There’s a mini-film festival at Workplay tonight, the SHOUT! festival put on by Sidewalk.  It’s the first of what I presume will be an annual event, a film focusing on gay and lesbian films.  I’m venue managing the theater, which means that, just like I do every year at Sidewalk, I’ll get to see a mass of films in a row, without being able to pick and choose.

It’s a good exercise for me, to watch a list of films that someone else has picked out.  It guarantees me some sort of variety, and keeps me from going after the things that I know I like, exposing me to some things that I might normally pass on.

This train of thought was originally supposed to directly follow my post on writing at the beginning of the week.  It stems from a Sunday night conversation that Garth and I had about Cronenberg, Eli Roth, Tarantino, and lots of other filmmakers (including myself, and the mass of indie writer/directors you see at Sidewalk and SHOUT! and whatnot).

My argument about films has always been that they are, ultimately, nothing if they don’t have a strong foundation: a story, to be specific. Not to say that I don’t find merit in “artistic” or “experimental” films… Actually, that’s my way of defending the writers, who tend to be looked at as an unintentional part of the film process (if they’re seen at all — quick, name five non-directing writers…).  And I still hold, to some extent, that that is true: without a strong story, and a strong script (well constructed, with good dialogue), your movie will fall to pieces.

But there’s the telling aspect, too — to prolong the architecture analogy, the blueprints and design and engineering of the idea are key, but shoddy construction of even the best plan will end with disaster.  And this is where filmmaking becomes tricky, because you’ve got a thousand places of building where everything can go right or wrong: acting, cinematography, sound design, set, art direction, effects, editing.

So it’s not just writing.  I’ll look at it as a two-stage process (although, the experienced short film director in me wants to split it into even more pieces than that).  Story versus telling.

All the media of entertainment are set up like this, really.  Books, movies, TV shows, documentaries, music… You’ve got the creations and the performances.  The really gifted are those that can do both; those are the ones I’m jealous of.  I’m not just speaking of directors who can also write (frankly, I’m not sure how many of those I actually believe exist: I would say Rodriguez, probably; Tarantino, to be fair, although I despise his writing after True Romance; the Wachowski brothers, maybe, if only for the first of the Matrix trilogy); though the list of those who claim to do both is long (especially on the festival circuit), very few good writers can actually direct, and one in a trillion directors actually has a story worth telling.

Yeah, I said it.  And I’m the first to admit that I’m not meant to direct, and my storytelling tools in the film world are not so hot, but goddamn, all you talented filmmakers out there?  Find a fucking writer to work with you, okay? You’re really not very good, no matter what your friends who want to be on film tell you.

Stephen King is a great example for me to use here.  He’s one of the most amazing storytellers in literature — reading his books is, to me, what sitting around a campfire listening to a master of the craft would be if you captured it on paper.  And for the most part, he’s had some amazing story ideas upon which to display his craft: The Stand, IT, and his Dark Tower series are all Shining examples (sorry).  But there was a spot in the late 90s when the story ideas seemed to run a little dry, and for a few books, it felt like he was rehashing old tricks.

There are plenty of musicians, too, who are tremendous performers, masters of the telling aspect, but whose songwriting skills lack … well, they just suck.  Yeah.  And there are great songwriters who can’t perform, too.  Great actors that have no story to tell, but can channel and bring someone else’s tale to life like no one’s business.  There are even writers who have nothing to say but the best telling voices you could ever imagine, and people with stories that would melt your brain but lack the words.

And this all comes back to me, of course.  Do I have something to say?  I have, before, sure, and I will again, I’d bet.  I don’t know if I’ll ever have something that will change the world, as much as I would like to hope otherwise.  I don’t know anymore if I’m destined for anymore greatness than I’ve already tasted (for which I am grateful, mind you).  I’ve got my own voice, most of the time; it’s not as resonant as Chuck Pahlaniuk or Warren Ellis, or as comforting as King’s, but it’s mine, and it’s reasonably unique.  I’m certainly not a filmmaker, much as I might like to be; I can participate in storytelling when music is involved, but only as part of a team.  And in each of those areas, I’ve had some stories that, even looking back, I think are worth telling, with a creative edge and a meaning underneath.

Ultimately, the quality of both my voice and the stories it tells — no matter what form it takes — are up to others to decide.  I just hope that more people learn to recognize the distinction between the voice and the story, and swallow their pride enough to find someone who compliments their strengths and weaknesses; I think there are a lot of brilliant voices who go unheard because they have nothing to say, and a lot of amazing stories that never get told because the medium doesn’t open itself up to the creator.

And I hope that someday, I can find a good director to film my stuff.  And an artist to collaborate with on a few shorts I’ve got in mind for a graphic novel…

But most of all, I hope that those people who I have chosen to surround myself with, and who have chosen to stay in my life, will be honest with me when my voice starts to go, or when what I’m saying isn’t worth hearing.  Ultimately, it’s up to me to decide when to stop — I write largely to help myself, after all — but I don’t ever want to be the guy who rails and rants about his own very nature without having a clue that he’s doing so.