There is certain kind of peace that filmmakers attain when a project that they’ve been working on falls apart around them. It’s a bracing, almost startlingly refreshing feeling, like diving into a frozen lake. It wakes you up and quickens the blood. Except, with diving into this lake, there’s a pretty strong chance that you’ll slam your head into a submerged chunk of debris that was once part of your latest, greatest idea.

Then you drown.

We were shooting documentaries, a subject precious few of us really cared about. We were storytellers after all, and being as how we were all sure we’d strike it big in Hollywood, reality was clearly not any of our strong suits. But it was part of the program and, like eating dry salads for a diet, we took it on with grim resolve, trying hard not to strain ourselves with the weight of our indifference.

Things started off badly for us young documentarians. Our first assignment was to break into groups and descend upon the farmers’ market in the square across the street and, you know, interview people and stuff. Let me tell you, if there’s nothing people dislike more than having cameras shoved in their faces, it’s having it done by a film student acting like an embryo-Michael Moore.

In the end, we all interviewed roughly the same people, including a moonlighting NYU opera student and a very pushy banjo player, none of whom were particularly interesting. We learned little about the art of documentary filmmaking from this exercise in bothering strangers, but NYFA, showing its typical flair for blind adjudication, deemed us ready to make our own mini-masterpieces.

My idea was, essentially, ghosts.

Being of that particular kind of “X-Files”-loving geek, I’ve always been a just-short-of-social-hindrance obsessive about all things paranormal. I figured that this project would be the perfect opportunity to let my freak flag fly, as it were. Besides, it’s New York Friggin’ City. This place had to be lousy with haunted hot spots, or so went my logic.

Problem #1: As it turns out, most places reported as being haunted aren’t particularly thrilled by the distinction, nor are they thrilled by having film students come around to document it (kind of a running theme in our dealings with the public). Eventually, I had to prostrate myself before the New York Ghost Society and beg them for mercy in finding the ever-elusive haunted location that would actually not hang up on me. Finally, after not responding to my pleas for a good two weeks (because the NYGS is so damn busy with pressing ghost business), they gave me the name of a haunted bar that might help me out.

Problem #2: The bar that was given to me—we’ll call it “Flinty’s”—had just recently hosted some supposed ghost hunters who turned out to be scam artists, which made them a little less than friendly toward me and my crew. However, they were at least speaking to us, at the time a major victory. Actually, I blame myself for not seeing this coming…

Problem #3: When we showed up on the night we were going to do our ghost hunting, we were greeted by the bar’s proprietor with a smile and a, “We changed our minds. Sorry kid, but hey, have a round on us!” Well sir, a free round of drinks does not a documentary make. Not that we didn’t take him up on it, but still.

So I had nothing.

The thing that pissed me off so badly about this was the fact that I had actually tried, which was not something I did very often. All my efforts, all my plans and ideas, were thrown out the window by the whims of someone completely outside of my control.

Then this thought occurred to me. Congratulations, Clinton, you just learned that filmmaking is a Brillo-pad-harsh business in which control is minimal and the screwing-overs are plentiful. Do you want to continue? It was when I answered yes to that question that I knew that I could take what was coming like a man staring down a speeding train. I was ready for the pain, for the impact. I was ready for the rush.

My First Good Film

The holidays were approaching and our Final Semester Projects were here, scowling at us from the corners of the classrooms, waiting with a sneer for us to make them. We were all terrified because these films represented not only the sum total of our filmmaking knowledge, but also a significant chunk of our parents’ money. At this point, we had all settled into an amicable rhythm in our four-person crews. We were, if not well-oiled machines, machines that weren’t entirely unfamiliar with the concept of oil.

I had intended to shoot a horror movie; something bloody and rude and full of zombies, because if we’re being honest, that’s the kind of movie that gets my money on a daily basis. However, right as I slipped into the writing process, I broke up with my long-time girlfriend, Kristi. She and I had been attempting to do the long-distance thing. Seemed like such an easy prospect in theory, but it proved to be nothing short of an emotional gauntlet of tears and sorrow in application. So after a few bitter months and roughly 9,000 awkwardly sad phone calls, we decided to put the pillow of resignation over the face of our relationship and smother it. That led me to write a screenplay for my short film that was tainted by my own experiences. No horror, no blood, just good old-fashioned hurt feelings and a cracked, broken relationship.

The movie turned out great. Better than I expected really. It was a simple story about a guy and a girl ending their relationship and the excruciating act of giving back a prized possession (in this case a ring), all set to a fantastic song by Colin Hay. Everything clicked, like the split-second timing of a fireworks display.

I will never forget how sick I felt when I presented this to the class. I was so proud, like the father of a child, and I wanted so badly for my classmates to see in it what I saw. It was raw, sure; not anywhere near the films that we all idolized, but I felt that it had definite promise, like a song without lyrics. But it went well. Mine stood out, not just because of its inherent qualities, but also because it was one of the few movies that didn’t involve a hitman or drugs or a hitman on drugs. For some reason, those are the themes that your average film school student finds most appealing, especially those who have seen Reservoir Dogs a few too many times.

I almost wish that something bad had happened on the shoot so I could talk about it more, but really, there’s nothing more to say. Borne out of my own personal problems, this little film ended up being the best thing I would make all year. Good times.

End Of The Semester

And with the impact of a head-on collision, the semester was over. I finally emerged from the deep water of scholastic endeavors and took a look around at the city in which I had embedded myself. It was Christmas in New York, the grand cliché. The whole city radiated red-and-green-hued charm and even the panhandlers said “Merry Christmas” as you passed. It was around this time that I really took a shine to New York City.

As I sat on the plane that was whisking me back to family and friends for some Christmas cheer, I became reflective and sad. I knew I’d be back soon—Semester Two was but weeks away—but still… I missed it already. The stress was addictive. The rush of it all was at once too much and not enough. You work in the trenches of this business long enough and you begin to understand why a whole city was built expressly for the purpose of making movies.

It gets in your blood. And now, it was in mine.

—CD

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