Spring Break, Or: How I'm Learning to Breathe and Stop Fearing Creative Destitution

It's spring break of sophomore year - the "halfway" point of my "almost halfway" semester. And I've had some time to reflect on my direction.

Which direction is that, exactly?

I've spent 3.5 semesters in Emerson College's film production program. When I got here, the fear I harbored for true creative work was at its highest point. What if I'm not as good as everyone else? And like everyone else, I had a truly memorable first night: unbearable excitement, a full common room, and a few thousand new faces to help make me everything I've always wanted to be.

No.

It's almost 2 years later. Where am I?

I've created a wide swath of independent projects, from photography to cinematography to slow-motion videos of rice cakes. I've produced a news show, lit a soundstage, and even started this blog. And that's not mentioning the social stuff. Though I might not be a  #emceleb, I've managed to enjoy myself, meet people, and become a part of the Emerson College community.

In other words, I'm nowhere near where I want to be.

Wait a minute. What happened to the cinematography, the socialization...the rice cakes?

Like my peers, when I came to college, I came with dreams. I didn't want to make just any videos about rice cakes. I wanted to make the videos about rice cakes.

Exceptional filmmaking.

But this week, I had a revelation.

I'm not the best.

Don't fret, potential employers. I still shoot great videos. I still understand social media. And I've still got a writing and theory background that could make David Bordwell do a double-take. Despite that, though, I'm not even close to what I want to do.

I should have the biggest Kickstarters, the most freelance gigs, the Vimeo Staff Picks.

Or at least that's what I've been telling myself. For a long time, my sense of purpose has been tied to the content I create. My work is my meaning, my raison d'etre, the propulsion by which my world keeps turning. And recently, my self-consciousness has reached a forte: My work is good. But if it isn't top-notch, what's wrong with me?

I'm never sure which Kevin to believe.

The short answer is: nothing. The endeavors of my heroes - *coughPhilipBloomcough* - are far enough in the future that I can coast along learning new cameras, new production formats, and new types of alcohol. I still have time for experimentation and improvement. And I still have time to accomplish as much as I can.

Somehow, though, this hasn't made me feel better. So what has? Well:

No matter how much I want this, it can't be the only thing that keeps me going.

I have to be okay waking up thirty years from now, looking back, and realizing that enjoying my life is what made it worth the struggle. Some of my peers refuse to acknowledge that they might not be the next Wally Pfister, Kevin Spacey, or Ira Glass. I can't. If I do, I'll be too tortured by my dreams to achieve them. I won't enjoy them at all.

Why does this matter to you?

Maybe it doesn't. However, I've spent enough time around people with big dreams to know that I'm not the only one like this. Next time you're overwhelmed because your last photograph/short film/blog post wasn't creative/effective/popular, recognize that it's okay to feel doubt. Sometimes you can muscle through it. But sometimes you have to remind yourself that you'll be okay even if you don't.

It's not giving up. We're all running for our dreams, and as far as I'm considered, nothing can stop me. But sometimes we need room to breathe.

This Link Is Dangerous

Hey all,

I recently saw "The Innovation of Loneliness", Shimi Cohen's animation on social networking. Watch it here:

Or here:

https://vimeo.com/70534716

While I agree with many of Cohen's ideas, he oversimplifies social networking (specifically, its positive aspects.) However, he also brings up an important question:

Do we consider how social media affects us?

And, equally important:

Do we want to?

While browsing the comments on Vimeo, however, I came across a new question. Several claimed that this video was flagged as "dangerous" on Facebook. I went to check it out for myself, and sure enough, the Vimeo link was blocked. I could not share it in my News Feed or private chat messages.

This has some heavy implications. Why has this video been flagged? How does that change its validity? How does that change its visibility?

The YouTube version is unflagged. Regardless, incidents like these show much we need to think about social media. Not just the academics that make their way into this video's citations, or thinker-creators like Shimi Cohen.

Everyone.

Until then, maybe it's okay that this video is flagged. After all, Facebook probably has a good reason for us not to see it.

Or maybe we just don't want to.

Aspect Ratios: How the Screen Shapes the Movie

Today, I had the pleasure of reading FilmmakerIQ's lesson on aspect ratios. As a freely available course, along with video resources, it's an incredible contribution to the cloud of online film theory. Something about the end of the first article caught my eye, though. After a flash course in the ever-changing shape of the cinema screen, their conclusion was a note to digital filmmakers: You have every aspect ratio at your disposal. Use them wisely.

Not quite as epic, is it?

For some movies, this is simple enough; Pacific Rim probably wouldn't fare well in "Academy 1.37", and Citizen Kane: IMAX Edition  might have been too boggling an experience for 1940s filmgoers. However, for movies with fuzzier genre specifications, different aspect ratios mean different ways of using the screen.


Recently, I've seen two films that rely heavily on aspect ratios. These are Michelangelo Antonioni's L'avventura and Ingmar Bergman's Winter Light. Though these movies differ greatly, they share an important device: noncommunication and framing.

What is noncommunication? Well: not communication. In classic film, devices like two-shots or shot-reverse-shot editing allow characters to act, connect, and share information. This is so natural that it's rarely noticed, and viewer thoughts about dialogue tend to concentrate on words and actions. This is communication.

L'avventura - These two are in love, apparently.

When characters in L'avventura and Winter Light, speak, though, they seldom look at each other. This creates dissonance, and viewers feel that there is something preventing them from meeting each other's eyes. In addition, Bergman and Antonioni forgo typical devices, like shot-reverse-shot editing. This is noncommunication.

L'avventura and Winter Light use this in different ways. L'avventura is about a group of wealthy Italians whose chief occupation is to lounge around on yachts. Outside their social status, they lack identities, and when they refuse to make eye contact, it's because they contain nothing worth communicating. Winter Light, on the other hand, is driven not by emptiness, but by fear. It follows a pastor who is losing his belief, and when his gaze slips away from his congregation, it is because he fears he will betray his faithlessness. It's revealing, then, that Winter Light's original title translates to "The Communicants".

Winter Light - These two are also in love, apparently.

This is where the aspect ratios come in. L'avventura is shot in a widescreen 1.77:1. The huge width gives Antonioni much more space than a classic ratio, and when frames his uncommunicative characters, they are often physically distant. They shout from different planes, across the frame, separated by screen space and
boredom. Winter Light  on the other hand, is in a much smaller, nearly-square 1.33:1. Bergman uses this to
his advantage with claustrophobic two-shots. Characters are squeezed so close together you wonder how they could possibly ignore each other; they're practically breathing down each other's necks.

This climaxes when Ingrid Thulin gives a six-minute long speech directly to the camera, in one uncut close-up, without blinking. In 1.33:1, she fills the entire screen, and Bergman uses this to contrast the rest of the the film's hesitant dialogue. It is shocking; the pastor, who has refused to look at her, is finally forced to listen.

Just try to ignore that face.

Both Winter Light and L'avventura, in all their existential fear and boredom, were released in the early 1960s. This was a time when audiences were as receptive to old narrow screens as they were to new wide ones, and Ingmar Bergman could've released Winter Light in 1.77:1 just as easily as Michelangelo Antonioni could've released L'avventura in 1.33:1. However, both directors chose their aspect ratios wisely.

In 2013, with HD sensors, digital letterboxing, and online platforms that support multiple ratios, filmmakers have these options and more. Since most of us are not making Hollywood epics, though, the Academy ratio, ultra-widescreen, and everything in between might not be so simple. Films like L'avventura and Winter Light help shed light on our options.