Tyler Gibb – Writer, Director, Editor, Filmmaker

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.

So I heard this thing on the radio the other day about yet another attempt to predict the success of films. Over the years I’ve heard of many a snake oil salesman (successfully) pitching their “scientific” methods of determining what will be a profitable, blockbuster film to Hollywood studio execs. The latest is called neuro-cinematics.

Sixty-four sensors placed on the heads of the audience to detect their brainwaves and chart their enjoyment of a movie. The highs, the lows, the surprises, the anticipation – what a great idea! Right? I mean, if we can analyze concrete data and see precisely what people like then we’ll never have to make another bad movie again! Everyone can be number one at the box office all the time!

Do I sound sarcastic? I’m not. I truly think this is fantastic.

See as a writer – the most hated of all film business personnel – this will be wonderful. Don’t get me wrong, I love being creative, writing from the heart and all that crap but that’s neither here nor there when you really get down to it. Because when the long road toward getting all those inspired words from the page onto the screen begins it usually means having to defend your work to others. And not just any “others” – producers, most likely, who have a deep sense of intimidation and fear about accepting that your script is really as good as you think it is.

The fact is, you’re probably both wrong. The script probably isn’t as strong as you think it is, nor is it as bad as they want you to believe it is. But if this neuro-cinematics thing pans out, then hey: “To the brain scans!”

No more arguing. No more debate. Science to the rescue. “See, you illiterate producer piece of shit, John Q. Fatslob loved that twist on page 71.”

“Ah, but he hated your self-indulgent rant on page 45, you arrogant sad sack of unkempt flop sweat of a writer.”

It’s utopic, really. Here’s to neuro-cinematics. Here’s to the future.

We just had a federal election here in Canada. It was a nail biter. In the end however the Conservative party of Canada will now be reigning over the country for the next four or five years. It’s got the arts community all aflutter. The entire thing’s got me thinking a lot about popularity.

I used to be popular. Once upon a time my inbox was flooded on a daily basis with fan mail, requests, death threats; it was nice. But it’s been a long time since then. My priorities changed. And unfortunately, I have a bit of a tendency to alienate my audience with each new project. It was unlikely that fans of Boneland.com would get into Minushi and even less likely that any of those would find Refrain relatable. But so is the chemistry of my brain and who am I to tamper with it? The fact is, in my pursuit of “legitimacy” in this entertainment business – perhaps my pursuit of a more traditional road, maybe that’s a better way of putting it – I lost my connection with the people. The populace. I’ve become a business-to-business guy for some reason and frankly, it’s never been my thing.

Allow me to alienate myself further from yet another segment of society with the following:

I’m actually looking forward to the next four to five years of domination by our dark conservative overlords. Would cuts to the arts sector really be such a bad thing? Is the current system really working all that well anyway? The more I look the less I see an industry of filmmakers in this country but rather an industry of people who have gotten really good a filling out government application forms. I’ve been guilty of this myself. And I can’t say it felt great. The money was cool for a fleeting moment, I’ll give you that, but it didn’t even come close to the feeling of opening my mailbox years ago and pulling out the first payment I’d ever made after initiating the pay-per-view service at Boneland.com. A payment issued by the fans. Proof positive that my work was worth something to an audience. No jumping through hoops. Now, that meant something. You couldn’t argue with that.

I’ve been trying to sell my work to the wrong people lately. To figureheads and traditionalists. To people that I, myself, have endowed with some delusion of virtue. And why, when the people are still out there, out here, right in front of me. The democratization of entertainment is only scary if you’re greatest talent is filling out applications for government handouts.

It’s time to go back to the people. The populace. But just who shall I alienate this time…

Short one this week.

Right off the bat, I’d like to say that my phone number will be changing as of May 1st. So if you’re reading this on, like, May 2nd or something, wondering why you can’t reach me anymore… That’s why.

I’m in the process of moving. It’s a big process. A lot of things come to light. Like packing free weights. They’re literally weights. That’s what they do. And while planning the displacement of all the heavy shit that it turns out you own, you start asking yourself; why the hell do I need dumbbells at all?

I’ve also become acutely aware of all things coming into our current place; knowing that I’ll soon have to move them out. It’s gotten to a point where I’m putting off buying just about anything until after the move. We’re out of toothpaste… Can we go another week without toothpaste? Godammit, if not I’ll just have to pack and move a whole new tube of toothpaste.

As you can see, I’ve also been working on my stand up comedy routine.

On the Once and Future Projects side of things there may be a lot going on but if that’s the case, nobody’s told me about it. A couple of my projects are currently being vied for by different parties but sadly (for me) none of these contenders are yet offering up any monetary incentives so as usual I am floating around in the world of spec. On the positive side, I will be able to have a garden at the new place and thus be able to grow my own food. Because that’s what it’s coming down to, gang. Subsistence living in order to continue to pursue a career in filmmaking (or whatever it is I do now!).

However, you do have a nice new header image to contemplate while I live out of boxes for the next little while. More on that soon…