Usually when I think about independent films I think low budget, inexperienced, messy and full of dialogue that is questionable, this however just shows how much the big movies can hypnotise and cram us full of nonsense.
I have now watched a multitude of independent films that have surprised and delighted me, with a professional look and the obviously talented contributors having done an amazing job. Though one stand out film for me is Fairview St from Rebel Pictures, it is by far one of the best independent films I have ever had the pleasure of viewing, and that is my honest opinion. I may not have seen many, but easily enough to know when heart and soul have been pumped into the production. Who needs the big budget when you have determination?
Last week I was taking it easy, lounging on my bed and reading a book when my husband Jordan came in. Our conversation went as follows:
Jordan: "What did you say?"
Bre: "I didn't say anything."
Jordan: "Yeah, you did. You said something and then I said 'what?' and then you said 'nothing!'"
Bre: "No, I've been sitting here reading, I haven't said a thing."
“Do you need help?” Eve asked the restaurant manager, her dark-blue eyes glowing with hope that bordered on desperation.
The Ellis Island refugees and the new millennium off-the-Boeings immigrants had one thing in common. They came looking for work. Exploring the labyrinths of New York streets they knocked on the doors of stores and restaurants asking the same question over and over again, in broken English. “Do you need help?” Half the minimum wage would do.
“No,” the manager answered with the same reply. His eyes traveled up and down Eve’s body. “And we have a sign in the window that says so. If you could read English.”
"Sparky, reload the Big Bertha, now! Two minutes. All hands stand ready! Safety procedure Code Red. 2nd Mate out." I hear 2nd Mate's voice, thick with urgency and desperation, in my earpiece. I shudder. Big Bertha? Suicide. No time for Code Red checklist anyway.
"Yes, Sir! Big Bertha reload. Sparky out." I report back. "Baltu, power to the bleed capacitors, Checklist Procedure Code Red. Now!" I yell to my only remaining crew, the Second Lineman Baltugirbaldorge-and that is just his first name.
"So what do you wanna do?"
"Well, I was figuring we could just go to a diner and talk for a bit."
"Yes, if that's alright with you."
"I guess so but I just assumed you'd rather fuck me."
"What makes you say that?"
"Considering I'm a prostitute I would say that it just comes with the territory."
"I'm just looking for some companionship, that's all."
From word go Broken Dreams tells you in the title that it's going to be an emotional movie that suggests depressing themes. When I first read the title I was prepared for a film that centralised around a broken home or failed relationship, but these genres are merely background noise to the unexpected darker subjects that are tackled within this beautifully executed production.
Freaky Friday, Trading Places and the old classic Prince and Pauper get a make-over in Susan Shapiro's Overexposed. Rachel Solomon, an aspiring shutterbug from a Midwestern Jewish doctor's family, escapes suburban paradise for the bohemia of New York City , much to her kin's dismay. She gets a job at Vision magazine, replacing the previous art assistant, Elizabeth Mann, a daughter of a famous photographer. Little does Rachel know, the tall gangly brunette with looks not unlike her own, would replace her in her mother's family album and even in the antique wedding gown that should've been hers. When Elizabeth speed-marries Rachel's brother, she blissfully abandons her high heels for nursing bras - and the Solomons suddenly acquire a daughter they know how to love.
A Michigan girl who had come to New York to get her MFA from NYU, Shapiro wrote for the New York Times, Village Voice, Newsweek, The Forward, People, More, Glamour, and Cosmopolitan. She is a New School journalism professor, who lives in Greenwich Village and an author of five non-fiction books.
To get this bad must take a serious imbalance of the humors: I find myself in Mission Beach- like literally in Mission Beach- waking up with half my face in the sand, a gnarly gash on my knee, dry, caked blood all down my shin, missing a flip-flop and old burrito contents all over my shirt and in my beard. How many days have I been on this bender? I know it all started Friday at the Coaster with their $2 drafts. That's it.
Yesterday, I paid a much needed visit to the orthopedic doctor to get my knees checked. No, it's not because I am getting older (turning thirty does feel fantastic by the way). Thanks to all that hiking and running I did in my twenties, I have a nice bod but weak knees to go with it. I feel awful that I can't even go on a real run with my dog without being in pain. It truly is sad because I love, I mean looove running in the rain with her!
Anyway, back to the doctor's office- dressed in my pretty wavy skirt and knit top, I figured I was dressed appropriately- no need to lift up awfully long pants to my thighs for the exam. Little did I know I had to lift my damn knees for one of the x-rays! Ah ha. Had I not gotten so dark from all that summer sun, the specialist would have seen my embarrassed red face as I tried my hardest not to flash him. Then comes in the doctor. The true professional that he was, he didn't even bat an eye. He did the exam, suggested a bit of physical therapy to ease my pain and said I'd be back to running in no time. Phew.
I had spent the past six hours driving through the desert darkness, heading east on a whim. Nary the moon or city lights left me to my car headlights for guidance and the landscape of dirt and succulent foliage was left to my imagination. There was light coming out from somewhere, somewhere straight ahead and the tops of mountains could be made out in the distance, flat and carved by dry winds blowing for since a time no man can honestly recall. Dark on even darker and nothing more.
The sound of the waterfall, the cool wet darkness behind it, crouching and watching the sheath of water come down like a veil, and the pulsing drip, drip, drip from a spot where the water seeped through a crack in the rocks and pooled at his feet... that was his favorite memory.
Still she was able to see him
Lying on the other side
To sometimes touch
They'd reach across
And hold hands
Till the gusts blew strong
And broke their grip
Each day she'd feel
More rocks crumble beneath her
And fall from the ledge