Category — “Tales From The Road”
By coincidence, on the very day Philip had sent one of his 16mm films – Metro 6000 – to AlfaCine for digital transfer to upload to BSE’s YouTube site, we decided to see “Argo” at Portland’s Cinemagic Theater that night. After discovering the theater in total darkness, Philip went back out and encountered a tech guy, and asked when they planned to switch to digital projection.
“Actually, that’s why the theater is dark,” he said, “we’re in the midst of the changeover right now. So the film may be a bit delayed.”
Philip asked if he could come see it, and the fellow said, “Sure, come up after the show!”
As the credits were rolling, we left the plush theater to climb the rickety stairs to the projection booth, where we felt the ghosts of Fellini’s “Eight and a Half,” “The Wild Bunch,” and Roger Vadim’s “Barbarella” hanging in the air. The Christie 35mm Projector lay in a corner, a discarded relic of yesteryear – its only value as scrap metal.
The ugly, bare walls showed evidence of frustrated projectionists, whose fists had penetrated its walls when broken film sprockets jumped out of the gate or a short loop caused the film to break.
Reams of raw footage lay scattered underfoot amid discarded takeup spools and splits.
In their place, was a gleaming, but incongruous computer-driven digital system.
The digital film lay inanimately in an oblong cassette.
Having worked on many film sets in London, Philip always volunteered to take the film canisters to London’s various labs – Rank, CFI, or Technicolor. “I just thought the lab was such an interesting part of the filmmaking process,” recalls Philip. “When a film was finished, I would sit with ‘The Timer’ working on the Hazeltine machine, which analyzed how to ‘time’ a film print for the proper amounts of red, blue, and green light.”
“I have worked in film since I was a kid,” continues Philip, “and learned every aspect, from pre-production to distribution and exhibition. Being present to witness the very moment when 100-year-old cinema technology vanished and a radical change was put in place seemed perfect to me, who has successfully embraced such inventions as the YouTube phenomena.”
Ironically, it is Philip’s vintage film “The Heaviest Load,” that has garnered more than 2 million viewers on our YouTube page, and I, who have written for Hollywood films, who got to edit some of the film clips for his Blackstone Edge Band, which uses cutting edge technology and wireless, mini computers to drive the clips to 14 different screens during the performance.
It may be the end of an era, but with Philip’s brilliant ability to see the future and embrace it wholeheartedly, I’m certain we’ll continue to stay ahead of the curve. Thank you, Philip, for your incredible vision!
March 2, 2013 No Comments
Street photographers are unique in photography. They are always at-the-ready! My good friend Howard Patrick of Blackpool, Lancashire, caught this iconic 1980s image of a NYPD street cop on St. Patrick’s Day. In the tradition of (Henri) Cartier-Bresson, a French photographer known as the father of modern photojournalism and a co-founder of Magnum Photo, street photographers always have a camera on hand for moments like these. Howard Patrick met Cartier-Bresson and printed for him at the great photo agency, Camera Press, in the mid-1980s. Cartier-Bresson admonished Howard for trying to crop one of his images. “Do not crop my images,” he said. “They perfect!”
Howard also printed the famous Churchill shot by Yousuf Karsh of Ottawa when the priceless negative was sent over from Canada with a security guard who protected it, even through the printing process. No extra prints were made. Only one for the official Churchill postage stamp. As everyone probably knows, Karsh snapped this portrait for the cover of Life Magazine, right after having snatched the now famous cigar from Churchill’s grasp. He only had enough time (5 minutes) to get two 4×5 images – one with and one without the cigar. No digital cameras back then!
Howard is still out there shooting, and his remarkable images never cease to capture truth in all its forms. Here’s to you, Howard, mate!
January 16, 2013 No Comments
As an Englishman who emigrated to America from a mining and mill town in the North of England, where, according to John & Paul, there are 10,000 holes in Blackburn, Lancashire, I never thought I’d be lost on a lonely road in South Dakota 20 years later.
Heading toward Spearfish in my Ford Pinto, I found myself suddenly mesmerized by the Crazy Horse monument…
…There I am – wandering off the highway, greeted by a slew of double wide trailers with two or more beat up cars on blocks in their yards. Every one of them is engulfed by grass that’s desperately trying to camouflage the vehicle graveyard from the tragic landscape. Maybe there is some county code that states with 2 or more vehicles on blocks, you get $10 off your property taxes.
The sun sets; darkness falls and all I can see are a million stars, twinkling,or laughing at the Lost Brit.
“If I drive any longer,” I think, “I’ll end up in Saskatchewan.”
I consider stopping and knocking on one of the trailer doors, but not only do I see beat up old trucks on blocks,
…but also vicious dogs consumed with rabies, throwing themselves against chain link fences bearing their drooling teeth. I know I couldn’t make it to the front door without being confronted by a double barrel shotgun staring me in the face.
“Is this where the Bloomsbury Set is meeting?” I’d ask…
Or… “Tea and biscuits anyone?”
“Good Evening,” I’d say in my best ponced-up British accent. “I’m from Blackburn, Lancashire. I’m not part of the BLM, Department of Indian Affairs, or the FBI. I’m taking a census to ascertain chain link fence usage in the area.”
The minute they hear the word census, cartridges would come flying at me in slow motion. No, not a good idea.
Ahhh, at last! A church with a light on. Not St. Paul’s, but a small wooden building surrounded by a cluster of pickup trucks like bees on a hive.
“Here for the meeting?” someone asks.
He pushes a flask of coffee in my hand. “Follow me,” he says, then turns and points ahead. “All the answers you are seeking are beyond that door.”
I detour to the bathroom first, in case this is going to be an ESTian-type meeting.
The guy at the door is still waiting for me when I come out. He guides me through the door. I blink, eyes smarting, throat burning as I choke on the sooty smoke reminiscent of my days growing up in the industrial North.
Blimey, the place looks like a Blackburn Jazz Club, where I couldn’t see the musicians, only hear them through the smoky haze wafting over my warm beer.
A booming voice breaks through the smoke: “Maybe our guest would like to open the meeting.”
Uh…Oh… I’m not sure what kind of meeting I’ve stumbled into. It ain’t a tupperware party.
Yep, I was saved from mad dogs and 12 gauge shotguns. I was lost, but I’m not sure yet if I am found.
I take the big black book they hand me and start reading aloud from it. Before I can finish, the room erupts in a cacophony of verbal attacks. I can’t fathom what they are arguing about, but it all seems to revolve around the foreman at the local factory, who has a strange name. To tell you the truth, they all seem to have very odd names. From what I can gather everyone in the room is either for or against the guy with the strangest name. Some having been fired and rehired and others who have not. The meeting is really heating up now, hauling towards a cathartic moment on an unstoppable wave of fury and anger.
Then, out of the blue, someone chimes in, “Let’s have our guest speak. We’ve never had a white man speak here before.”
Suddenly, it all falls into place… A plaque on the wall reads “Pine Ridge Reservation.” The sign floods my mind with pictures of me growing up in England, going to the Picture Palace, where I drank in black and white films as my Walls Ice Cream dripped down my sticky fingers, watching Burt Lancaster all tanned up, riding ponies without saddles and talking of firewater. Or Natalie Wood running wild in my favorite cowboy flick – “The Searchers.”
I take a long Thespian-Type Pause, thinking out will stream soliloquies worthy of the statues of Byron, Keats, or Dylan. But no! Instead I ask lamely, “How come there are no signposts on the Pine Ridge Reservation?” I glance around the hazy room. Everyone in the group has the same quizzical look on his face.
Some guy pipes up. “We’re the Sioux Nation. Only White Men need maps.”
The room breaks into thunderous laughter. “The Englishman needs signposts!” they roar.
“”Call me OGALEESHA,” says the man who handed me the coffee flask.
“One Who Wears a Red Shirt to you…,” explains another.
“Once you’re on the Res, ” continues Red Shirt, “You’ll never leave.”
“Why would you?” says a third.
The laughter subsides and the group returns to its main topic: The Factory Wars.
I drift into a sleepless coma. I have visions of never leaving the Res, forced to ride bareback ponies with spines like chainsaws, where every bone sticks up your bum.
The meeting comes to a close. I stand around, trying to figure out what to do. A police officer among the group sees my plight.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll guide you off the Res.”
They all cluster under the church light and wave a warm goodbye.
“Come again, any time. We’ve got places you could stay!”
The policeman gets into a beat up old Chevy Duster with a light on the top. It looks like a relic from the old TV show, “Car 54, Where Are You?”
He waves me over, “Just follow me, it’s about 18 miles to the highway.”
As I stand by his cruiser, the policeman’s dog sticks his head, which is about the size of a hippopotamus, out the window and barks viciously.
“Don’t worry, he’s trained to bite wolves, not Englishmen,” he says, with a laugh.
And on that note, he takes off, and I have to run like a bat out of hell to reach my Ford Pinto before he disappears into the night.
I feel like I am at the LeMans Racetrack, hurtling through the Badlands.
I can see truckers’ lights in the distance as he waves me on ahead. The police dog sticks his head out the window again and tries to take a bite out of my back light as I pass Car 54. In my rear view mirror, I see the Res Policeman snatch up his speaker, and give me a big goodbye, “Come back any time!” he says, his words floating eerily across the Black Hills.
Finally, I am away, mixing in with the big rigs that are carting TVs, plastic pipes, and kitchen cabinets to American city markets. All the stars vanish, killed by the most powerful American force – commerce.
I drive for what seems like hours, before signs for Spearfish suddenly appear. One main street with a couple of motels. I decide against the tacky Teepee Motel that gives S&H Green Stamps
…and go for the cheapest one for the night.
How bad could it be for just one night?
The plastic glass between me and the clerk is as thick as a Fort Knox door. You have to talk through the tiny drilled holes. It’s so nice to converse in this fashion about the various services the motel offers. “Leave your shoes out for a free shine, mints on the pillow, fine wine list.” But for $39.39, cash only, no credit cards or checks accepted, and no change provided, I won’t get much. In fact, I am forced to root around in my car ashtray to come up with the exact amount. There’s no chat about the weather or what time the Spearfish Symphony Orchestra will be playing Rachmanioff’s 5th Concerto. Just commerce.
The woman behind the plexiglass has a strange oddity. One eye looks at you; the other sideways. I am not certain which one to address as I count out my change and shove it through the two-way drawer. She pushes a miniscule bar of soap back in return, which I swear has already been used at least once.
The key comes next, but seems to be attached to a 2×4 that gets stuck halfway through the drawer. I pull; she pulls. It’s like sawing a log together. I am thinking of singing a sea shanty to match the rhythm we have going.
‘Hold it!” she says. Next thing she pulls out a hand gun with a barrel that could go into the next state. She uses its handle to pound the drawer open, but without luck. Then, without warning, she stands up, poises her feet as if she is at the fairgrounds ready to ring the bell with her hefty weight, and gives the drawer one big wallop with the butt end of the gun, and the whole damn thing comes off its hinges and lands at my feet, key, slightly splintered 2×4 and all.
She points the gun through the hole and asks me politely to PLEASE put the drawer back.
Never one to question a barrel pointed in my direction, I quickly reseat the drawer and thank her kindly.
As I walk to my room, I notice my Pinto is the only car in the parking lot. But no matter. I’m so tired, I could sleep on a clothesline.
I can’t find the light, so I just throw myself on the bed, clutching the used soap, and lie there thinking, “At last I’ve made it.”
I kick off my shoes, grope around for a pillow and feel a big lump next to me on the bed. I reach for the bedside lamp, and discover a man dressed in a suit and tie, lying alongside me on the bed.
I fly out the door, screaming, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” but not a soul appears.
I gather my courage and peek back in the room, but the man hasn’t moved an inch.
I walk back to the office, knees shaking, and stand in front of the plastic opening – again. The woman with the gun looks at me nonplussed.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Only one bar of soap per night. No substitutions.”
I lean toward the pinholes, slowly saying, “Excuse me, marm… But there is a dead salesman in my room!”
Her wayward eye moves to its right location. She leans into the pinholes, and I can see her breath fog up the plastic.
“Oh, God! Not another one,” she says, and pulls back the drawer.
When I look down, I see she’s stuffed the $39.39 in the drawer and pushed it back at me.
I take the money and return the miniscule bar of soap, which I’d been clutching so hard it’s nearly split in two.
I scurry back to the Pinto and think, “If I hurry, I might get back to the Res before everyone is asleep, mad dog included.”
(After 20 years on the road, I was inspired to make a singing homage to the hardworking salesmen, who populated America’s motels. Go to “There’s A Small Motel” video on our Sinatra site – located beneath “I Thought About You.” Listen HERE.)
July 18, 2011 No Comments
One of the hazards of decades spent on the road – from darkest Africa to the misty Welsh valleys, and East Germany’s Berlin, where I underwent Stasi interrogation, to the Black Hills of South Dakota and the crippling heat of Florida’s Keys – is the loneliness of life on the road. As part of a nostalgic look back at some of these adventures, I’ve started a series entitled “Tales from the Road.” Here’s the first installment and postcard that announces it.
Here’s a link to MadMenInAfrica – parts I&IIpublished in Media Inc.
Here’s the unabridged version MadMenUnabridged
We look forward to reading your comments on this exciting new series.
March 4, 2011 No Comments
An urgent, last minute assignment for a national, New York based magazine sent us scurrying to Washington in the midst of torrential rains last week. We had less than 24 hours to gear up for two summer shoots in the middle of December. One was a coastal home in the wilds of Washington’s epic shoreline, where it is said that Navy Seals walk out of the turbulent waters after arduous training maneuvers just across the street from this adorable cottage.
We arrived in the middle of the night, having driven 4.5 hours from a long day’s shoot in Gig Harbor in the midst of the biggest storm to hit the Northwest in decades. The Garmin said the address we’d been given didn’t exist. Our cell phone said, “No Network.” The only pay phone in this downtrodden town was being used by some guy swilling multiple beers with no sign of him leaving the cubicle for hours to come. So, Donna twisted the bodega owner’s arm to let her use the phone, swearing it was a local call to Aberdeen.
Luckily, the homeowner was still up, and gave us directions to the cottage. We unloaded, and Donna started styling immediately. I decided to scout the exterior. Suddenly, an oncoming car blinded me with its high beams. Dazed, I stepped back onto what I thought was a pathway. Wrong! I fell headlong into a ditch filled with water.
“Thank goodness I’ve been watching The Learning Channel,” I thought. “I immediately found 2 dry sticks, some flints and built a bivouac to stop the hypothermia in its tracks. By the time I made it back to the porch, I was stripping off my shoes, socks & drenched jeans… I entered the cottage half-naked, and Donna, who had been fluffing the entire house at midnight, hardly missed a beat.”What do you think of my styling?” she asked. “Doesn’t it look great?”
I mumbled something positive, then threw my drenched clothes in the dryer.
Miraculously, in the morning, the sun shone as if there had never been a storm.
On the way home, we drove across some railroad tracks in Chehalis to get a bite, when suddenly the sound of a train whistle was heard not 200 yards to
our right. How come the barriers didn’t come down, we wondered. I just froze, unable to comprehend a train coming at Donna lickety-split.
‘Save the film!’ I thought… as the car transmogrified into a speedy Lamborghini and hightailed it off the tracks with seconds to spare!
This ordinarily would be the most harrowing part of the story, if we hadn’t stopped for a “lavish meal” on Main Street that consisted of frozen corn, mealy potatoes and a pork chop so tough I needed to use the antique two-man saw hanging on the brick wall amidst tragic Christmas toys and stuffed ice-cream colored alligators to cut it. It was enough to make you go Vegan. We should have guessed what laid ahead after seeing the hand-written sign in the window on red construction paper in a child-like scrawl announcing, “Open Now For Dinner!”
All those episodes of Gordon Ramsey, Julia Child, Top Chef, and Last Restaurant Standing had gone unnoticed by the chap in this establishment. But ya’ know, all these misadventures make hellishly good tales for entertaining fellow guests at local Christmas parties.
December 14, 2010 1 Comment