Tyler Gibb – Writer, Director, Editor, Filmmaker

Ah, memories…

Apropos of nothing tonight I was browsing some old cartoons and games – or etoys, as I used to call them – of mine. I don’t really do a lot of web browsing, least of all on my own sites or pages of mine on other sites but sometimes, when the mood strikes me, I do a little recon. If for nothing else than to see what kind of praise and abuse the huddled masses of the internet have had to shell out while my back’s been turned.

I was surprised to find that one particular good ol’ “interactive” cartoon had well surpassed two million views on Newgrounds.com, a stunning repository for the planets flash-based animation and then some. There were over 140 pages of comments. I, myself, never had the savvy to install comments forms on my own site, Boneland.com, so this was quite a discovery. I just spent half an hour busting a gut laughing at people’s reactions to the piece which I authored ten years ago now.

It’s masked as a parody for the old kids game Operation but it’s really a Halloween prank I cooked up for fans of Boneland back in the day. These types of pranks are old news now but back then, it was a good – if not novel – gag. If you want to check it out, click here, but please don’t “play” the game if you’ve got a weak heart and/or bladder.

Ten years ago.

What got me laughing about the hundreds of comments I was reading was the simple knowledge that for a very short moment, I’d reached these people. Sure, it’s a one-off cheap shot that either makes the viewer hate “the author” instantly or makes them fall out of their chair laughing (usually at themselves, which is great) but it’s the essential truth behind what I – and everyone afflicted with the same condition as myself – try to do with every word I write; every pixel I maneuver. It’s a reaction. It’s a connection. And it’s been out there doing it’s thing, on its own, for ten years. Chances are it will go on doing it for years to come. It may never die.

Unless Milton Bradley find out or the game gives someone a massive coronary – then I suppose I’ll get sued – but the point is: Connection.

I’m fortunate to have had and to continue to have that kind of “success”. It’s easy to forget that sometimes when you’re busy striving for the next reaction; the next connection. It’s good. It’s fuel. It’s life.

… My next post will feature a new project I’ve been working on. I promise.

Lately I’ve been writing bigger. That’s what I’m calling it anyway. Big. Bbig.

When I went from writing short comedy to long form screenplays I immediately started writing scripts that I thought I could manage on a shoestring budget. Small. Small scale. I wrote and wrote and this became my norm. In a country where a 1.5m film budget is what you shoot for and 5m is just obscene, can you blame me? Small country, small goals, non-existent audience.

But what does a budget matter? How is that the hallmark of a good story or even a good movie?

It’s not. But it is sort of a type of movie from a industry point of view. And that’s been my latest life lesson in pursuing this career of mine. This is an industry. A dollars and cents industry. It’s all well and good to make a movie – hey look at me, I’m making a movie! – but the party’s over unless you can sell it. Period.

See, there’s nothing about that little tid bit in the envelope with your government writing grant. Money from heaven. Ask no questions.

And what’s happened lately, as I’ve worked hard and had good fortune enough to have interest from the film industry down South, is that my collection of economical, small scripts don’t really amount to much. It’s like I’ve been invited to a potluck picnic and I’m the guy who shows up with a 2l bottle of Coke. An unrefrigerated bottle of Coke. With no cups.

So I’ve been writing bigger. It’s a hard thing to put a definition on but there’s a marked difference between a script that’s been written with a budget in mind and one that’s been written with abandon.It’s not just a matter of locations, effects, stunts and so on; there’s a language, a tone, that you allow when writing “art” scripts versus the broader appeal necessary for producing material fit for an actual film industry.

It’s got to be big.

Ironically, the closest I’d ever come to writing in this fashion previously is when I used to write those animated comedy shorts, lo so many years ago. Because back then I was writing for the audience. Not for other filmmakers. Back when broad was good, the target audience was wide and the intellectual brow was low.

So that’s been my little thing these days. That and this other thing that I’ve been wanting to announce to you for a long while. More on that… Eventually. In the meantime, go out and see a summer movie. A blockbuster. Revel in it. Marvel at how terrible it probably is. And appreciate just how tricky it is to get that terrible formula right.

Whoa! Whoooaaa! I know. I know, I’ve been slacking. It was morel season, what do you want? Just because I’m not as rich as a king doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to eat like one.

And in my time, out in the wilds of the great green North, I came upon something very unique. No, not a mushroom. It was a performance. A performance meant just for me. Not something you’d first expect when wandering alone, trying for the time being to forget about the business of entertainment – of performance.

In fact, what I came across was a bird. An injured bird, apparently. She was lying by the side of a rocky path, splayed out and whining. When I approached her she got up and retreated, dragging her wing.

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – as with most forms of media programming, I was aware all too quickly of what was going on. I’d already heard about this performance though I’d never witnessed it before myself. And it was a performance. She wasn’t really injured. She was acting.

The bird was a killdeer. I’d unwittingly happened upon its nest. And, as is customary in killdeer culture, it got up to greet me with its performance. See, not unlike most performers in other animal species, killdeer are very passionate though not entirely practical minded individuals. This is evidenced by the fact that they build their nests and lay their delicious eggs on the ground, accessible to just about any and every predator. As such, killdeers have evolved to protect their brood by distracting and leading away potential poachers with their broken wing act and then themselves flying to safety. Pretty crafty.

In the vicinity of my personal killdeer, as a matter of fact, I’d come across a pair of headless and gutted crows. There was undoubtedly a fox or something of that carnassial nature in the area. And as I watched this incredible bird, cry her distress call and roll around in mock agony, I realized just what serious business this act of hers was. This wasn’t a joke. This was life and death. She was not equipped with the natural instincts of her peers to build a nest in a tree that would afford it protection. Nor was she gifted with the strength nor talons to be able to defend her offspring in combat. No, she was burdened with a unique – if not sort of embarrassing talent… Performance.

In human terms, we’ve given it different names – entertainment, exhibition, spectacle – but really we’re talking about the same thing. Using your sole, unique talent to survive.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I felt a sort of kinship with that bird as I watched her watch me over her shoulder, as she hammed it up. Putting it all on the line. Desperate to win over the audience. The art of pretend meeting the cruel reality of the world… And I almost – almost – felt a pang of guilt as I gathered up her eggs and gobbled them up.

Ack! Help me! I’m dying!

Did he buy it?

Vidya and I were driving home from the train station the other day when something caught her eye. In the distance, above the trees; a kite, she declared. But as we got closer that assessment seemed less likely. The unidentified flying object was moving too far beyond any conceivable anchoring point to be tethered to the ground. A hot-air balloon? Too small. And too large to be a single helium balloon. Our route was taking us on a direct collision course with the object. As we crested a hill it swept over the road right before us. Not a single helium filled balloon but a bouquet of them, all different colours, tied together. It was like somewhere, far away, in its dying breath a rainbow had cast its seeds to the slipstream like a dandelion. The balloons were not rising nor descending. They were simply drifting. A perfect balance met between their ethereality and their infinitesimal gravity. A small token of childish glee in an otherwise bland landscape, an uneventful day.

They passed above us like serendipitous magic and then they were gone.

In our daily lives, there’s so much going on from a sensory point of view that it’s hard to imagine anything leaving much of an impression. The logistics alone of creating anything special or meaningful out of so much chaos is mind boggling when you get right done to it. And for it to come down to a precise moment – an unplanned for, living, breathing moment of enchantment – well it’s something remarkable. I’m remarking on it now, after all.

I drove by the same spot today. The balloons had faded from my memory. Until I saw them again. Snagged in a tree in a meadow, off the side of road. They were smaller now, fewer. Batting against the branches in the wind. Lifeless.

I thought of the first time I was ever on a film set. I wasn’t even fully aware that I was on the set. There were cameras and lights and people but it was hard to say where the “stage” was per se. There was simply so much stuff lying around that I couldn’t visualize what part of the room a lens could be trained upon that wouldn’t betray the scene. Then the camera rolled and I watched on a monitor. The shot was a perfect and precise. On screen there was only the fabricated. Nothing of the real world – the chaos strewn about just out of frame – could be seen. As perfectly constructed as that shot was in the final film, I would always know that just around the corner was a light stand, that just above the actor’s head was a flag, that crowded around, just beyond view, and holding their breath were a dozen crew members awaiting the all-clear to sweep in and do their thing.

I knew the balloons didn’t just disappear once we passed them by to carry their magic and joy onward to another lucky couple. I knew that they wouldn’t just go on drifting over the Earth in limbo in perpetuity. I knew that at some point they would wind up as litter; no more fantastic than discarded coffee cup or an old tire. But for that moment when all the pieces were aligned, the chaos momentarily hidden and the crew all holding their breath, it was perfect.