Did You Say “Open Bar?”

The life of a working actor is a precarious climb. An ongoing campaign of obtaining abstract mobility, attempting to build each triumph or connection into the foundation of something more meaningful, memorable, permanent, constantly elusive. Nothing is good enough. As soon as you’re off set, or out of the casting office, or walking out of the fucking bank, you’re already thinking of what’s next. It’s an ongoing pursuit, an emotional journey, but still riddled with all of the pitfalls and risks of any real travel, and that’s what makes it so addicting and cool. Now, make no mistake, the concrete goal is to achieve a level of actual financial worth: no debt, no old loans from friends, perhaps even a surplus to buy an outrageously priced domestic bottle at any given bar in L.A. I’ll say it often, this is a job, no one is “successful” in this business unless they makin’ paper.

Still though, there is that thrill, that rush, an indescribable electricity that grabs ahold and intoxicates the actor who is, ever so briefly,working. It’s the magic of show business, the emotional lift some people feel at an eighth grade talent show and never grow out of despite diminishing talents and expanding waistlines. It’s the joy of doing college improv and knockin’ ’em dead back at the Student Union in aught-six, only to peel back to the clubhouse and slam beers with that same audience, an average life of law or education in your real future. And it’s the sense of Superbowl Victory Lap some of us have felt as our screenplay gets snuck in the mailroom or that commercial goes National. Each achievement along the way in this business deserves to be celebrated and cheered, even if you don’t think so. Your friends are impressed, and even if it’s background work on some ABC Family shitcom, it’s a lot more than most motherfuckers are willing to attempt. A wise actor enjoys his or her brief success, appreciates how much luck and love got him or her to where he or she is, and then views his or her old job retrospectively, so the reality of the accomplishment can be distilled and considered for what it really was…just one more step.

But I think now of one of my little wins a few months ago, a moment that I like to think comes at one point or another for any half-successful actor. An event that sounds interesting and kind of important anywhere you mention it, if not a little more impressive at the dinner table back home. Yup, I’d like to share with you my experiences at my first film festival.

First and foremost, I won’t bullshit you: I totally felt like an entitled, big time Hollywood hot shot with something to brag about at the high school reunion. Nevermind the fact this was a relatively small time, upstart festival still struggling for major industry recognition. Nevermind that the main festival venue was in a less than stellar neighborhood of Los Angeles. And nevermind that I was merely one of hundreds of actors to appear in a couple shorts; I didn’t write or direct or produce anything, I just stood there regurgitating lines over and over again in different inflections and volumes. Didn’t matter. I had an all access pass for the whole four day weekend, and within a minute of walking in opening night, had a swag bag filled with — among other things — a mini-bottle of gin and a kaliedoscope. As far as I was concerned, this was fucking Cannes.

To quote Bad Blake from Crazy Heart, “Let’s drink some of this booze, huh?” Open bar. Few finer words for an alcoholic struggling actor. Hors d’oevres. Salty, sweet, nutritious, blasphemously unhealthy; they had it all. A rooftop smoking area. An indoor red carpet paddock. Some pretty legit names from the improv and sketch comedy scene to rub elbows with. And did I mention the free liquor?

One of the after parties was in a Japanese Koi Garden, complete with a — wait for it — open bar, and roaming hors d’oevres waiters, and a suspiciously inactive buffet table. Just some shiny tubs with little firelamps underneath them, but no one official looking to debut the delicious food held within. Finally, after the guests got in a good block of hob-knobbing and tying on a pretty serious buzz, they unveiled a Roman-vomitorium-caliber mashed potato bar. Trust me, those words and the concept alone do not do it justice. Ornate crystal goblets were the serving dish, as we made our way down the Royal Starch Procession. Three kinds of potato; jalapenos, olives, chives, sour creme, onions, two cheeses and of course bacon bits at head of the table for garnishing, all before being presented with a farewell bowl stacked to the brim with knockwurst. Once you see a mashed potato buffet, you will understand exactly what was so glorious about this. I think it would be a great writing exercise to try to describe in words something so inexplicably beautiful you’ve come across in your life. Unless it’s a plastic bag. Then you’re just a loser.

Ah writing, you knew I was getting to it eventually. I don’t consider myself a writer primarily, but I must say this film festival was quite the learning experience as well, and I would recommend any aspiring filmmaker or writer to sack up, pay for the tickets if you must, and go to any film festival you can get to. Of course, the early morning panels with aforementioned pseudo-celebrity players are beneficial. You hear stories of their wins and losses, you hear honest advice and you realize that even guys who have been on network TV and big time feature films are still chasing that unobtainable constant upward rise.

They say to be a good writer, you should read as much as possible. I personally used to never get that; I figured why let other people’s styles inform and infect your imagination or tone or vocabulary. But, as obvious of an observation as this is, I think every filmmaker should see as much as possible, and a festival like this — with obvious talent, but not wildly popular content — is the way to really soak in the best comparable lesson in what works and doesn’t in film writing. Some movies I saw at this shindig should have preceded Pixar films; others were lamer than a Family Guy flashback. But they all — mine included — were selected by a real critical panel to be showcased side by side. It was an interesting exercise to wonder what worked for which films in someone’s mind to warrant a “yea” vote.

For me, this resulted in somewhat of a mellowing of my usual vicious competitive streak, allowing myself to at least respect the other filmmakers because we had basically achieved the same thing, and we were all in that celebrate and cheer mode, before the reality of the week after could set in. We were all all-stars at the fest; downing our free drinks and flaunting our fest lanyards, and as a result we were all more willing to meet each other and socialize and maybe collaborate. I heard more than one story of guys with films in this fest that they had made after meeting at a completely different fest years before. That’s another creative advantage to going to these things, you might just come across the Affleck to your Damon. Or whatever.

But admittedly, standing on an outside patio high atop a hotel in Downtown L.A., drinking free booze and slamming free sushi into my face, as B-listers cavorted around me and my friends and I laughed about the exploits of the weekend, I wasn’t thinking about how to punch up that feature I’ve been sitting on or who I could trade cards with, I was basking in the glory of a full-fledged win. A moment that truly was an accomplishment in my hopefully ongoing career, but ultimately just one of many (again, hope hope), and not the most important. I developed a greater appreciation of objective critique, I got a good handle of what some of the competition is like and how I need to improve, and I got to hear meaningful input from colleagues and celebs alike. Whether you’re a writer or a hot shot Hollywood wunderkind, film festivals fucking rock and are worth the price of admission for the stories you can tell alone. So go to one. And leave the pen and paper at home. As Johnny “Drama” Chase once said, “Take it all in. First festival only happens once.”

But what the fuck would I know, I’m just an actor.