The Joyce Voice

Beats, Rhymes & Life

2011-07-22T18:23:00.000-07:00

A reflective review of the movie- Beats, Rhymes and Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest.

Those three words pretty much sum it up.
The quest for the right beats to unleash meaningful rhymes that both reflect and project life.

Much of my musical taste and outlook on life has been shaped by the musical group A Tribe Called Quest. It's laced in my writing, often referenced in my arguments and is imbued in my swag.

The dichotomy created by the varying elements of this eclectic hip-hop group represent the complexity that comes with knowledge of self. For instance, balancing the duality of being beholden to nurtured Afrocentrism, while the unyielding enlightenment causing acquiescence to mainstream society prevails.

Stepping out on a limb, I'll say this is the only movie I have ever watched where I was literally smiling from ear to ear throughout. Even when I was about to cry. Not because I'm like the crazed fans I recall seeing pour tears at the sight of Michael Jackson, rather because there is something about my connection with the music they make that hits my core.

There was a reason why it never felt right for me to step into the starting blocks of a single high school track meet without first listening to nearly all of the Midnight Marauder TAPE. "Aiyyo swing, swing, swing to chop, chop, chop..." always happened right before the 110s.

There is a reason why I can visualize neighborhoods in New York that I have never visited. Although I don't, I too represent Linden Boulevard.

Having made the cross country trip, solo, by vehicle, at least 5 times in the past decade and having lived in 5 states, mostly as an adult, my life has been an Award Tour. And for that the Tribe has laid much of my life's soundtrack. Much of the rest they have either been influenced by or they have in-turn influenced.

Such is the case for my current local link to the film. Oxnard native Madlib did the score for the movie. Wait a minute, a cat from Oxnard, where I currently live, of all places, was tapped to do the music for what turned out to be more than a documentary about my all-time favorite hip hop group?

During the documentary when the movie's director, Michael Rapaport asks the question of on-again-off-again group member Jarobi White, "What's the hardest thing about being in a group?" His answer - "Constantly considering someone else even before yourself," that, in my view, was one of the most introspective moments of the film. Not only is that a universal theme of generic relationships, it is a struggle that has plagued many before them and likely many to follow.

The Tribe remained relevant through my formative years partly because of their conscious and whimsical wordplay. I would argue that your mind processes differently when listening to music from the Native Tongue era.

In retrospect of their break up and upon witnessing the chemistry that I only got to see on stage first hand once - Rock the Bells 2008 at the Gorge (footage is in the film) - I question, could the Tribe regain relevance in a society inundated with images of sex, drugs and violence? As a culture as a movement, hip hop has evolved, but the guidance of our more wise and conscious elders could remain useful in the game.

Now if they would only listen to their own words,
Phife: You on point Tip
Q-Tip: All the time Phife
Phife: Then play the resurrector and give the dead some life.

James Joyce III is based in Southern California and saw the film during the opening weekend at the sole west coast theater showing the movie at the time.

A Bi-Coastal Reaction - jumpstart the juices

2011-07-12T12:41:00.000-07:00

So I finally made it back.
For the first time since moving to California in 2009 under less than desirable circumstances, I found myself back in my native state.
The 410/443.

The last time I had been on this turf it was amidst witnessing one of the most historic events of my lifetime. The initial inauguration of President Barack Obama. A lot has changed since then. No longer merely an observer, but now a participant. The words "Change" and "Hope" have a much heavier connotation. And there is now an ice box where my heart used to be.

Circling back happened at the request of a childhood friend who requested my presence in his wedding. The timing and and the numbers in my bank account aligned and it was my honor to be a part of Joe and Marianne's very special day. Although I do urge them in matrimony to build close ties with other black folks as well; as for all the diversity there was at the wedding - beautifully held in the sculpture garden of the Baltimore Museum of the Arts - I was the lone darkie. (Yes, I am conscious of such things)

Yet that also played in my favor.

The urging to "get to bloggin" again came from a suspected family member. I was approached by a bubbly Korean girl who saw that my last name too was Joyce and wondered if we were related. She married into the name and later turns out we are not related, but when she added me on Facebook the tail end of her message simply reads, "Also, please update your blog. mmkthanks..." Ok, Ok!

Strange thing, I don't know of a single cousin of mine that shares the last name Joyce.

The trip back home — cause for black folk home is always where you were raised — also gave me a chance to catch up with two Maryland staples that I have been greatly missing: Steamed Crabs and Utz salt & vinegar potato chips. Check and Check. There was a few brief moments in the hectic weekend to catch up with a few family members, including a quick stop to visit my mom. Then it was back across the country. Tis a beautiful one we have indeed.

Getting back to west coasting was a transition. The attitudes are vastly different. For example, damn a pedestrian. Crosswalks in Maryland are treated much differently than in Cali.

Soon following this one was my first trip to San Francisco — vastly different indeed.

California Livin'

2010-12-24T17:27:00.000-08:00

The morning started with a coffee and a blueberry muffin on Sunset Blvd. in Hollywood. Total bill, $4.20; that’s California living.

Life experiences — mostly career and women — have carried me from my native Marlyand to the great state of Ohio, a drive across the country and brief stop in southern California. A few years in Indiana, several more in Washington state and then back in Ohio for a quarter of a year and then once again I land in SoCal. Through my travels and intimate observations of regional cultures, I conclude; there is nothing quite like California living.

Especially, southern California Living. Cold is redefined. As is fine.

In SoCal, the ability to adapt to the bilingual and bicultural lifestyle is key. Lemon and chili powder or Tap on everything. You make chips/ papitas instead of just snacking on them. Knowing that there is a right side to the tortilla is not essential, but a keen since to the obscure idiosyncrasies of a people can go a long way. (One side of the tortilla has a slightly different texture to better hold the meat, cilantro and onions).

Seemingly, only in California can a mediocre east coast hustle, mixed with an element of midwest swag be part of the formula to thrive in a “down economy.” It’s here that I’ve been able to network my way into a state job as a field representative for a smart, savvy, progressive and cool ass Assemblymember.

California living is about learning to trust the roots of the towering palm trees as they sway in the wind. “Tay ina win.”

This one has been on my mind for a while, but taken me a while to push out. Why you ask … California Living.

— James Joyce III

Two quotes that feel good to me:

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.
--Ben Franklin

Experience is an author's most valuable asset; experience is the thing that puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood into the book he writes.
-Mark Twain

CAUSE CBL Video 2010

2010-09-17T08:42:00.000-07:00

On the Campain Trail — Now about that fear and loathing

2010-05-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

More than seven years ago, a young newspaper reporter green and a fresh graduate of a reputable J-school penned a column that ran in the Chronicle Tribune, Marion, Ind. with the headline, "We should all fullfill our civic duty to keep politicians in line."

After the column had published I recall a conversation with my bulldog of an executive editor, lambasting me for what I had wrote. She warned that I hadn't earned the authority to make such aggressive statements about my disdain for politics and politicians, especially coming from someone relatively new to the community. (Good luck to anyone who can find that column, it ran a little more than a month ahead of a primary election).

Fast forward seven years and I find myself on the other side of the politics game — and that-it-is; a game! There is a strange juxtaposition when you jump from in front of, to behind the printed political story. But the words I shared with the community of Grant County, Ind. comes full circle to my current work as a field organizer for Das Williams' campaign for California State Assembly, District 35, which spans slightly north of Santa Barbara, down to include most of Oxnard.

I feel different than most of these politicos. Much of the time I feel like the lone strait, right handed cat in the room wearing his watch on the right wrist. Or maybe I'm just the only cat in the room who would pay attention to such detail.

But now, I have become a part of the very political machine from which I have previously felt disenfranchised, have scrutinized and bemoaned. I went from being that unemployed guy, to working on my first campaign, like I hopped into the cockpit of Bugatti Veyron. Although, much less glamorous. Twelve hour days are a welcome delight. It doesn't exactly feel like work always, but I've got plenty of work to do.

In my past, I have covered plenty of elections, from small town politics and school board races to pieces of the historic 2008 Presidential election. The latter, from THE battle ground state of Ohio. Then, I was working as the education reporter at the Toledo Blade. One day, on that campaign trail, my assignment was to follow and cover the rallies of Sarah Palin as she traveled the state, from Canton to Columbus. I contributed on the scene add-ins to the overall coverage. Sidebar: Those Secret Service guys are alright, but they are on their job. I guess game recognize game though.

Let it be known, covering an election and working for a campaign are like comparing a one night stand to a summer fling that has the potential to turn into something longer term.

I was ignited in part by that need-to-know associated with being a newspaper man. The rest of the fire came out of the annoyance of having to quietly sit in the stands and simply report what I saw leading up to and through the announcement that Barack Obama was going to be our 44th President. So I jumped at the chance to put my skills to use for a progressive, smart and upcoming young man with a background as a community organizer and university instructor. Additionally, Das has a strong endorsement from a highly respected friend. Then, when my skeptical gauge realized the genuineness of Das, I know his intentions and actions are in the right place and he isn't going to be one of the "many or multiple" "small blood-sucking insects" I wrote of in March 2003.

"Political influence is a chance to utilize the power that citizens create for you to change not only yourself, but also the community you represent."

I feel like Das Williams really gets that and it's something he has been doing through his grassroots campaign for State Assembly. House to house, neighbor to neighbor, the past few months have flown by. The countdown is now fewer than 20 days until the June 8th Primary. The day 69 count seemed like it was just last week — but that's also when my written words got the 7-year itch.

To date, this campaign trail is riddled with good times, inspiring young minds, plenty of talking, occasionally some gawking; takes lots of cojones and can be cold and lonely, much time spent on the phone, many "I'll vote for, but volunteer ... no." Networking and meeting all new people, the campaign trail pushed me back through the churches steeple.

"Decisions should reflect Kingdom values and not abandon the basic tenants of our faith," Das said to the congregation.

My man. It was the most in-his-element I had seen the candidate. Though my bet is that he'd be even more comfortable once he's elected and can directly effect change. But the road to that aim is paved with slung mud and lined with tactics and distortions. Just more of what had previously kept me out of the process.

"Politics is a blood sport, people need not forget it," the Derby Jedi reminded me early on the campaign trail.

"Axel grease wards off the theft of yard signs. Wipe it on a towel and smear it around the edges," the wise sibling suggested.

I'm just going to stay on the grind and stick to the winning plan. Have got to get on my game. Must I fall at the feet of my sugar mama again, this time in my three-decade-old birthday suit? The campaign trail made me do it!

The Horses are Only Half the Hype; The Party Pretty Much Sums Up the Rest of the Kentucky Derby Experience

2010-05-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

Dubbed "the greatest two minutes in sports," the Kentucky Derby in Louisville, Ky., is a spectacle, a great American cultural event and my happy place for the past three years. (Past eight years now — seven appearances. I missed Derby 135 in 2009. That year the Derby glasses were black and gold and it wasn't one the better years in my near 30).

For me, it all started when a colleague from my previous job was always talking Derby this and Derby that. He grew up in the Louisville area and said it's a holiday for his family. I had no idea why. Horse racing was of little interest to me. Little did I know. After repeatedly declining, I finally accepted the offer to be his guest at my first Derby, the 129th running. I've been back every year since, thanks to the Derby Jedi. (Shout out to BCoo)

Sure, the horses are the catalyst for the excitement, but when local churches cancel 5:30 p.m. Mass on the First Saturday In May, it's got to be about more than the horses.

During the weeks leading up to the event, the city is aflutter.

The Kentucky Derby Festival shoves aside daily routines in the city of more than 256,000 with galas, festivals, marathons and fireworks. (Now 713,870 according to 2008 U.S. Census Bureau statistics)

The festive mood kicks up a notch the week of the big event. A few beers at lunch — normally a no-no — is somehow explainable. And in the spirit of a birthday wish, "Happy Derby," becomes a common greeting.

And as the week winds down, families start sending children and dogs to sitters. (Also known as "Derby Camp").

Finally it's Friday, the day before the Derby — Kentucky Oaks Day.

Horses run then, too, but the event is more of a shirt-and-tie affair. The fresh suits and the Southern belles' flowing sundresses generally don't show until Derby Day. (Although that has shifted in recent years as it has become a day of pink, in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness).

Oaks Night fills the area with parties and final preparations for the most anticipated day of the year for the city.

As the sun rises on Derby Day, preparations for the flood of people at Churchill Downs is already under way: the food, the drinks, the souvenirs, the horses. When the crowd starts to flow in, some enjoy the thrill that has become an annual tradition: trying to sneak in alcohol. However, with the tight security restrictions few succeed.

For that brief moment of entry, the infield-bound people — clad in flip-flops and shorts — brush elbows with those headed to the elevated suites that hang next to the historic twin spires, a signature of Churchill Downs.

A Jay Z line comes to mind: "from Marcy to Madison Square." The thoughts of the hip-hop icon may have been more reflective of his social advance from New York's Marcy Projects to his "retirement extravaganza" at Madison Square Garden. Mine had less of an impact.

In the span of an hour I went from wishing luck to New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, in Louisville to root on his early Derby favorite, Bellamy Road, to slapping a high five and toasting the hedonistic ambiance of the come-as-you-are infield.

The air that surrounds the track on that First Saturday In May filled with the booze-sellers pitches: "Ice-cold-beah-heah," and "Mint Ju-lep" — two coveted traditional Derby beverages.

As the 6 p.m. hour approaches and the call to the post sounds, the bathrooms clear and the vendors calls are replaced with the crooning of "My Old Kentucky Home."

Then the last horse is in the post ... and they're off!

For two minutes, the cheers don't breath. Everyone is a potential winner. The noise subsides only when the winning horse crosses the finish line.

This year, spectators grabbed their programs to answer the question at the front of everyone's mind: "Who's Number 10?"

That's Giacomo — the 50-to-1 longshot and official winner of the 131st Kentucky Derby.

Although many of the more than 156,000 in attendance took the chance to win, few were winners.

But the party continued anyway.

At the end of my four-day stint in the Bluegrass State, when I laid down and closed my eyes on the final night, everything in my mind's eye seemed vast.

Anything in the world seemed obtainable and life's worries were not mine.

- A form of this column was originally published in the Yakima (Wash.) Herald Republic on May 15, 2005.

A lil video from Derby 136 (2010)

Unemployment Chronicles: Vol. 4 — The movement is brewing

2010-02-23T13:33:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, when opportunity knocks, there is some other preoccupation that keeps us from wanting to answer the door. Be it a trip to Tahoe to reconnect with a group of lads from up north with whom I have had good times past. Or it could have been the pending call for employment that could have stopped me, but I decided to answer the door.

I later learned I missed out on quite the trip from what I gather. Somehow the lads encountered a brush with fame, an establishment t-shirt signed and a possible appearance on an upcoming HBO reality show.

However, presented with the chance to attend the first day of a two day leadership training hosted by a central coast non profit organization — an alliance whose aim is to unite for a sustainable economy — I entered with a cautious optimism. I figured I had done this sort of thing before. My leadership training and experience launched as a preteen as I became a counselor with a beloved 4-H camp back in my native Maryland. That continued each year, through college, until I made it to director of the residential camp and was then responsible for training the next wave of camp leaders. That early experience helped form my character as I, and countless other youth tapped into something special, selflessness. Great bonds were made. This is how I cut my leadership teeth. Intense training in the sharp leadership and servant standards of my dear fraternity, Alpha Phi Alpha; and the residents life circuit soon followed. Various campus involvement took me from cocoon to caterpillar.

So would this be lip service, pontification, feel good stuff?

After the first part of the CAUSE training, I was more than glad I attended. I began to meet a band of hand selected change agents within the latest community to have embraced my nomadic spirit. I was charging to get involved, as that has always been a source of personal enjoyment. I had also learned a thing or two about taxes in this great state of California. It was enough to make me want to come back for the second and much longer day. Scheduling and the blessings of the Queen Bea allowed. Next thing I know I'm part of the movement.

A stir of energy and before long, as was the case back in camp, and many times before and after, I found myself responding to the name Spider-Man. These change agents somehow quickly extracted my alter ego and I found myself sharing the principal value; "with great power also comes great responsibility."

I engaged in discovering my self interest, and challenged to have conversations to help others find theirs. That should continue. It's about more than merely passing time on this earth I was reminded.

The play was called, backfield in motion. Sugar mama is slacking. We've talked, but she is not yet taking care.

I found myself espousing the merits of participatory democracy. No longer part of the masses that cast my vote, wiped my hands and thought, "great, now get to work fixing this mess." A marriage of voice and vote. A spark of co-powerment to embark on the collective Herculean task. I began to ask questions again, although I no longer get paid to do it. There is power in those questions and there is power in the corresponding stories. Conocimiento!

The vision: to think Seven generations ahead in decision making as was, and still is, custom in Iroquois culture. How how!! It's strange how it is all connected. Noon-way. Seven is a powerful number. The goals, the objective and the plan laid out. Charged.

The play starts. Pass is made. Catch and touchdown. Sugar mama, I'm done with you, well at least for now.

Unemployment Chronicles: Vol. 3 — Knock, knock

2010-02-18T01:49:00.000-08:00

I keep seeing the digits on the clock. Most recently it was 11:11.
I had my sister look into the numbers for me, just out of pure curiosity because this keeps happening to me, daily. And to see if it sheds any light on life situations. You know the 1, 11, 4, 44, they keep appearing in my life.

This is what she came up with:
The number one, a few attributes; independence, leadership skills, ambition, strong will, driven, great potential for success, as well as stubborn, impatient, pride, demands respect and attention ...
While the number four, indicates stability, after all it takes four legs on a table to make it stand sturdy, other things were practical, dependable, orderly, and once again, stubborn, bossy, too serious ... there was mention of four seasons in a year and four directions on a compass, but all I could really say to it all is, hmmmm, interesting.

She also suggested that I look at the numbers 3 and 5 for obvious reasons. Do some math!

It's been some time since my last correspondence. Guess I had to let the experience of being unemployed soak in, because something tells me I'm not going to be able to do it for long.
Mama, says a person with my skills and talents can't stay unemployed long, someone will snatch me up.
"Chics dig guys with skills."
But something tells me that's not the kind of snatching up she was referring to.
My partner in the snipers bullet has left. More urgent matters call from her native land. I'm content with the new role as calm-assertive pack leader.

Life spins sometimes.
Where to go when my equilibrium returns?

My conversation with a Just man, a journalism vet, urged me to remain optimistic. There will always be a need for the skills I posses. After all, he had always preached, there is money to be made in this industry.

Optimistic I remained. Knowing I have a longing to craft the written word, and to make a living at doing so again would be cool. But how?

They came a knocking. The same company that thrust me from the journalism industry more than a year prior, called when an opening became available, as I was the next name on the callback list. The position that had become open, happened to be an offer for my old job, the education reporter. About a half hour prior to the call, I had already known the position had come available — gotta love social networking.

Although a year away for the industry gave me much more appreciation for the craft and the lifestyle, what wise man hops back on the sinking Titanic without a plan to patch up the hole?
So I respectfully declined and made a pass similar to that suggested by the young pledges of G Phi G in School Dayz.

After a trip along the Pacific Coast by train for a brief weekend visit to San Diego, I continued to ponder if I had made the right decision. Regardless, I made it. And I pride myself on my ability to be decisive.

Photos also by James Joyce III/ First: Statue by E. Barrias 1893 the Tomb of Anatole de la Forge in Père Lachaise Cemetery. Second: Statue at Père LaChaise Cemetery.

Unemployment Chronicles: Vol. 2

2010-02-03T22:04:00.000-08:00

The sky was crying for a week upon my return from the southwest. Maybe a projection, possibly a reflection.

It's hard to tell.

On the first day that I was no longer getting paid, our earth shook. Was that a call and response?

I can't express my need for her in the most convenient way. I have tried to contact my sugar mama several times, to no avail. True to form, I need special handling. So I phone her.
She doesn't answer. Knowing I'll need her, I crawl. I go to her gatekeeper who gives me a basic card to her riches.
I step back through the teary sky.
Cheap movie matinee: $3, the world as we know it just may end in 2012. The signs are there.
Take a step back, send a message to sugar mama through courier.

The ocean pushes the surfers away, yet he continues to tempt her. Keep casting.

In my nest, I rest, but haven't quit. Days pass without spending. Time is money in the bank though. The self-imposed confinement is both good and necessary. The tears had a great deal to do with that.

While my meager job searching efforts have yet to bear fruit, the crying broke as I pursued the allure to go green. The four of us were young, professional and at varying levels of ambition. The gathering at the Staples Center boasted job opportunities in various green industries.

Perhaps a sign of the times, there were fewer than 10 companies in the job expo section. I walked past. Another sign of the times, some of the booths were requesting donations for the swag. The promise of swag was part of the draw.

Now an experience adding to the fuel to allow things to continue to percolate on the back burner. With visions of a burner strapped across my back, the whole world is in attack mode.

The clock keeps hitting triple digits, 1:11 twice, 4:44 the most memorable. Make a wish, use my foundation and grow.
The pen is my discipline and it is indeed mightier than the sword. Or at least works in consort.

Unemployment Chronicles: Vol. 1

2010-01-28T15:59:00.000-08:00

In the cross hairs of my sniper's scope, I was a marked man. Knowing my days were numbered I lumbered on.
Treating each day as it could be my last. I endured this pleasure for more than three weeks.

Spotter ready. Shooter ready ... two shots were fired. One of them hit me.
Many would see it as an assassination attempt. I find it rather liberating, no longer espoused to the regimented lifestyle, once again.

This had been my immediate life raft after being thrust from the sinking journalism industry the year prior.
This time, the weight on my shoulders lighter, but not without wounds. Paths abundant and murky. Outlook still cautiously optimistic. Opportunity floats about.
With this newly instilled freedom, I first broke north into the wilderness. Then southwest for a reunion across the desert.

Life is best when lived. Yet my soul remains insatiable.
These are the loose chronicles of an unemployed man.

Hollywood don't make (good) movies no more, all they do is this...

2009-12-30T21:08:00.000-08:00

All they do is this...
And by this I mean: push profit over passion, instant gratification, dumb down a nation and more — grime, crime and gore, introducing the latest whore, they leave you high, dry and wanting more. But more of what? CREAM, get the money —dolla, dolla bill ya'll!

Movies have come a long way since The Birth of a Nation, which was arguably the first Hollywood blockbuster. In 1915 when that movie was made it cost the equivalent of about $2.2 million to produce. Now the average cost of a Hollywood film continues to climb over $100 million. That is just a shadow of the more than $300 million that is estimated to have gone into the production of Hollywood's latest blockbuster, James Cameron's Avatar. It's also estimated that about $150 million was put towards the marketing of Avatar. And in the opening weekend along the movie brought in $232 million, so obviously there is big business in making movies.

Anymore it seems as if studios are putting out products that are just good enough for a theater run, with the anticipation of the shaking money maker — DVD sales.
Bonus features. Director's cut. Unrated. Deleted scenes. Alternate endings. It's all a lure to get you to fork over $10 to see the movie in theaters, but then turn around and pay another $18 to watch the same movie on your own time, but oh (throwing my hands in the air waiving them like Mrs. Beasley praising his name) there are these extra frills for you too. There it is, the engine propelling the vicious cycle.
Simply put; it doesn't pay to make a good movie. It just pays to make a movie.

Whereas the analytical movie viewer would watch a piece of art and wonder, why didn't the character do this or that? Well, now who cares; watch the director's cut and he or she will likely explain his creation and hold your hand as to erode any last shrivel of imagination and critical thinking skills that may remain. That's like showing a dog a treat and not making him at least sit in order to receive it. Spoon feed us our medicine, Hollywood.

So by pushing profits over passion, or better yet, making profits your passion, Hollywood has lost its griot abilities.
The ability to tell a good story is lost to the machine.
Time and time again, I find myself disappointed by the product Hollywood studios push out. They do such a good job marketing these widgets that I keep falling into the trap. One obvious solution; lower my expectations. Another, challenge Hollywood to step it up and yet a third option ... if you can't beat em join em, so anyone reading this who is willing to take a risk on a proven writer, you already know. (In case you missed it, that was a shameless self plug).

Armed with a bachelors in communications for Ohio University, with an emphasis in film history and appreciation, Patrick Dain lived and worked in Los Angeles for 3 years and before leaving in search of more pure pursuits. While in LA he worked as a story editor for Ben Stiller's Red Hour Productions.
"One of the things I learned while I was out there, is, it's a surprise that any movie gets made, said Dain, a man I have affectionately dubbed Mr. Movie. "If it's hard to make a movie it's damn near impossible to make a great movie."
What makes a great movie in his eyes is telling a good story. That's the root of what drew Mr. Movie his passion and the one constant in his life.

Now he too says, studios have lost track of that ability to tell a good story and put the money into flashy marketing, special effects and lose the substance, including character development.

"Now (studios) are too caught up in computer generated stuff and fancy camera work and you lose track of the overall story," he said. "Too much effort is put on trying to make as much money as quickly as possible to feed into the hype."
Of the many things he experience while being a part of the machine, is a since of bitterness, "you just kind of learn to poo poo everything," he added.

But Joshua Edwards still thinks good movies are being made when you look at production value, but the void is in the volume of original movies. As a junior agent with Los Angeles offices of Don Buchwald and Associates, a talent and literary agency, Edwards sees the talent side of Hollywood.

Although studios are making fewer movies these days, largely because the financiers — in most cases hedge funds and venture capitalists— are not willing to take as many risks in a down economy, production value is at an all time high with the use of emerging technology in both equipment and special effects, Edwards said. To lower the risk, those who fund movies opt to back projects like hero movies or adaptations because those usually have a bigger pay day. And studios spend less marketing something like a Shrek or a Spider-Man than they would a Hangover or another title that is new to the market.

So that means studios are making fewer movies each year than, say, the late 80s when studios were vying for their identity. Now names like Lionsgate, Sony and Paramount are recognizable and you have a general idea of what kind of movie is coming from each studio because each has carved their niche.
"If you define quality as originality, there was more quality back then," Edwards said. "Studios are making fewer films these days."

Because fewer movies are being made, there are also fewer acting vehicles for talent; and the movies that are keeping Hollywood afloat, many don't demand strong acting skills.
"You don't have to know how to act in the least bit to carry the lead in a (movie like) Transformers. The highest paid actors right now aren't doing movies that require strong acting skills," Edwards said.
Movies that made actors like Denzel Washington famous were acting vehicles. There were story lines that required actors who carried depth to characters. There was some subtlety involved.

Fact: Hollywood movies mostly cater to American audiences. This target group requires that you beat them over the head with details and explain everything, flushing any level of deeper analysis.
"In older movies there was a level of subtlety, you could put a camera on a character and have them think something and if they were good enough at their job the audience would understand," said Dain, Mr. Movie.
It's not that such acting is completely absent in what is being put out of Hollywood now, but it sure isn't as prevalent as it once was.

The major blockbusters of 2009 did not require great acting, although some did emerge. Most of these movies weren't even original movies, remakes, sequels and adaptations.
What I want from a movie is something that will challenge me to escape the often nihilistic confines of our corporately conducted lives. However, the Machiavellian industry and town that produces this supposed escape has failed me and you.
I'll admit there have been a few pleasant surprises in some movies of the recent past.
I agree with my pal, Mr. Movie; it will be interesting to see how Neil Blomkamp, the director and co-writer of District 9, becomes part of the Hollywood machine now. He has been knighted one of the up and coming directing talents.

I understand the machine is a necessary evil. Movies are made for both entertainment and to make money. However, as a means to that end, let the art of telling a good and engaging story rise to the top.
"The genius of a good movie, is if you can pull X, and I can pull Y, and you and I can sit down and talk about it... It's like a good novel or a good painting," said Dain.

The panacea would be simple in a Utopian society. Have less money involved. When you have so many millions of dollars being thrown around like peanuts it effects everything. Studios have no choice but to spend money on marketing and the hype machine, they are just trying to make their money back. The sector of the industry wielding power over that money is the actors, the high profile ones that bloggers make a name from, are demanding too much control; points off the back end, percentages of the gross, that in addition to the $20 million up front.
Knowing that big money will always be a part of Hollywood productions, my simple request is, tell a good story, man!
Tell a good story and let the people continue to dance.

Gecko Spotting

2009-11-21T15:03:00.000-08:00

Randomly connected, a group of good people, we sat.
Me on the corner, legs bunched up, between a couch where my back was pressed closely against the soft cushion in order to make as much room as possible for my leg not to hit the table. Engaged in fruitful conversation to my right, the giant gecko ducked through the door.
As I began seeing Pau Gasol's face on American TV, then hooping it up with the world Championship LA Lakers, I always thought to myself — and may have even uttered to those around — "dude, look like the Gieco gecko!"
But once I finally saw him, in person, just inches from me... confirmed: Dude does look like a long ass gecko.
There he was, he had just come through the back entrance of NoBu, which is this pretty tight spot in West Hollywood. Not that I had much of anything to say to him, I tend not to be the kind of person to get star struck. You know, the whole he puts his pants on feet first just like me, but this particular star gets to play for a living and get paid a lot to do so. But I digress. I had nothing to say to the odd looking and freakishly tall man — he stands all of 7' —, but I felt an instant brotherhood with the young man. For one, although much taller, there is a band of brotherhood for those of us who see over most of the crowd. Secondly, I also gained that feeling of connection by knowing Gasol was restlessly recovering from a hamstring injury and had yet to play in a regular season game. He had to sit and watch for the returning champs first 11 games. That can be more torturous than the actual injury. A torn hamstring is mostly what ended my collegiate track career.
Conversations continued as the gecko walked off to his seat somewhere else in the spot. Soon after we were interrupted by a returning party member; "Gabriel Union is in the other room."
My spitfire of a comedian-all-the-time friend with whom I have a diversity of connections decided he wanted to go see for himself. I mean after all, it's Gabriel Union. Which equals, mother of my baby material.
His return was quick.
Explaining his about face; "It just felt weird," he said. "You can't just go up and look."
What are you going to do? What are you going to say?
I sure could have thought of a few things, but that's not my style. So we continued to enjoy the company and conversation of our group.
When the gecko returned, on his way out, he stood before me prior to ducking under the doorway. He exchanged a few bruggs (that's bro hugs for the uninformed) with a few guys who were seemingly associates of some sort. They mostly resembled now-professional, yet reformed "frat boys," trying to up his coolness quotient by knowing Pau Gasol. As this scene continued to unfold I thought, maybe I will say something to the man whom I deem the gecko.
Maybe a, "Congrats on last year's championship. Good luck this year."
"Hope you get back in the game soon. Rest up the hammy."
But no; didn't want to join the scene. So he went.

The very next night, this same man made his season debut against the Chicago Bulls after sitting out 11 games with a hamstring injury. He had 24 points and 13 rebounds in a 108-93 victory over the Bulls.

As this snapshot into my SoCal living concluded, I couldn't help but think about all the LA related songs I've heard over the years... "LA, LA, big city of dreams..." "Live and die in LA..." "We in LA, trick."
I made my way back to my car, which was parked at the Viceroy in Santa Monica. Long story. And there sat a Rolls Royce, presumably a Phantom. I have always wanted a Rolls Royce since first hearing of this brand of vehicle as a young boy. My grandfather's neighbor had an old school one and I wanted one, mostly because it rhymes with my name. However, upon inquiry about the one before me, it turned out to be the vehicle of David Duchovny, the producer, sometime director and maybe even part time writer for one of my new favorite shows, Californication. Rumor has it that he likes to hole up in this establishment and work on the show. He plays an eerily familiar writer in the show.
Man, I think I found some inspiration.
Photo by Mark J. Terril/ AP

GP is with me ... Global Perspective that is

2009-10-09T00:15:00.000-07:00

The crisp crack of cool wind rushed past my cheeks as I briskly peddled my rented Velib from the 15th arrondissment back to the 9th. The journey began as The Frenchmen neighbor needed to drop off an envelope, never fully stating the purpose; it was a last minute kind of thing. We navigated our way through the streets of Paris, the three of us, with my host at the lead — mostly. We took turns up front. Traversing about 12 and a half kilometers, including a laborious uphill, took a little over 30 minutes. Alas, we came upon an old warehouse that looked like it could be or has been some type of factory where medium not hard work happens. The Frenchmen hopped the curb, stepped off the bike and flipped the kickstand. He dropped his carefully sealed envelope, in a small drop door. A quick rest to catch our breaths, relieve our legs and plot our return route, then it's back on our rented bikes — equipped with three speeds, a basket and bell — rushing back through the streets of Paris at a steady pace (pas de hill this time).

A brush of chilled early autumn air drafting from The Seine ahead hit my face, the scent unmistakable. I was quickly reminded, Carpe Diem — seize the day — "Holy, shit! I'm riding a bike through the streets of Paris, and across The Seine at 2:30 in the morning... This is fucking awesome!" My peddling slowed and I lived that moment.

My host, a friend of nearly a decade with whom I worked my first reporter job, has lived in Paris for the last three years. It was well past time for my visit.
Upon arrival, I quickly nestled into the traveler role — leaving the tourist characters to be filled by my cousin from Baltimore and her childhood friend, both who were also on the trip.
As a traveler on my first European excursion with a knack for observation and attention to detail, this trip opened my perspective, or at least further extended my authority for the perspective I already had.

I think I have seen what it means to have a smaller footprint. In fact just about everything is smaller there. The doorways. The stairs. The elevator. The hallway. The bathroom — ouch! I hit my elbow on the medicine cabinet, and it wasn't the funny bone. My fault for being lanky.
Somewhat in line with their footprint, even the people of Paris tend to be smaller. Hollywood ain't got nothing on them Parisians. Thin is in. Even the pregnant women. With just the bump in their belly and shapely hips to support the hump, frequently I found myself oddly attracted and a siring arousal in my loins.

The few that I saw, I understand why those women end up pregnant. Aside from the financial incentives given to French families for bearing children (a monthly allowance of 180 euros for families with three children), les femmes français strutted as if they wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and say "damn it, I'm frickin awesome. I'm the shit — all up in here." Then they get dressed with that in mind. They do their hair with that in mind. They choose their shoes with that in mind. And they walk/ride to wherever they are going with that in mind.

And if you believe like I do that women set the pace for society, that attitude may also have something to do with what I perceived to be a culture and energy of enjoyment. It may have been that extra pep in the step of the people who this observer could tell, were familiar with the give of the streets; that in contrast to the tepid steps of those to whom the land is foreign. Or it could be the displays of romance in the park, the lively flow of perky breast bouncing on heels or condom dispensers affixed to stone walls. Even the Ninja Turtle Men, (you know, the green-clad sanitation workers who dutifully picked up the trash, cleaned the streets, swept the gutter ... ), even seemed to have some enjoyment, if no more than just a little, in the work they were doing — or maybe that was the tunes coming through their ear buds that was causing joy.

Also noticeable was a culture of respect. Respect for the vagabond who by day lounges next to the ATM machine with a request of, "aide moi, svp."
"Peut-être," I was instructed to respond before grabbing another stack of Monopoly money — well at least those euros seem to spend like it's a game — and rushing on my way. This, I later assumed, was a way of instilling just a little bit of hope for the disheveled looking man instead of simply ignoring him as if he were subhuman, the way that is common place along the streets of any given American city.

If this is what socialism looks like at a brief glimpse, it's not looking so bad. OK, so it's rare to find hours of operation on many of the storefronts, there is the cultural acceptance of up to a half bottle of wine at lunch (had to make it sound like a complaint), and everyone smokes, all the time. Not that that has anything to do with Socialism, but really is all the smoking necessary? Regardless, absent was the anticipation of French arrogance that looks a lot like that thing they call swagger. And for what ever reason, be it the reclamation of self tour as was the case for two middle-aged married women from the Northeast or a simple escape from the monotony of a young life that has a plan of it's own, that swag is looking kind of familiar. The trip gave life.
Photo and words by James Joyce III