The Best of 2016
December 31, 2016
After a few years off, I decided to make a top ten list this year.
You can read it in its entirety over at Indiewire.
I saw 235 movies this year, which is 31 more than last year. Over half of them theatrically. I'm gonna try to maintain this upwards trajectory!
Posted by David Lowery at 11:12 PM
A Ghost Movie and a Marathon
December 12, 2016
Last spring, I had an idea for a little movie about a ghost haunting a house for 200 years. I wrote it down, and it came out to about ten pages long. A week later those ten pages had become thirty, and I called Toby and James and suggested that there might be an opportunity to shoot them over the summer. There was a window of about a month and a half between the time we finished Pete's Dragon and the run up to its release, and surely, I thought, that would be enough time to make a small, self-financed St. Nick-scale movie.
And so we did just that (although it turned out a littler bigger than St. Nick). I finished post-production on Pete's Dragon on June 10th, and at sunrise on June 12th I was back in Texas with a small but intrepid crew of friends, shooting the first scene of what was until recently simply called The Ghost Movie. The image of our lead character below is from this first day of shooting.
We carried on from there, shooting into July and then regrouping again in late August to pick up a few necessary pieces. I must admit, it was a terrifying, gut wrenching experience. I took to gnawing on my finger in front of the monitor, agonizing on a shot-by-shot and second-by-second basis over whether this experiment was going to work out and become something more than an experiment. The questions one normally works out during prep were being discovered and solved as we were filming them. At times the whole endeavor felt flat-out ridiculous, the dumbest idea imaginable, and I was just waiting for someone to pull the plug and tell me it was terrible. There were plenty of times when that would have been a relief! But it never happened. And by and by the bad, awkward stuff started to turn good, more quickly and in greater quantities. We started to figure out what the movie was, and how to make it, and by the time we finally wrapped (technically just over a week ago, since we did a few pickups on December 9th), we knew what we were doing.
And the movie does work. The almost-finished product is strange and challenging and leaves me with a feeling I can't quite describe. I made it, and it still surprises me every time I watch it. I saw a blog recently query whether it would be more art-house friendly than ATBS was, and I don't know how to answer that question. I think it's a better film than ATBS, but it's also smaller, stranger and probably a great deal more alienating. There will be plenty of people who call it pretentious, plenty more who walk out at a very specific point about twenty minutes in, and others who will shrug it off, for whom it will be neither here nor there. But some people will love it, and I'm excited for them to discover it. Our joke pitch for the project was Beetlejuice as remade by Apichatpong Werathesakul. It didn't turn out like that, but still, that's sorta the spirit in which me made the film, and if that appeals to you, you might be in our target audience.
It's called A Ghost Story but in my head I still just call it The Ghost Movie. It premieres next month at Sundance, a stamp of validation for which I am immensely grateful. Great thanks to Toby Halbrooks, James M. Johnston, Andrew Droz Palermo, Annell Brodeur, David Pink, Jade Healy, Tom Walker, Daniel Hart, Bret Curry, Casey, Rooney, Will and the rest of our amazing crew and cast for realizing this crazy idea with me. I couldn't have done this alone, and I thank everyone for helping me maintain confidence when the going got crazy.
Equally prominent on the personal achievement front, Toby and I ran the Dallas Marathon yesterday. It was the second time for both of us, having first run it in 2011. It was awesome. Horrifically painful towards the end, but awesome all the same. The weather was perfect, and we both shaved considerable time off our first go-rounds, which given that we're both five years older makes us feel a whole lot better about the passage of time and whatnot (I finished in 4:01:57, which is about 12 minutes faster than my first one).
Look at those crazy eyes as I crossed the finish line! My body is still deep in the process of ceasing to hurt, but already the rose-colored glasses have come on and I'm thinking about waiting a whole lot less than five years to run one again. It's a microcosm of life, wrapped up in one four hour bundle of joy and ardor and blistered toenails.
Posted by David Lowery at 1:01 PM
Toby Tours Tapanui
November 28, 2016
And now here we are at the tail end of November. This time last year I'd just returned from New Zealand, where we went to get a few pickups (and to shoot the ending, once we were confident we could safely cut Pete's hair), and now here we are a day away from Pete's Dragon hitting home video. It'll be on DVD, Blu-Ray and iTunes at midnight tonight, thus bringing to an official close a truly wonderful adventure in moviemaking.
One of the features on the Blu-Ray was pulled from this very page. The producers of the extra features asked me if I'd be willing to narrate some of my blog entries for a short behind-the-scenes feature. I agreed, and the end result is sort of like a family-friendly version of Hearts Of Darkness: A Filmmakers Apocalypse. I hate the sound of my own voice so much that I had to watch it without sound (I sound about as thrilled to be reading my own journal as Eleanor Coppola did), but hopefully it's a nice personal spin on the traditional behind-the-scenes doc. There's also a lovely little feature about Elliot that makes it explicitly clear that he is vegetarian. Which is important to me.
One thing that isn't on the DVD is the following little video, which I am very fond of. While we were location scouting, I'd sometimes shoot mock-ups of scenes just to get a handle on them. This one was notable because it wound up being recreated almost shot-for-shot in the finished film.
The song featured here is the original demo of Nobody Knows by Andrew Tinker and Toby Halbrooks, which was performed in the film by The Lumineers.
Life these days has returned to a strangely comforting simulacrum of where I was in 2011. The quotidian details of my day-to-days are almost exactly the same as they were when I made this short film. I'm back in Dallas. Autumn is in full swing. I spend my days writing a lot, with a bit of editing mixed in. I'm still drinking a lot of coffee, still procrastinating online (although it's been almost six months since I signed into Twitter and I still have no plans to return). And I'm training for a marathon again. The big day is less than two weeks away. I'm just about ready. Just about the only difference between now and five years ago is that the world feels like it's going down in regressive flames, which is another reason why I'm running now more than ever. Have to maintain that equilibrium.
Posted by David Lowery at 1:53 PM
Inspiration Comes From The Strangest Places...
August 23, 2016
Well, here we are - the movie's been out in theaters for just over a week now and is firmly receding into the rearview. I'm back in Texas, working on my next projects. Having learned my lesson last time around, I disconnected from Twitter back in June, just after the second trailer came out. I might pop back on at some point in the future but it's been a pleasant and necessary reprieve these past two months. I've also done pretty well when it comes to not reading reviews - although, judging from what I've been told, this is the one movie where I let myself read them. This makes me very happy. I'm as pleased with this movie's release and reception as I could be.
Here's a fun fact that came up in a few pieces of press, but I thought I'd share it again. When Toby and I first pitched our take on this movie to the producers, we brought in this HSBC commercial that I liked. I said "imagine this, but with a dragon." And they were like - "yep, we get it."
I never looked at it again until a few weeks ago, when I remembered it during an interview. Here it is:
Yep! It turned out pretty much just like that, except with a dragon.
Posted by David Lowery at 1:39 PM
Three years ain't long enough
February 28, 2016
Last night in partnership with Sundance I screened ATBS at a university in Orange County. I didn't watch the movie. The last time I saw it in full was in Cannes in 2013, and the last time I watched any of it intentionally was a few months later in Karlovy Vary, when I sat in the aisle of the theater for the first forty minutes and enjoyed the movie just enough to know it was time to turn away from it. It wasn't going to get any better than that.
Since then I've kept it out of mind. I don't read reviews or comments about it, I don't take look at the ratings on iTunes or Netflix or Letterbox. I definitely don't watch it. My relationship with it is such that I am very grateful I got to make it, I am content that it exists, I'm proud of what we accomplished, I am happy it is out there and even more happy that some people genuinely love it - and I need to not think about it or I'll drive myself nuts.
This relationship, though intensely personal, is nothing novel. It's a time honored tradition, sometimes honored in more volatile fashion than others. I know that this movie exists in no one's mind in so ignominious a fashion as it does mine. Everyone else will take note of these problems or not, let them take precedence over their opinion or not, like the movie or not - and then be done with it. It remains a constant only for me.
When I was at the Sundance Festival this past January, I found myself turning over one specific edit in my head. It's a cut from an exterior to an interior, from outside a bar to inside. I hadn't thought about this scene in a long time, but that night, perhaps because I was so physically close to the movie's point of origin, it hung over my head, taunted me with its unalterability and left me unable to sleep, perplexed as to why I didn't just let the damn scene breathe, to let it live the way we'd shot it. I know I was the only human being in the entire universe thinking about that edit, much less losing sleep over it, but hindsight and proper perspective never make good bedfellows.
(I think of the movie now and recall how terrified I was to bore people, how eager I was to please and to live up to expectations, my own included. I think about the same filmmaker a few years prior delighting at the idea of spending an entire minute of running time watching kids silently pick at peeling wallpaper, and try to plot out the exact moment I lost my nerve.)
One day - I tell myself it'll take ten years, which means seven from now - I'll be able to like the movie. Just as the ardors of production have become wrapped in pinkish-blue nostalgia, those creative choices that pain me now will become charming in their naiveté. The good that came of the film will outweigh my mixed feelings towards it - as it already should, but somehow doesn't! - and the picture itself will have gained a context in which I can look at it with affection, an imperfect but beautiful piece of me and all of us who participated in it.
Lately I've wondered if that day might come sooner. It's faded just enough. I can't quite remember what scenes or bits of scenes are in the movie any more, or what order they come in. Certain decisions whose memory I cringed at just six months ago no longer bother me. I remember why I made them, and can see how they sorta-kinda make sense.
But today, right now - after hearing the muffled music through sound-proofed walls last night and stepping into the theater just in time to see the handwritten credits fade away and later on the drive home getting lost in a quagmire of detours and shut-down on-ramps and broken-down highways (closed I later learned on account of four people who died in a pile-up the night before, in case I wanted to take another shot at some perspective) and catching myself jamming my tongue into the back of my teeth in typical anxious fashion, my face all tight and constricted and the could-have-would-have-beens flying this way and that - I know it's not quite time yet.
Posted by David Lowery at 1:24 PM
February 7, 2016
I recently found this essay, written in the fall of 2011 and published in a now shuttered online journal, and thought it was worth preserving. For what it's worth, the screenplay whose inception I detail here was never finished, although its central conceit still flutters around the periphery of my mind, and will surely one day be realized).
The Beginning: it is the most difficult part of a film’s anatomy.
It is also the easiest to write.
As a filmmaker, I’ve written far more beginnings than I have endings. Endings are difficult to write because one must arrive there. With beginnings, at least in my experience, I simply sit down and begin. There’s no predication to consider. I entertain myself. The words and pages accumulate with ease. It’s only later, when I reach page 20 or 30 or 40, or sometimes even 50, that I realize the platform from which I’ve been building is ill-prepared to shoulder the weight of the firmaments rising up atop it. Often I discover a little too late that where I’m winding up is not where I’ve begun.
My screenplays-in-progress are Winchester houses, with chutes and passageways and entire wings shooting off the side of the building. There are ways to avoid this, and these include: outlining, foresight and a strong sense of direction. Of these I have only the latter, and trust it implicitly, but never let it stay me from the rambling that’s become my process.
Here is how it happens: I sit down to compose a screenplay, one that I’ve been thinking about for almost exactly a year. It is in this case the tale of a little girl named Emma who writes a book. I’ll leave the description at that. The idea has stuck around long enough now; has proven its worth. It’s time to write it down. And so I begin. I begin in this case quite literally, with a character speaking about beginnings. This reads well, and sounds good, and is a fine start—but it is too obvious. Who cares? It’s staying in for now. Let’s move on.
A new character presents himself. He’s a publisher, an employment necessary for the plot to proceed as I’ve foreseen. I give him some dialogue, do what I can to give him some color. And in doing so I wonder: But what if, in addition to serving the plot in a professional capacity, he also becomes a de-facto father figure to the protagonist, who heretofore was not missing one but might be enriched by such an absence? Indeed, I was going to off the fellow later anyway, so I’d be getting a jump on things. I make a note in all caps right there in the body of the text: go back later and eradicate all instances of the father.
I digress. This character is a publisher, which must mean that he works at a publishing house. I know nothing of this world, outside of what I’ve seen in the movies. But first drafts are not the time for research. All I need is for this character to have an office in which he can do some busywork while talking to our main character–editing a manuscript, or some such thing. All the same, I wrack my brain for contextual clues and points of reference: giant printing presses with their black rollers and spinning turbines come to mind first—which is not what I need—followed by an image of freshly pressed pages hanging on clothes line to dry. This feels suddenly correct.
This image, I know almost instantly, is from the movie The Hours, based on Michael Cunningham’s novel. It depicts Leonard Woolf at work with his apprentice at the Hogarth Press, the imprint he founded with his wife Virginia and which published her work. I liked The Hours, the book, well enough. But Virginia Woolf is one of my favorite authors—one who, upon discovery, shook my sense of what literature could be and made me love it in a newly tangible and palpable and sinuous way, and her intrusion, however roundabout, upon this story sends a warm jolt of perspective backwards over what I’ve written and forwards over what’s yet to come. This vision of pages hanging like laundry, the sun shining through the paper’s fiber, itself besmirched by neat and miniature formations of black ink drying in the light—this has something to do with that charge. Perhaps unbeknownst to myself, I’d already been striving for that something, because from page one I’d named this character Leonard.
And so I dive into the black hole that is research. I ferret out all details of the Hogarth Press that I can find online. I order a copy of a memoir entitled A Boy At The Hogarth Press, by Woolf’s apprentice Richard Kennedy. I remind myself that I need to pick up Virginia’s collected journals and letters. I read about how the Woolfs first bought a small letterpress in 1917, and how their hands were made sore divvying the type into typecases. I imagine the type made of wood or pewter or some lesser material, and wonder what the typeface was. Virginia, I learn, had already been skilled in the art of bookbinding before printing became a new passion for her.
I picture her as a teenager, sitting beside a window with an awl and thread, the punch and the pull, binding folios and stitching them into manuscripts.
Here, now, in this instance, I have an inkling: I once researched bookbinding for another project; one long since finished and buried. Come to think of it, I had read up on printing presses for that same project, in which the hero carted a small press across a newly-formed America with the aim to publish poetry. How had I forgotten this? It explains the well-worn-wheelhouse sensation I felt as this new narrative began to drift in that old direction.
This always happens. Themes resurface; props indicative of some latent proclivity are ferried from one project to the next. Were my body of work more substantial, I’m sure it would have grounds to be called termitic. It isn’t substantial, partially due to the amount of time I spend in instances like these poring over antique letterpresses on eBay and considering the possibility of printing and binding books as a hobby of my own (and, if not that, then finding someone who’s already thus employed to make a short documentary about them). In the basement of a building in which I once worked, there was an old-fashioned printing company. I’d pass their churning press on the way to the elevator and imagine panning a camera obliquely across its cantilevered plates.
The press closed before I could ever film it. And I can’t afford to buy a printing press, nor would I likely find the time to operate it. My desire to do so is indicative of something else, some love of text in its most tactile forms. It’s in all of my work: letters, documents, things printed, the texture of paper, the blot of ink, pencil smudges, the folds of envelopes, and text again, on paper, emblazoned and pretend-permanent. This is something I learn that Virginia Woolf grew to love as her skill at the press increased; the way in which the words were printed on the paper, she found, could have as much impact as the words themselves.
She was a formalist, not just in terms of language, but also in the plastic potential of her chosen medium. Like all great formalists, she could push her form to new heights, stretching but never breaking the membrane that made it cogent. This is what I’ve been after in my own work, sometimes explicitly, often subtly, and always conscientiously. I don’t make movies to write novels. Which is another way of saying that, while the medium is not always my message, it’s an intrinsic part of it.
And where my medium has gotten me at this point is fifteen pages into a screenplay that is suddenly no longer just about a little girl named Emma who writes a book. Well, it is—but that vague coal of a concept stoked for a year has, with a few days of writing, turned into a conflagration that I’ve not quite managed to contain. It continues to burn.
I check myself. I make sure this is still the story I want to be telling. There are no clear indicators of this. It is a gut instinct, that aforementioned sense of direction. That and the fire (which will grow fainter as days go by, but won’t likely go out unless the project burns up first) should carry me forward, all the way to the end, at which point I’ll head back to the beginning and retrofit those struts and pylons of form and narrative to support whatever load they need to bear.
That ending will stay the same. Endings are the easy part, because you know them when you get there.
Posted by David Lowery at 2:41 PM