The Spirit Awards are the premier awards in the world for independent film. When you look at some of the other films that were nominated alongside of us, I realized that we were in some pretty tremendous company. It was extremely gratifying. The nominations feel very meaningful to me.

What do these nominations mean to you, as a producer?

TD: On a personal level, it’s extremely flattering and a huge honor. But it’s impossible for me not to consider what they mean to the film itself and the continued business that the film does. And, also, to my career.

These awards come at a good time. It’s an opportunity for people to be reminded [of Take Shelter]. As we look to other awards and the DVD release, these kinds of events are great to boost people’s awareness of the film. [Also,] I’m getting more and more recognition from colleagues in the industry. This opens a lot of doors professionally.

Why do you think Take Shelter is having this kind of impact on the film community?

TD: Take Shelter is demonstrating that when it comes to movies, size doesn’t matter. What matters is if you move people. For various reasons, people are being moved by this film. The film is tapping into a feeling and anxiety that many people in the world have right now, on a personal level and global level. It’s really resonating.

Your new film, Compliance, was just accepted by Sundance. How does it feel to be invited two years in a row?

TD: When I was invited for Take Shelter, I felt like it was lightning striking. Now, going back with a second film, the second year in a row, I feel like something good is really happening. It doesn’t feel like an accident. It’s reflective of some great people I am working with and good decisions I am making with projects that I am getting involved with. In some ways, it’s even more validating than it was last year.

What’s next?

TD: What I’m focused on right now is getting ready for Sundance and positioning Compliance for a distributor: coordinating with other filmmakers, domestic film reps and my publicist, trying to come up with the correct game plan to position the film for audiences and buyers…I feel like independent film is a really important piece of our film culture and the film-going pie. For many people, it’s the preferred form of entertainment.

Reprinted with permission and gratitude from CoolCleveland.com.

four and a half slates out of five

In today’s fiscally challenging times, personal film projects are risky. And, yet, the present creates the perfect timing for films that focus less on big budgets and more so on craftsmanship. Audience segmentation keeps breaking down into cultural microcosms, which means tailoring films for the people who will love your film most makes a great deal of sense. Especially if it’s a quality project like “The Way.”

Written, directed, produced and starring Emilio Estevez and featuring his father, Martin Sheen, “The Way” is a beautiful film–in message, scenery and production.

The premise of “The Way” focuses on Sheen’s Tom, a man in his third act who is also a widower, an ophthalmologist and a dad to his only son, Daniel, a free spirit played in flashback by Estevez. In the beginning of the film, Tom receives a call on the golf course that Daniel has just died while on a pilgrimage in France. Tom then flies to Europe, to identify the body, only to then strap on his deceased son’s jacket and backpack and complete the journey himself, spreading his son’s ashes at various locations of El Camino de Santiago.

During his adventure, Tom witnesses the pilgrimage of others, embraces the kindness of strangers and befriends three lost souls who accompany him on his journey. He is a father figure to the group and only Sheen’s trustworthy persona could showcase the myriad of post-shock emotions the trip evokes: anger, pain, compassion, love and, eventually, closure.

Shot on location in France and Spain, “The Way” offers its viewers a reprieve from summer blockbusters and captures the essence of the human spirit: strong and resilient one moment, fragile and unsure the next. There’s also an unapologetic religious undertone to the movie and regardless of the audience’s faith, the story captivates in every single scene.

Finally, given the serious nature of the movie, there’s smartly layered comic relief, some provided by Sheen and some by his “Wizard of Oz” like international companions, who are simultaneously loveable and ridiculous, with a flaw and a power within that they just have to notice in order to accept themselves. In other words, they are human.

In a flashback scene to the airport, Daniel’s character reveals to his father, “You don’t choose a life, dad. You live one.” That is the wisdom of this must-see film. That is “The Way.”

DIRECTOR: Emilio Estevez SCREENWRITER: Emilio Estevez PRODUCERS: Emilio Estevez, Alberto Marini, Janet Templeton CAST: Martin Sheen, Emilio Estevez, Deborah Kara Unger, James Nesbitt RUN TIME: 115 minutes MPAA RATING: PG-13

three and a half slates out of five

“The Ides of March” is a testosterone packed political thriller starring Ryan Gosling and George Clooney. Clooney plays Ohio governor Mike Morris, an ambitious family man and politician who has hired Stephen (Gosling) to be his wunderkind media manager, helping him win the top prize: the White House.

In the beginning, Stephen signals loyalty, honesty and respect towards his employer, in whom he firmly believes, both as a boss and as the future President of the United States. Stephen works tirelessly to ensure this win, feeding off the expertise of Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman), Morris’ most trusted ally. In fact, Stephen is so determined in his vision that even when the opponent’s right hand man Tom (Paul Giamatti) first approaches him to flip sides, the young leader declines and resumes business as usual.

All moves forward almost effortlessly and enjoyably, especially as Stephen befriends a young intern named Molly (Evan Rachel Wood), who, at first opportunity, makes a very forward pass at Stephen, one that he can’t resist. This encounter, while innocent at first, opens the irreversible Pandora’s Box to the story, some of it predictable, some surprising.

Clooney also co-wrote the script with Grant Heslov (“Good Night and Good Luck”) and Beau Willimon. Willimon wrote “Farragut North,” the play upon which “The Ides of March” is based. Additionally, Clooney directed the film, wearing many hats on the ambitious project.

The A-list supporting cast also includes Marisa Tomei and Jeffrey Wright, and, together, the ensemble of talent delivers powerful and credible performances that respect the intelligence of the viewers.

Simultaneously, the film has a 1990s feel to it. Despite the critical use of technology, because today’s times reflect a rabbit-hole cynicism, driven by the world’s on display expectation, one where political scandals, revolutionary movements and economic collapses are only a Twitter feed away, there’s little left that truly surprises people when it comes to playing dirty.

In “The Ides of March,” it is Stephen who is most surprised by the dirty laundry he discovers and, quickly, becomes part of, determining his next chess move as he faces not only personal and professional ruin but, also, his own survival.

The title of this film alone tells the audience everything that will happen. Because for every Caesar, there is a Brutus. And every man has his day in court.

DIRECTOR: George Clooney SCREENWRITERS: George Clooney, Grant Heslov, Beau Willimon PRODUCERS: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Davisson Killoran, Stephen Pevner CAST: George Clooney, Ryan Gosling, Evan Rachel Wood, Marisa Tomei RUNTIME: 101 minutes MPAA RATING: R

 It’s no secret that Martin Scorsese is my favorite director.

Like all Scorsese films, The Departed demonstrates the heart of darkness. And, more than any other film, it visually articulated the brutal and duplicitous nature of mankind. Violence — both physical and psychological — prevails, with each protagonist carrying the good and evil within him. Costello, who, in an early scene — as he trains his protege and future corrupt cop Colin (Matt Damon) — finally comes out of the dark shadow, into the light, and asks still youthful and innocent Colin, “When I was your age they would say we can become cops, or criminals… What I’m saying to you is this: when you’re facing a loaded gun, what’s the difference?”

Colin grows up to be William’s nemesis and one night William, terrified from what he’s discovered, shows up at Queenan’s house. He comes in through the back way and sits down on a bench in a dark corridor in the house of the very man who roped him into the underground. Behind William hangs a print of The Last Supper. And, as the camera moves between the isolated William and the fatherly Queenan, the elder tells the young cop, “My wife’s asleep. She left supper out. Come and have something to eat.” If anyone else had delivered these lines, they wouldn’t have resonated. But Martin Sheen made us believe that he was trustworthy. And, just minutes later in The Departed, in his very last scene of the story, he proves it. He is trapped. He is the fallen angel. Literally and symbolically.

Martin Sheen’s final scene in that Freudian film gives me chills every single time. Because, sometimes, we feel trapped with nowhere to go, knowing that the trade-off to being ourselves can, sometimes, lead to complete and total isolation. Sheen gets this and we are horrified because that could be us on that roof.

This is Sheen’s power: he convinces us to trust him, to follow him — as president, as soldier, as a union worker on an airline. And he’s passed his craft unto his kids. If you are a film lover then you have seen the talented Sheen Family at work. Whether in the tragically riveting Apocalypse Now and Platoon, or the generation-defining Breakfast Club, Martin Sheen and his sons Emilio Estevez and Charlie Sheen demonstrate convincing actability that covers all the major genres: comedy, drama, western, romance, action. Versatile in television as well as the big screen, in acting as well as writing, directing and producing, these men know how to captivate the audience and retain our attention to the very end.

In several movies, we have been lucky to see both generations simultaneously: Wall Street, Cadence, The War at Home and In the Custody of Strangers. Both Sheens even did a double homage to two of their iconic war films in the parody Hot Shots Part Deux and then later showed off their comedic chops when the elder Sheen guest-starred on Two and a Half Men.

More currently, Emilio Estevez wrote, directed, produced and starred in a personal film called The Way. He cast his father in the lead role and together they are traveling the country in a bus, promoting the movie city by city, living out a cinematic pilgrimage to attract people to see a story about a man who goes on his own pilgrimage. Including Cleveland in their tour, the father and son held a Q&A session after the Cleveland Tower City screening. Their energy, their disposition and their generosity permeated throughout the theater like a breath of fresh air.

The premise of The Way centers around Sheen’s Tom, a widowed ophthalmologist who, on a golf course, gets a call from Europe declaring that his only son just died. Tom flies to Europe to identify the body and, in a surprising turn of events, decides to finish his son’s 500 mile France to Spain journey, called, “El camino de Santiago.” And, at all significant stops, he takes out the box carrying his sons ashes and spreads them along the way.

On his journey, Tom meets up with various characters and eventually finds himself part of a quartet. “As in The Wizard of Oz, everyone is looking for something that they already possess,” revealed Estevez after the screening.

The Way is a beautiful film. It’s far more European than American, in tone, in scenery and in message. It’s calming, it’s comforting and it’s kind. It’s just like Emilio and Martin.

Gleefully, I asked them the one question I ask all successful people in film: What advice would you give to young people trying to make it?

“Tell your story,” Estevez replied. “And don’t be Tarantino.”

“I’d like to add a story,” chimed in Sheen. “Emilio made a movie called Maximum Overdrive. It was awful. But he really wanted to work with Stephen King… I told him, ‘Maybe you should paint his house.’”

Another person in the audience got up and thanked them both for making a movie that “wasn’t vulgar and where no one got blown up.” Martin Sheen thanked the man and openly stated that Hollywood makes a lot of bad movies and that audiences deserve better.

The most emotional moment of the evening came when a woman got up from her seat and revealed that twenty years ago her daughter was raped and murdered and that by watching The Way something within her changed, adding, “Your movie is so magnificent!” Afterwards, Sheen came up to the woman, gave her a hug and offered comforting words.

Father and son also discussed their N.E. Ohio connection. Emilio mentioned, “I want to come to Ohio to make a film,” and his dad revealed the family’s ties to the area: Martin was born in Dayton and his wife was born in Cleveland, “on Euclid Avenue.”

Sheen also opened up about the craft, stating, “All artists have their own storage of personal pain” and that they are “sacred and should be guarded as such.”

Finally, when asked about working together and how they managed to pull off such a beautiful film that resonated without being overtly sentimental, Sheen wisely advised, “The worst enemy of an artist is sentiment… That is for the audience to decide.”

After the robust Q&A session, the crowd swarmed to potentially meet with either Martin or Emilio and, while the publicists did their job to protect the stars from all the commotion, the two men handled it like pros, with grace and patience, signing autographs, taking pictures and being fully engaged in the moment.

That is their gift: connecting with their audience both on-screen and off, making us feel understood and respected. And, while the hundreds of characters the Sheen family have convincingly portrayed over the past six decades has reflected a wide spectrum of emotions, including the violence that permeates a man’s soul, this evening in Downtown Cleveland, they showed all of us that we do have a choice in what course we take.

Sheen concluded the evening by openly sharing this about his religious path: “I wanted to know myself as a free man.”

Don’t we all?

Reprinted with permission and gratitude from CoolCleveland.com.

To witness the elephants in person felt different as earlier this year, for Film Slate Magazine and Cool Cleveland, I interviewed Lisa Leeman and Tchavdar Georgiev, who produced and edited of One Lucky Elephant, a documentary I watched with tears in my eyes this past March at the Cleveland International Film Festival. The  inter-species love story, of David Balding and his adopted and beloved Flora, shed perspective on just how elephants can think, feel and react, yet, all the while, reminding us that even with these human-like qualities, we should never mistaken them for being such. And, while we can love them and take care of them, simultaneous respect for their power and their vulnerability is critical to their longevity. The documentary also left a powerful impression with Oprah, who will be screening the film later this year on her OWN channel.

Here are a few photos from the new habitat. While taking them I wasn’t quite sure if I was watching elephants for the first time or just in a very different light. I forget. I bet they remember.