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Thursday, Nov 26, 2009
"Project Greenlight" makes for sometimes thrilling TV. But it -- and its resulting film, "The Battle of Shaker Heights" -- shows why some aspiring auteurs really don't deserve the support of a major movie studio.
Aug 22, 2003 | There's a plague on this land of ours, one that few dare to face: Our cities and towns are absolutely filthy with aspiring directors. You may not have noticed, but look a little closer, and you'll see them: tapping away on their laptops at the corner table of the cafe, arguing about their favorite directors over pints at the local pub, aiming their digital video cameras at anything that looks edgy, from pigeons to homeless guys sleeping on benches. Middle-class parents nationwide have unknowingly raised a blight of self-proclaimed geniuses, the sorts who treasure the idea of being in charge of a film crew and a bunch of movie stars, who adore the notion of creating art that costs, oh, around half-a-million dollars a pop, at least.
This pompous breed is immune to practical discussions of getting a film funded, or the difficulty of getting it distributed once it's funded (no, Sundance is no guarantee), or the real possibility that, despite all their hard work, their film still might suck.
Finally, there's a cure for the misguided dreamers who've been frightening the public with their pretentious film jargon and their espresso halitosis for decades now. Despite its stated aim -- to discover talented writers and directors -- the HBO series "Project Greenlight," which wraps up Sunday at 9 p.m., is surely a government-funded plan to nip the dreams of deluded young filmmakers in the bud. While Miramax goes through the poker-faced motions of releasing the product of this season's show, yet another flaccid coming-of-age movie called "The Battle of Shaker Heights," their real aim is to stomp out this blight of glassy-eyed Hollywood hopefuls, thereby freeing countless innocents from having to sit through tedious discussions of imaginary casting choices ("I'm seeing a younger Kathy Bates in this one ...") and countless screenings of self-indulgent short films about pigeons.
True, "Project Greenlight" has always been painted as a deeply humane effort by young screenwriters/studmonkeys Matt Damon and Ben Affleck to bring gifted aspiring filmmakers to Hollywood. A screenwriter and a director are selected out of a teaming mass of hopefuls to make a $1 million film, compliments of Miramax, and the whole thing is documented on the TV show, compliments of HBO. Despite the fact that no one is typically more discouraging about the odds of breaking into the business than Hollywood insiders, you have to admire those pretty, earnest faces in the opening credits, dreaming big: We figured, if we could just demolish the barriers to entry, well, golly gee, just think of all those talented folks out there, just waiting for their big break!
Unfortunately, though, when an amateur painter wins the lottery or a trust fund kid picks up a digital video camera and some editing equipment, the odds of great art emerging are alarmingly slim. Throw in some cameras that follow you everywhere and silently second-guess your every move, and you've got a recipe for a fascinating TV show (HBO wins again!), and a disappointing made-for-TV movie (Miramax loses again, how long are they going to keep this up?) -- which is exactly what those crafty devils behind this secret plot are after! And so, a nation of dreamers turns its starry eyes to the small screen ...
Enter Chris Moore, executive producer and resident dominatrix of "Project Greenlight," hell-bent on schooling the "winners" of the contest on The Tragic Realities of Low-Budget Studio Filmmaking. Within the first few minutes of the first show, Moore was already gazing google-eyed into the camera and working himself into a lather of proactive annoyance over what ingrates the prospective winners might be. Soon after, we're introduced to a quirky assortment of aspiring screenwriters and directors, all of whom seem to scream "I'm no Pete Jones!"
Pete Jones, you see, was the winner of last year's contest, an amiable guy who proved himself to be far too blandly likable and Midwestern to make an interesting lead character and tragic hero for the show. On top of that, his movie, "Stolen Summer," was about as interesting as a Disney movie of the week. Forget the fact that Ben 'n' Matt 'n' Co. picked Jones' script, a dorky, on-the-nose tale that featured a cloyingly sentimental premise and one endless, overwritten scene after another. Forget that the crew didn't even work with a shot list, and the results played like a Lassie movie without the dog. The major tragedy of "Stolen Summer" was that director of photography Pete Biagi, perhaps one of the first season's most controversial, cocky characters, had the kind of rare talent that more than justifies a little slice of that self-proclaimed genius pie. Biagi endured a very public lashing on the show for being a prima donna, but in the end, his work was the most inspiring aspect of "Stolen Summer" -- he single-handedly demonstrated that low-budget films don't have to look like crap if you hire a good enough DP.
It wasn't exactly surprising, then, when the honchos at "Project Greenlight" ignored the remarkable directors' clips they received from Jessica Landaw and Joe Otting, and were instead wowed by the flashy special effects and hammy charms of Kyle Rankin and Efram Potelle. These two seemed destined to be the anti-Petes. Screenwriter Erica Beeney was maybe a little less entertaining, but her screenplay, "The Battle of Shaker Heights," appeared to be the undisputed favorite. With a dynamic duo of directors, the producers must've imagined that "Project Greenlight" would offer a steady flow of slapstick moments. And -- bonus -- these guys are just cocky enough that, not only were they sure to argue amongst themselves, but they would almost certainly provide a painful demonstration of Moore's Tragic Realities from Day 1.
At first, it appeared the producers' dreams would come true. Kyle and Efram flaunted their cluelessness like dirty drawers, wondering out loud why they needed a production designer, or becoming confused when they were told they couldn't edit the movie themselves. But when Efram demanded that he, too, get a complimentary car like Erica did, you could almost see Moore salivate. "I can't believe this guy is asking me this question right here," he told the camera later. "I mean, the balls of it!"
