The power of both a compliment and a disparaging word are frightening. The weight of either can be almost enough to overtake the soul, buoying it up into the sunset, on the one hand, or crushing it nearly into the hot core of the earth, on the other.
I remember, a few months back, when I got negative, disinterested feedback on a script from two individuals I considered to be smart, knowledgeable and savvy when it comes to my mode of “philosophical cinema.” I had written a heady, original, independent work of staggering obtuseness, and remember being crushed when an academic professor (who had never read a script before) and a Hollywood manager didn’t get it. At all. True, I knew the structure still had problems, and the themes were still a bit tangled, but I thought that the characters and situations remained genuine enough to at least warrant a few positive comments, if not a sort of sick fascination or honest engagement. And, to that point, I had always gotten a nod from readers for my dialogue writing and the general strength of my writer’s voice. These are hard-earned tools in a writer’s toolbelt, and although I think they are not of my own making but rather some genetic predisposition I happen to have been gifted with, I certainly accept the consolation of being able to fall back on these compliments when others do not seem forthcoming. However, in these two circumstances, I was disabused of that safety net and fell squarely on my face when I was told that the weighty themes of my script could not stand up against the scrutiny of a careful reader or the intelligence of an above-average mind. In effect, I was told to stop being so pretentious and write a good character. These blows took weeks of sulking – and even a spell or two of crying – to get over. Subsequently, I left LA for a two and a half month sojourn across 16 time zones and two other continents. If only we were all so lucky…
Today, a little more than two weeks after my return, I was surprised to gauge my sense of elation upon receiving some overwhelmingly positive emails about the Bangladeshi short film project I just finished. (Okay, it’s not quite finished – otherwise it would be here on my website. But it’s in the “beta phase.”) These viewers, who will potentially turn into long-term producers for a series of shorts written and directed by me, told me my short was “fabulous” and that it “blew him away.” From people who are close to strangers in my orbit, this is pretty exciting news. Does it mean I will get the contract with them for dozens more shorts? Well, let’s not jump to conclusions, but at the moment, I seem to like my chances!
Of course, after I had happily chirped away this news to a few friends, I stopped to think… Is this what it means to live and die in LA: that I live and die by the words of a few random yay-sayers or nay-sayers? How shocking and sad and value-less my life has become if these comments, on the extreme ends of the spectrum, can set me spinning so chaotically out of control. Is this what it means to be an artist? I always thought I had a thick skin. And true, I don’t break down or jump for joy on the outside. But having this fragile of an ego isn’t something I like to well, either. Oh, Los Angeles, what kind of demonic monster have you turned me into? Because to live and die in LA is to live and die by the word.
