DON’S PLUM (2001)

DAVID STUTMAN, doing business as POLO PICTURES ENTERTAINMENT, Plaintiff, 
vs. 
LEONARDO DICAPRIO; TOBEY MAGUIRE; and DOES 1 through 25, Inclusive, Defendants.

Case Number B C189400. 

COMPLAINT FOR THE DECLARATORY RELIEF, INTERFERENCE WITH PROSEPCTIVE ECONOMIC ADVANTAGE, BREAK OF CONTRACT, SLANER OF TITLE AND INJUNCTIVE RELIEF. 

DEMAND FOR JURY TRIAL.

FILED Los Angeles Superior Court

Apr. 14, 1998.

JOHN A CLARKE, CLERK

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER 

(Excerpt from The Smoking Gun)

      “Two young actors, Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire were anxious to make a film with a group of their friends. They induced plaintiff to make the film and agreed to act in it. Plaintiff made the film, employing DiCaprio, Maguire and a group of their friends as actors and another of their friends as director. DiCaprio expressed great enthusiams for the completed film. But, later, although plaintiff had done everything he had promised, Maguire and DiCaprio decided to “stop” the film for their own egomaniacal purposes. Using DiCaprio’s “clout” as a newly anointed “superstar,” they carried out a fraudulent and coercive campaing to prevent release of the film and destroy its value, depriving not only plaintiff, but also numerous members of the cast and crew, of the proceeds of exploiting the film for which they had labored and on which they had relied.”

In 1995, future superstars DiCaprio and Maguire joined a large cast of other soon-to-be-famous actors, including Amber Benson (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Drones), Kevin Connolly (“E” from Entourage), Jenny Lewis (actress and member of band Rilo Kiley), Scott Bloom (“FBI Agent #3” from Smoking Aces (and “Jesse” from Who’s the Boss), Heather McComb (the first mutant “Jubilee” as seen in Generation X) and Meadow Sisto (Captain Ron), whose young brother, Jeremy Sisto (May, Suburgatory), appears in a brief cameo at the beginning of the film, literally kicking Benson out of his car (thus winning no points from Amberholics). Cameo appearances include My Name is Earl’s Ethan Suplee, Nikki Cox (who’s part is so brief, she must’ve been Connolly’s ride that night), and Byron Thames (young Johnny Dangerously) as the titular Don. Not to mention Gaffer and Key Grip “Cool Breeze” as “the Slappee”. The whole thing was written by Bethany Ashton, Tawd Hackman, David Stutman, and Dale Wheatley and directed by A Christmas Story’s Schwartz (the kid who doesn’t get his tongue stuck to a pole or go on to do porn), R.D. Robb, who also contributed to the script. Which was then, apparently, thrown away in favor of heavy improv. 

Originally a short titled The Saturday Night Club, additional scenes were shot a year later in order to bring the running time to feature length. Don’s Plum plays like a post-modern and very unsentimental version of Diner, about a quartet of fellows who enjoy bringing new female companions to the titular restaurant/bar, and hope to impress them with their candor, coolness and brilliance. The movie begins with Ian (Maguire) sitting in a jazz club, not listening to admittedly cool Toledo Diamond and his dancers, begging the likes of Marissas Ribisi and Ryan (married to Sisto at the time), to come with him to meet his friends. Similarly, Derek (DiCaprio) is similarly striking out after calling half a dozen people with his friend’s paving brick-sized portable phone. Eventually, Ian convinces waitress Juliet (Meadow Sisto) to accompany him. Derek arrives solo.

Brad (Bloom) has just had casual sex with Sara (Lewis) and she joins him in the increasingly-crowded booth. Budding actor Jeremy (Connelly) comes to “hippie chick” Amy’s (Benson) rescue. And finally Constance, Sara’s lesbian (or bisexual) stalker, joins the party. Together they harass poor Flo the Ditzy Waitress (Stephanie Cambria – billed as Stephanie Friedman), brazenly mock the other patrons, worry Don the owner, break up and incite fist fights between themselves and others. Mostly, what they do is talk, doing their best to shock and awe the potential paramours.

But much to their surprise, the girls are easily their matches—if not betters—in terms of conversational raunch, insult and psychobabble. Discussions range from whether women masturbate, a male’s “anal g-spot” and how to stimulate it, why it’s less acceptable for men to be bisexual than women (because of the whole “AIDS thing”). This latter point of view is initiated by Sara, just after she cavalierly makes out with Constance, and amazingly enough is shouted down as being “narrow” by Ian and Derek. Even though, later, Derek outs Brad as bi in front of the others, either intentionally or un-.

Before and after all of this, Derek and Amy take an instant dislike to each other, resulting in her hurling a birkenstock at him (allegedly a serious throw as the shoe broke on impact with said target’s cranium) as she storms out and takes a bat to Jeremy’s jeep. Having already been abused by Sisto, she is obviously under extreme duress. Jeremy makes a very positive impression on a movie producer (co-producer Bethany Ashton Wolf), Derek is provoked into making a very personal confession that almost explains his misogyny, and every character has brief “bathroom interludes” where they reveal their true selves (why they’re there despite disliking the group, whether they’re worth loving, various bouts of ethical self-loathing).

Shot in high-contrast black and white, the movie has an immediate and familiar feel to it. Again, this is no Diner, nor are the characters cut from the Harmony Korine Kids cloth. As a group, they’re rattled when the stranger, Amy, calls them out for being shallow and crude. The guys care about each other’s friendship, but their ribbing of each other is far from harmless—best displayed during a variation of “I’ve Never” called “Fuck You Because”. There are underlying glimpses of insecurity, uncertainty, confusion (sexual and otherwise) and an overall sense of aimlessly trying to connect with people outside of their little group.

Don’s Plum is at turns ingratiating and grating, a ruderless Clerks talkfest with some moments of truth peppered in amongst the put downs, “fuck you”s and “bro”s (DiCaprio’s Derek ends every sentence with “bro”, no matter who he’s talking to). Anyone watching either knows someone like these characters or has been (and might still be) like these characters. They’re just kids hanging out on a Saturday night who “think they’re kings” (according to Flo during one of her “bathroom interludes” where she reveals that the “sexy ditz” thing is all an act) but really have no place in the world at the current time. Maybe that will change sooner than later, maybe for some, particularly Derek, that change will never come at all.

But when you get right down to it, Don’s Plum only stands out in its sea of Generation X “Decade of the Indie” movies because of its cast. If it weren’t for the presences of DiCaprio, Maguire and Benson, and the ensuing controversy that followed, Don’s Plum would be off the radar in the same way as Reality Bites and Threesome. As far as the two main leads go, you don’t see much in the way of future brilliance. They both have an unmistakable presence, but Connelly is the more animated character. And all of the guys are put to shame by the women, many of whom aren’t even acting much today. Lewis, as Sara, does the most to carve out a character, but Sisto and McComb are more appealing, laughing at the limp machismo and shock talk. The main tragedy, and I’m not saying this just as a Benson devotee, is that the hippie chick Amy’s part in the film is too brief. It’s understandable that someone so offended by Derek’s hatred of women (and the others’ tolerance of his rudeness) would storm off and find a new ride to Vegas, but it would have been interesting if Amy had stayed with the group in spite of herself, to further interject the complete outsider’s point of view. After a while, the group just solidifies in circular argument, breaking up into exhausted animosity, but real antagonism stops when Amy exits.

Still, it was a movie starring a number of soon-to-be superstars and was interesting enough to hold attention. But just prior to its prospective premiere at Sundance and possible pick-up from Miramax, Maguire and DiCaprio apparently sabotaged the film. According to the lawsuit brought against them (and later dropped) by the producers, initial screenings were met with enthusiasm by DiCaprio and the rest of the cast. Then, as told in paragraph 9:

“Meanwhile, Maguire and his manager had determined that, in the Film, Maguire did not come off as strong a “leading man” as DiCaprio and that some of the improvisational comments Maguire had made durng the Film revealed personal experiences or tendencies that would undermine the public image he and his manager were trying to project. Accordingly, they set out to do everything in their power to stop the Film. Maguire used his long and close relationship with DiCaprio to cause DiCaprio to join him in a campaign to prevent release of the Film. Maguire carefully kept his plan a secret from Plaintiff, telling Plaintiff, like DiCaprio, that he really, really liked the film and though it was “great”.”

Later in the lawsuit, it describes how Maguire got in Robb’s face and screamed that he was taking advantage of their fame and decried the producers for trying to exhibit the film, going so far as to strong arm distributors, not the least of which the House that Indie Built, Miramax. Personally, while I’ve never met either of the gentlemen, I doubt if I were screamed at by Tobey Maguire I’d be able to keep a straight face. I mean, really, he’s what now? In his 60s? And he still looks like a teenager. And even though DiCaprio already had an Oscar nom under his belt, neither of these guys would have been able to pull off this sort of obstructionism if not for one little thing: Titanic, another little indie that could. Released in 1997, James Cameron put these words in DiCaprio’s mouth (before finally uttering them himself at the Academy Awards): “I’m king of the world!”

While Maguire wasn’t yet endowed with Peter Parker clout, DiCaprio pretty much punched his own ticket after Titanic, and if his lil buddy Tobey wasn’t happy with Don’s Plum, then by-golly no one else would be either. Neither of the stars have spoken much publically about the debacle, what is known is that they were sued twice, once by Stutman and again by another producer named John Schindler. The first was dropped and the second was settled with the upshot being that the film would not be released or distributed in the United States or Canada. Lars Von Trier’s Zentropa Films wound up as the highest bidder for distribution (which is where the copious bootlegs originate) and it premiered to equal parts huzzahs and derision at the 2001 Berlin Film Festival.

It’s the controversy that’s driven the continuing interest in the film. Between the lawsuits and the restricted release the press made sure to keep curious the prurient and conjecture yellow. Fer instance:

LEO'S GAY FILM PAST ON SHOW; Cannes date for movie he tried to ban. “Leo, currently starring in The Beach with Robert Carlyle, is Hollywood's biggest male sex symbol. But his private life has been dogged by rumours he is gay.”

“Leo Doesn't Want Us Seeing Him As A Punk.”

And this bit from the obsessive and exhaustive A DON’S PLUM PAGE:

“According to numerous sources of ours (at least five), during the film, which was shot in a very free-form fashion, with the actors and actresses improvising much of the dialogue, Tobey's character, "Ian," who is allegedly based on Tobey himself, asks whether or not any of the others who hang out in his group at their favorite diner, "Don's Plum," get off by inserting their pinky fingers . . . ah . . . rectally within themselves while . . . ah . . . er . . . achieving orgasm during sex? (Which is not of course, how Tobey/Ian phrases it!) What follows is a conversation which not only grosses out some of his fellow characters, but (allegedly) also grossed out some of his cast mates, as well.

"SO! Just what does Tobey like to do at the moment of "the little death," and with whom does Tobey like to do it? Frankly, we have no idea, but the consensus seems in on what the Tobey-like character of "Ian" likes. The verdict is still out as to whether or not Ian actually got it on with "Derek" (Leonardo DiCaprio's character), but, as we have said, by all reputable reports which we have received, Leo really liked the first screening of Don's Plum, and only turned against the film when his good buddy Tobey got upset that hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of people would be listening in on "Ian's" pinky sex conversation.”

There were also wildly imaginative explanations: 

"At this point Don's Plum became a bit of a Hollywood legend: what exactly was in it that the actors didn't want America to see? Some news outlets covering the court case described Don's Plum as "the story of a young man exploring all kinds of sexuality and human emotion," which featured "Leonardo DiCaprio as a bisexual who appears nude in one scene." Adjectives like "sexy" and "steamy" were liberally thrown around, making it seem like this was the next Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee tape." (Cracked.com)

 Strangely, the most bizarre tidbit might be the closest to the truth: “The actors have said they made the film as a favor to a friend, under the agreement that it would never be promoted as a feature-length movie.” http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/life/people/2006-12-22-dicaprio-maguire_x.htm

Unlike the gossip-rag reporting, doing a film under the condition it never be seen actually employs Hollywood Logic. Certainly, it makes less human sense than buyer’s guilt over a film that may out two big stars as having “experimented” with each other or others—Tobey’s “Ian” is certainly quick to jump to Brad’s defense of having been “outed” as bi—Hollywood Logic is far more Machiavellian and supports both Maguire’s alleged accusation that Robb and the producers were rubbing their hands over having a “lost” film involving the stars of What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? and The Cider House Rules, as well as said-stars managers, agents, entourages and hangers-on wanting to protect the carefully crafted heart-throb reputations of their respective pots of gold.

As my esteemed Film Threat colleague, Phil Hall, wrote in his analysis of Don’s Plum: 

“In retrospect, the idea of doing a no-budget black-and-white movie as a favor with the promise that the film never get shown seems a bit odd, especially since DiCaprio was already established as an Oscar-nominated movie star (Maguire’s fame took a little longer to secure). […] According to both Stutman and Schindler’s respective lawsuits, DiCaprio and Maguire used their influence to shoo away major distributors, with the alleged threat that neither actor would work with any company that picked up the film. In fairness, it seems strange given that “Don’s Plum” would not be considered as multiplex material given its style and substance. One could imagine a smaller boutique distributor expressing interest, but a Hollywood studio would probably balk at the flick even with its well-known stars.” 

All in all, this is all sound and fury over what amounts to very little. If you’re seeking out Don’s Plum to see embryonic genius from the two bad boys of law suits now that The Great Gatsby has captured the hearts and wallets of the American public, you’re going to be disappointed. While I wouldn’t go as far as to declare them “awful” as Phil does, neither are very interesting, unless you’re impressed with Leo’s ability to be, simultaneously, a sympathetic scumbag. The girls steal the show right out from under the power players anyway and the film’s delay certainly didn’t hurt any careers, except maybe that of poor Schwartz, who hasn’t done much of anything since. Certainly not any directing.  As the Daily Telegraph reported from Berlin:

"Yeah, it's a divorce," Robb managed to say between phrases of lawyer-speak like "We want to put this misunderstanding behind us." Constrained by a gag order not to discuss the settlement, a cheerful Robb got a kick out of his inquisition-style handling at the press conference.” (16.02.01 SF Said reports from the Berlin Film Festival”)

 

And, hell, you can see the whole movie here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=revUg4JHgRk

DUST UP (2012)

 

In 2008, Roger Ebert wrote a piece for his SunTimes blog titled, “This is the dawning of the Age of Credulity”, in which he relates a conversation he had with Taxi Driver author Paul Schrader.  “He told me that after Pulp Fiction, we were leaving an existential age and entering an age of irony. ‘The existential dilemma,’ he said, ‘is, 'should I live?' And the ironic answer is, 'does it matter?' Everything in the ironic world has quotation marks around it. You don't actually kill somebody; you 'kill' them. It doesn't really matter if you put the baby in front of the runaway car because it's only a 'baby' and it's only a 'car'.’ In other words, the scene isn't about the baby. The scene is about scenes about babies.”

Which I feel was more than adequately boiled down by Rene Magritte in his painting, The Treachery of Images (La trahison des images, 1928–29), a painting of a pipe which he captions, "Ceci n'est pas une pipe": “This is not a pipe.” And it isn’t. It’s a painting of a pipe. “The famous pipe,” Magritte lamented. “How people reproached me for it! And yet, could you stuff my pipe? No, it's just a representation, is it not? So if I had written on my picture "This is a pipe," I'd have been lying!” (Torczyner, Harry. Magritte: Ideas and Images. p. 71.)

Taking this all further, Ebert noted about the cinematic culture around him, “We may be leaving an age of irony and entering an age of credulity. In a time of shortened attention spans and instant gratification, trained by web surfing and movies with an average shot length of seconds, we absorb rather than contemplate. We want to gobble all the food on the plate, instead of considering each bite. We accept rather than select.”

Modern movies, from this point of view, are neither self-contained nor created in a vaccuum. Every movie is made of particles from other movies. “Homage” has moved beyond the in-joke, background detail or set-piece and into literal and thematic presentation. So much of this is personified by Quentin Tarantino and his contemporaries. They’re not making movies, they’re making their versions of movies that had come before. “I told Robert [Rodriguez], ‘You made your Fistful of Dollars with El Mariachi, now’s the time to make your epic, your Once Upon a Time in the West”, sez the world’s most successful fanboy on the audio commentary for Once Upon a Time in Mexico. It’s like the self-referential humor of The Family Guy: “That’s funny because I get it.” The Inglorious Basterds was neither a remake of The Inglorious Bastards nor simply a World War II adventure, but it was Tarantino’s WWII movie. Coming up is Tarantino’s spaghetti western, Django Unchained. 

For better or worse, we’re slowly coming out of the age of irony and/or credulity because the most recent crop of movie-goers, including but not limited to the Twi-hards, are simply unaware of what came before, so every movie cliché is new to them. I remember a Twilight fan swooning over Edward because, “When he says cheesy stuff, it’s sincere because he doesn’t know it’s cheesy!” And thus we get Total Recall for this generation, Red Dawn for this generation. And this generation doesn’t know that they’re cheesy retreads, thus, they’re sincere. 

All of this is a backhanded way of introducing Ward Roberts new film, Dust Up, because it lands somewhere between ironic and post-ironic. Produced through his Drexel Box production house, Dust Up at first glance is a loving send-up of ‘70s exploitation, the “grindhouse” genre that is all the rage. Ironic because it takes the market-driven selling points of gratuitous sex, violence and mayhem and embraces them. Post-Ironic because it takes the most ludicrous of these elements to their logical conclusion. And post-credulous because it does it with sincerity, honesty and a passion for all of the sources that came before it. And in the end, Dust Up is not “Ward Roberts’ exploitation movie”; Dust Up is Ward Roberts’ Dust Up. It takes all the other-movie particles and molds them into something from his point of view and his sensibilities, and those of his collaborators, and makes something that’s both familiar and outrageous at the same time, but never seems derivative. It’s a balancing act to be sure, and on either side of the tightrope lies disaster. Fortunately, Roberts and company manage the middle walk very well. 

Dust Up is about the accidental—if not destined—collision of five people. New mom Ella and her junkie husband Herman, and two opposing forces: the stoic and enigmatic peaceful warrior Jack (Aaron Gaffney) and his Indian sidekick Mo (Devin Barry) on one end; the twisted and gleefully evil narcissistic personality Buzz on the other. Jack wears an eyepatch, a constant reminder of a tortured past as a violent soldier; Mo wears a Jay Silverheels outfit and yellow-striped tube socks, to both honor and mock his Native American forebears who have gotten rich and fat off of casino living. Buzz (Jeremiah Birkett) ingests chemicals, tortures people and declares everything to be his: “This is MY house. The House of Buzz. In the Land of Buzz. In the Time of Buzz.” 

Ella (Amber Benson) is a young mother living in a house with severe plumbing problems. Her husband Herman (fellow filmmaker Travis Betz), a roadie for Hoobastank (of all things), went a little loopy after the birth of their daughter, Lucy, and is now holed up at Buzz’s in a drug-induced, debt-heavy sabattacal. In need of clean water, Ella picks Jack’s name out of the phone book—the way of this peaceful warrior is that of the handyman. This is before Ella learns of her deadbeat spouse’s debt to psychopath, Buzz. Actually, Buzz is much more than a psychopath, more than a sociopath. He’s a charismatic, amoral, self-affirming bar owner-cum-cult leader who promises those he doesn’t like—or happens to notice—with death via dismantling at the hands of his chief thug, Mr. Lizard. What’s more amoral than a sociopath? An anthropath, perhaps? Whatever, you don’t want to owe money to Buzz. 

You know what annoys Buzz more than being owed money? Owing money to someone else. In this case, the corrupt, racist Sherriff Haggler (The Hills Have Eyes remake’s Ezra Buzzington), who wants his payoff and demands it in a most demeaning fashion. The laws of physics dictate that shit rolls downhill, to Buzz calls in poor Herman’s marker, gives him 24 hours to get the money and then has Mr. Lizard eject him from the bar in a most unfriendly fashion. 

Over the course of a few scenes, Jack becomes involved in Herman’s plight because it has become Ella’s plight. Jack is cut from the same cloth as most wayward heroes on the path of redemption—particularly Shane, according to an interview with Roberts at the Daily Grindhouse—so he isn’t likely to leave a damsel in distress. Before you jump to conclusions, he’s doing this out of pure spirit. Yes, Herman is a junkie, a bad husband, irresponsible, lazy, most likely unwashed and very much an ungrateful jerk, but these facts aren’t lost on anybody. The deeper he drags Jack (and Mo) into his pit of karmic despair, the more everyone—even Buzz!—questions why they’re bothering to help him out at all. The lesson to be taken away is if you’re going to be a selfish schlep of a person, you’d better have a pretty and capable wife and an adorable baby at home. Otherwise even Mother Theresa would be inclined to throw you to the wolves. 

As can be expected, things spiral out of control, epically and apocalyptically. Jack attempts to make good on Herman’s debt by lending him half of the money he owes Buzz in a show of good faith, but Buzz isn’t one to focus on problem-solving. In a matter of minutes, the casual morning meeting results in Buzz accidentally blowing up his bar—it’s a Rube Goldberg-esque chain of cause and effect, but the end result is that Buzz accidentally shoots one of his meth chemists mid-cook and, as we all know, meth is a most volatile and tempermental chemical potion. Emotionally, it’s the fourteen-year-old-girl of drugs.

The rest of the film could be titled “Buzz’s Bad Day”, as he punishes everyone in his path for his own misfortune. He and reason aren’t even in the same time zone, and if you’re wondering if depravity has a baseline, as far as Buzz goes, the answer is ‘no’. He does know how to whip up a freak frenzy. Unfortunately, he doesn’t choose his followers wisely. Drug-addled desert-scum aren’t known for their stamina, no matter how many barbecued human bodies they’re fed. This is best demonstrated when Buzz declares, “It’s orgy time!” and receives the same dismayed reaction as if he’d announced a pop quiz. 

Dust Up was obviously crafted to be a fun time for all, and it’s one of the rare movies, indie or otherwise, that is as much fun to watch as apparently it was to make. Behind it all are smart filmmakers who know which conventions to turn on their heads and which ones to embrace. As wacky as Dust Up is it never once tries to act like it’s better than either the genre or its audience. Unlike recent “grindhouse” movies like Hobo with a Shotgun, Dust Up wasn’t designed as a party tray of excess and nihilism. It asks you to care about its characters and then gives you characters to care about. Every one of the actors is pitch-perfect in their performances so it’s hard to single any one out. Gaffney’s a terrific hero archetype, violently opposed to violence lik Billy Jack, but with the smooth vocal tones of Joel McCrea. Barry brings just enough dry wit to Mo to comment on the insanity of things—even his own actions—without becoming hipster about it all. As Herman, Travis Betz—whose amazing allegorical demon cabaret, Lo (starring Birkett as the title character), introduced me to the majority of the versatile cast—gives the jerk of a catalyst an affability that earns a little bit of redemption at the end. Birkett doesn’t so much steal every scene he’s in as he attempts to corner the market on it. Buzz could all too easily be a cartoon villain, the word “Evil” given bushy eyebrows and pop eyeballs, but Birkett hints at a humanity buried deep beneath the viciousness and drug-induced paranoia. Both he and Jack project a loneliness and sense of loss, making them each other’s dark mirror. Perhaps the hardest job was placed on Benson’s shoulders. The filmmaker/author has the dubious honor of portraying the lone sane person in this sea of multi-colored insanity. Like Bob Newhart in all incarnations, she’s the only rational one in the room at any given time, and she does it with a sense of humor that anchors all the madness together. 

Roberts, Betz and Benson not only love film but understand it as well, as they’ve proven through this movie and previous offerings like Betz’s Joshua and Benson’s Drones (which she co-wrote and directed with Adam Busch). They’re not into the popular mash-ups of movie iconography and theme so much as they are into creating new forms from previously-used clay. As far as Dust Up goes, Roberts has taken the history of movies he loves and built upon it, rather than attempt to reflect it in some mirror he fractured himself. The result is both familiar to those who know the territory and unique at the same time. A ‘70s sex ‘n death-fest with an altruistic attitude taken from Howard Hawks westerns. A salute to what came before even as it moves forward. 

As the saying goes, “This is Dust Up. There are others like it, but this one is…” Roberts’, Drexel Box’s, and now ours. 

DRONES (2010)

Dilbert, The Drew Carey Show, The Office and Office Space have worked hard over the years to shatter the illusions built up by pro-Capitalism extravaganzas like How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying and Cash McCall. Modern entertainment has proven that corporate-culture office work can be more monotonous and soul-crushing than the first few weeks of military boot camp, certain to leave you a dry and empty husk alone in your cubicle. “Can be”, obviously; much different than “is”. Drones is the anti-“is” in this situation.
The cubicle civilization depicted in Drones is comprised of more or less comfortable workers. Unchallenged though they may be in most aspects of their lives, in and out of the office, the employees of Omnilink are not merely enduring their work-day. They work reasonably-hard doing reasonable tasks and at the end of the day, they go home. Even the artificial crises that pop up—the decreased lead time, the looming deadline—do little to jolt them from their routines. A key element in their daily existence is gossip, and that fills the space between forms and databases. Who is sleeping with who—the essential and possibly only ingredient. If Ian is such a creep, why does Miryam keep taking him back? When will Brian ever ask out Amy? These are the distractions from the database that corporate switched unwisely from its chronological to alphabetical structure. Discussions take place right out in the open because, well, the water cooler doesn’t work.

Encouraging the romantic pairing of Brian (Johnathan M. Woodward of Buffy and Firefly fame) and Amy (cult goddess Angela Bettis) is the centerpiece of Drones, setting the movie’s low-key catastrophes into motion. Office romances, you see, are discouraged by management for a reason. Breakups can lead to hostile working conditions or worse: galactic destruction. At best, it’s a distraction, so everyone would be better off keeping things professional. Unless you want a hostile race of aliens marking the human race for extinction and blowing up the whole planet? You don’t want that, would you? Bad for business.
Directed by Buffy co-stars Amber Benson and Adam Busch, Drones is a dry, droll comedy that has managed to fly under the radar for most of the film-going public. Well-received at Slamdance in 2010, theatrical exposure eluded it because of its very underemphasized nature. Critics dove into their thesaurus of clichés and hauled out that old indie standby, “quirky”, and slapped that appellation over every review. The problem is that Drones is not “quirky”. “Quirky” was coined for movies like Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist and 500 Days of Summer and anything starring Zooey Deschanel or Parker Posey (the ‘90s version of Zooey). Drones on the other hand is quite the opposite of “quirky” as it’s the most perfectly-deadpan movie to come along in such a long while.

The strong script by Ben Acker and Ben Blacker (yes, I know; shut up) posits the time-tested hypothesis that aliens walk among us and in Men in Black fashion, they’re prepping reports, Xeroxing documents and shuffling data along with the rest of us. Opening with a Powerpoint presentation that will evoke dread in anyone who has ever endured the real thing, Drones’ company Omnilink is compared to a hive, with each member playing its part for the betterment of the colony. “A bee uses its tongue to extract pollan from a flower. We at Omnilink do the same thing. We use our tongues daily, but over the phone.”

The company’s interpersonal strategy: “The buzz of a job well-done is 1) keeping your cool; 2) reaching out; 3) and interacting with others.” Co-operation is vital and everyone should do their part by visiting neighbor’s cubicles, chatting—“Say, Bob, wasn’t that a great Powerpoint presentation Peter gave this morning?” Human relationships invigorate the hive.

Which is why everyone from supply-closet king Clark (Samm Levine) to spreadsheet crusader Cooperman are pestering Brian to ask out Amy. Not that he sees any problem with that. They’ve flirted in the past, but there are doubts. “She uses capital letters in her I.M.’s,” explains Brian. “I’m more of a lowercase kind of guy.”

“Tut,” tuts Cooperman. “Relish your differences; they're as important as your sames.”
Despite the shock of catching Clark “communicating” in the supply closet and revealing that he’s an alien, Brian retrieves a box of staples and delivers them to Amy. Then pops the question. Which envokes an extremely logical response. “You’ve asked me out in return for bringing me staples. It seems…disproportionate.” But they give it a shot, meet for drinks after work and over the weekend agree that they’re “dating”. Brian hardly gives Clark’s revelation a second thought.

By Monday, Amy is so excited about their new status as a couple that she drops her own bomb on Brian: She, too, is an alien, a race called Soyka, and the copier isn’t her “pet alien robot” but a communication device through which she talks to a co-worker (Jafe) on her own planet (Elg). But this, on top of Clark’s news and the sudden pressure of dating, makes Brian freak out. Unlike Clark’s people, who merely want to enslave the human race—

Clark: Nothing will really change except that I’ll be your boss.
Brian: Can I get a raise?
Clark: Sure!
Brian: Then I’m good.

—Amy’s people want to destroy the planet for fuel. But that plan is on hold “for now”. Brian’s reaction, though, drives a wedge between him and Amy and by lunch they’re no longer dating. The next day, he preps a Powerpoint presentation in which he uses a bar graph to declare that “Amy Is A Jerk”. Still getting used to her new human emotions, Amy doesn’t take well to this sort of thing, particularly as it had nothing to do with the new Planicka account and just serves to extend the meeting. So she contacts her people and tells them that it’s time to move up the deadline. The armada, she is told, will be there sometime after lunch.
Drones pulls this oddball story together with the conceit that, like any other office, this imminent disaster is met with the same urgency as any other client demand. Not only does everyone accept Clark’s and Amy’s extraterrestrial identities in stride but they pull together to help figure out the problem before the planet is destroyed or they have to work overtime. And with this approach, Benson, Busch, Acker and Blacker manage the ultimate triumph of zero cynicism.

Unlike so much of our entertainment, particularly in the realm of “indie” or “quirky”, the Omnilink drones are not the oppressed creatures from Office Space, comprised only of tension and teeth. Drones isn’t about revenge on corporate America but instead tackles the old fashioned notion of doing your job and going home. As ironic a term that “post-ironic” has become, that’s precisely what Drones is about. There’s no winking at the audience, no elbow-nudging or cooler-than-thou posturing. It asks, quite literally, what would you do if you found out a co-worker you liked and thought you knew was going to destroy the planet where you keep all your stuff? Would you go hysterical and attack her with a paper cutter? Or would you just try to talk her out? Because neither is going to make 5pm come any sooner and one seems like it would take more effort than the other. What is the corporate cubicle-jockey’s path of least resistence? And could it be done through interoffice email?

So many things could have scuttled Drones. In the hands of showier directors with something to prove, this alien-invasion-cum-coffee-break could have gone over-the-top, bug-eyes, hysterical mugging, punchlines with the extra punch. But Benson and Busch handle the material with knowing restraint. Even when Brian is at his most hysterical, Woodward’s performance barely raises beyond pitched incredulity. The movie they made is not about madcap artificiality and because of their mature approach Drones is delivered with likable characters and funny material. Nothing is ruined in the name of appeasing the Hollywood over-the-top machine. Which, of course, is why it was deemed an impossible sell.

As of this writing Drones is only available through Amazon’s on demand streaming service or through extended cable (I happened to catch it during a free weekend of Showtime). Reviews for the film thus far either stuff it into the aforementioned “quirky” category or dismiss it outright as a “nothing new indie thing”, citing the amusing score by Jonathan Dinerstein and Dan Bern (and Busch’s band Common Rotation)—especially the appropriate opening song “Strongly-Worded Memo”—as pretentious “prog-rock. (But again, that’s the too-cool-for-you crowd for you, and forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t being a hipster no longer cool? Or being knowingly uncool make you cool?) If you can watch it without falling prey to your own misconceptions of what a “festival movie” is or is not, you might find yourself charmed by Drones’ quiet story about humanity, aliens and spreadsheets.

Hail Soyka.

THE KILLING JAR (2010)

The first rule of independent filmmaking is use what you have. It’s an axiom employed by such geniuses as Robert Rodriguez and Ray Dennis Steckler. Think about what your assets are while keeping your limitations in mind, and you can make the latter become the former. If you have a bulldog and a motorcycle, use them for your movie. If you do not have something, like, say, a Sherman Tank or a herd of camels, don’t put them in your script, that way you won’t look stupid when it comes time to shoot the “Sherman Tank chases the herd of camels’ and none of those things have materialized. You can just shoot the “bulldog rides the motorcycle’ scene instead.

Without knowing anything about the production of The Killing Jar, I can make the reasonably-educated guess that writer/director Mark Young (Tooth and Nail) understood that his limitations were likely to be budgetary. By confining his tense story to a single location ensured that he could concentrate his funds on hiring terrific actors to populate the story. Setting the movie in that classic noir “out of the way diner’, rather than, say, in the Taj Mahal, Young could afford solid performers and fan-favorites like Amber Benson (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Drones), Harold Perrineau (Lost, Oz), Lew Temple (The Devil’s Rejects), the one and only Danny Trejo (Machete), Jake Busey and “Crazy Uncle Mr. Blonde” Michael Madsen. This cast also helped Young hedge other bets. If, at times, his script weren’t bullet-proof, water-tight or whatever other phrase you’d prefer, at least the cast would keep the story propelled forward.

Late one rainy night at the Copal Grill, two strangers arrive and throw the “nothing ever happens here” tedium out of whack. One moment, it’s just Deputy Lonnie (Temple) and trucker Hank (Kevin Gage) listening to waitress Noreen (Benson) fight with Jimmy the cook (Trejo) over the lack of air conditioning. He threatens to fire her; “Haven’t you fired me enough for one week?” she asks. One night like any other. Over the radio, the DJ announces the kick-off of the County Fair and then breaking news of the gruesome murder of a family in the next town over. The killer was seen driving away in a black pick-up truck. Enter two strangers: John Dixon (Perrineau) in his ill-fitting suit and sales convention name tag, and “Doe” (Madsen), a hulking, surly man in black leather jacket. Doe’s tense and unfriendly demeanor leads to an awkward confrontation—more a battle of machismo and control—with Deputy Lonnie. Doe storms out of the diner but returns moments later. Murdering two with an enormous shotgun, he corrals the others and holds them hostage, giving no indication of what he wants or what he’ll do next.

Soon, a third stranger arrives with a suitcase full of money, to pay the man who carried out the murder of the family mentioned on the radio. “Mr. Green” (Jake Busey(!) doesn’t know who he’s there to meet and Doe might not be the man he wants—but if not him, then who? Someone in the diner has a secret.

The Killing Jar should be required viewing for all indie filmmakers as a guide to overcoming limitations. Simple without becoming simplistic, Young makes good use of his space, the familiar story and allowing established actors to bring their own takes to archetypical characters. While the script offers few surprises, it’s never less anything than entertaining. It avoids the existential meandering of Headless Body in a Topless Bar as well as the tedious moralizing of Albino Alligator, and there’s none of the hipster pandering of the last two decades worth of straight-to-video Tarantino knock-offs—except for some repetitious back-and-forth dialogue, particularly in the third act, that does become momentarily grating. Young’s movie is precisely as advertised: a straightforward, neo-noir thriller, free of irony or tongue-in-cheek self-awareness that’s actually very refreshing.

Where The Killing Jar subverts expectations is in the performances. Since the characters are little more than utilitarian “types”, there is plenty of room for the actors to play and bring their own little quirks to the roles and thus avoiding stereotypes. Casting blonde, blue-eyed Benson as the small-town-girl-with-big-city-dreams waitress Noreen, the viewer has the instant recognition and understanding of the character’s job in the film, but the actress brings both the vulnerability but also the unexpected strength and human personality to the stock “type”. We’ve all seen Madsen scary and crazy, and he brings his playfulness along as well during the intimidation scenes, but he’s also perfect during the big “reveal” scene—which is also an aspect of Young’s script that can really be appreciated. “Doe” had no plan; by his own admission, he was having a bad day and just “snapped”, then could never turn back. Madsen makes that perfectly believable. The same can be said for the rest of the cast, right down to the two ancillary “Romeo and Juliet” runaway teens who serve no purpose but as additions to the body count, but they still feel like real human beings because of the performances. Strange as it is to say, by avoiding twists or tricks, Young’s movie is actually much stronger for it. By not trying to subvert the audience’s expectations, he actually manages to do so effortlessly.

Young should also be given high points for his direction, particularly in the manner of blocking. I could be completely off-base, but it seemed to me that The Killing Jar had a tight production time working around the tight schedules of his stars. By corralling the main players in the rear of the diner while Madsen takes certain characters aside for one-on-ones, Young is able to hide the fact that there are very few scenes where everyone is present at the same time. (Trejo, for example, never interacts physically with any other character, and dead bodies are dragged behind counters so that the actors aren’t simply corpsing around wasting valuable shooting time and money.) He and Cinematographer Gregg Easterbrook also utilize the over-the-shoulder to great effect—the best way of having a stand-in during shot-reverse-shots and a perfect money-saving technique. Best of all, he avoids calling attention to these limitations with tight, claustrophobic camera set-ups and only eagle-eyed viewers will catch these short cuts. (Of course, I just drew attention to the mind behind the curtain, but out of respect and not maliciousness, I promise!) Again, these are all valuable lessons to budgetarily-limited indies, who should definitely take note: let your actors do their jobs, think ahead, figure out the best ways to keep your movie moving. As Young also served as editor, it can’t be too absurd to think that he shot with the final edit in mind as well. Oh, and another lesson: hire Lisa Reynolds (Zombieland, The Walking Dead) for the special effects because The Killing Jar has some of the best on-screen blood of any move in recent memory—from pooling to spatter, there’s never once any of that give-away beading so familiar to the modestly-budgeted.

In fact, the only blatant misstep of The Killing Jar may be in its title. Referring to the container entomologists use to suffocate insects (as illustrated during the non-sequiter title sequence), The Killing Jar has no relation to the story told, and the only explanation I was able to summon is the suspicion that Young at one time hoped to use the moody song by Siouxsie and the Banshees for a credit accompaniment. But in its place, we get a perfectly lovely number sung by Benson herself to go along with the enigmatic title, so in the end, it’s just a shruggable element.

Best of all—and rare for this column—The Kiling Jar is readily available on DVD for your viewing pleasure. So if you’re in the mood for a good old fashioned thriller without any of that troubling post-modernism that’s become de rigueur, this one comes recommended. Official Site.

Movie Outlaw: LOVERS, LIARS AND LUNATICS (2006)

[With Amber Benson's and Adam Busch's Drones (starring Angela Bettis) playing at Slamdance, I thought I'd haul out and touch up a review of one of her earlier movies. A version of this originally appeared at Film Threat.]

Two inept burglars invade the home of quite possibly the most dysfunctional family on the planet. Secrets abound: Patriarch Paddy is cheating on wife Elaine (the delightful Christine Estabrook), she’s planning on leaving him, one son is a horny loser, the other everyone suspects is gay. Louis the Burglar doesn’t care about any of this. He’s after the money that Paddy has stashed somewhere in the house. Unfortunately for Louis, his dim-bulb girlfriend, Justine, is the friendly type and starts to connect to the misfit nuclear family, particularly after they tie the group up and try to figure out what to do next. The inevitable hostage situation begins to mutate as power switches hands, negotiation turns into haggling, and it is no longer clear who is in charge.

The second film written and directed by Amber Benson (her “sophomore effort”, if you will, after Chance), Lovers, Liars and Lunatics is a speedy black comedy about a situation that continues to implode with every passing exchange. The tone of the piece is so easy-going and breezy that each dark turn comes as a surprise as the viewer is certain (conditioned by years of sitcom viewing) that the opposite and happier outcome is sure to arrive. It’s more Eating Raoul than What’s Up, Doc? (Although, I suppose, I just ruined that sense of the unknown for you. Sorry about that.)

Originally written as a stage play and adapted to the screen, a fact that will not be lost on viewers, the cast is primarily restricted to the single location, safe for asides set in the office. Unlike many one-location movies, (Barefoot in the Park, Two Girls and a Guy, The Ref—a movie Lovers, Liars invokes in many ways), the blocking doesn’t feel claustrophobic and the viewer is invited along with the hi-jinks. Benson keeps the story moving and the script is very funny.

Lovers, Liars and Lunatics is filled to the brim with a solid ensemble cast, though not surprisingly the film seems to lag slightly when Benson, playing supporting character Justine, is not on camera (something that will be evident to even non-Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans). Whether Benson gave herself the juiciest role or that’s what the daffy Justine became is debatable. Beautifully shot on 35mm by director of photography Jakobine Motz Lovers, Liarssuffers only from an uneven pace that will not bother folks schooled in indie filmmaking but the casual mainstream viewer may find off-putting. While it helps if you’re already pre-disposed to enjoying (and sympathetic towards) indie films, there is enough going on here to hold even the antsiest viewer’s attention.


Benson and her family not only funded this film on their own (her mom is one of the producers and sister Danielle is an associate prod. and created the artwork seen throughout the film), but are self-distributing it as well. Purchasing a copy through the film’s website is an official mark of support for independent filmmaking. So go here and buy a copy. Buy three, keep two and give one to a friend.