My understanding of business is pretty simplistic, I’ll be the first to admit that. I don’t understand this pattern I see in the business of buying and selling movies. The pattern is this: those who love movies the most are pushed aside for those who are moderate to minimal movie watchers.

The latest example was brought to my attention by Kim Voynar at Cinematical. In her post, Landmark Theaters axes discount cards, she laments the discontinuation of Landmark Theater’s Discount Card (buy a block of 5 tickets for $30). They dropped the card in favor of more complex and expensive alternatives. Alternatives not created for people like Kim who watch a heckuva lot of movies, people who are looking to love and be loved by their movie providers. Now, giving credit where credit is due, the indomitable Mark Cuban came across her post and had the Discount Card reinstated. But the debacle was another notch in the belt for wandering, misunderstood movie lovers.

In the October issue of Fast Company, CEO of Netflix Reed Hastings put a ham-fisted spin on why their heavy users-avid movie watchers-get less friendly treatment over light movie watchers. Basically, when given the choice of two customers wanting one movie, Netflix will ship it to the customer who watches less. In essence, taking advantage of the avid movie watcher’s loyalty, not rewarding it.

The handwriting on the wall was there way before that. Everybody I know who subscribes to Netflix watches films like they’re Crack. They need their Netflix because they tapped out the local Blockbuster years ago. But guess who Netflix gears their advertising toward? Thirty-something couples with children. Why? Because those people have the least amount of time to watch a movie. They’re perfect for Netflix because every day that a DVD sits on your kitchen counter unopened, unwatched is money in Netflix pocket. So their most loving customers get treated like red-headed stepchildren while they schmooze peeps who want to watch The Fantastic 4.

It reminds me of how my sister used to ditch family night in favor of some friend she just met. A month later, the friend would be gone and guess who was listening to my sister whine about what a jerk that girl was. Yep. We were there. Always. It’s crap. If I drink 50 Cokes a day, I want Coke to stick my face on their trucks this holiday season. I don’t want them to come to me and say, “Hey. Can you stop drinking so much Coke so that this Pepsi guy over here can have one and maybe change his mind?”

No! Netflix I made you! I am The Monster you’ve created, Dr. Frankenstein, and now you want to shut me up in the basement while you watch Shall We Dance with your pleasantly moderate wife. Sure, you’ve won all of these customer service awards because you serviced the mob, but not the people who love you. Come on! If Blockbuster ever gets their act together and robs you of your wishy-washy movie watchers, I’m one of the people who will be there to catch your head before it hits the ground.

Geez. I really went off there. Maybe it needs to become our next statement of What We Believe at Spout, but we believe that building more love for films is not counter intuitive to building a business on consuming film.

There are some stories I never tire of. Stories told through books, stage or film that I go back to over and over. Now that I’m performing in the stage version of The Wizard of Oz for 26 performances, I’ve been thinking about why I don’t seem to mind this particular repetition. In fact, the repetition started as a kid. Every year, I remember waiting, checking the TV Guide sometime late November to get the night right. Then, the whole family would gather to see Dorothy go off to the magical land of Oz where trees talk, lions are cuddly, and it’s easy to accidentally kill witches.

You know what’s going to happen, of course. You know the Wicked Witch of the West will blast up from the earth before the Munchkins finish singing “Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead.” You know Dorothy and her walking buddies see the wizard and he sends them off to get the witch’s broomstick. Heck, you know the Wizard isn’t even a wizard at all. Everybody knows this.

So I’m wondering why … why do I care? Why do I watch this movie again and again? Why am I re-reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire a third time before seeing the movie?

With DVDs and the Internet, there’s no waiting, no checking TV Guide, no anticipation. I could watch a new film every night. That’s 365 films a year. If I dedicated the next decade of my life to this, I’d have seen 3,650 films and just scratched the surface of what Netflix and Amazon offer.

Here’s my problem: I’m confused.

I never know what to watch now. There are just too many options. My friends recommend films, but if I don’t write them down, I can’t remember them. I’m a busy woman. I don’t make the time to watch films that aren’t fun or thoughtful. Sometimes I fall asleep. Sometimes I get bored. When I do make it to a rental store, I wander around, picking up DVD cases, looking at the photos, reading the back. Will I regret this? Will I embarrass myself? Will I get scared? I hate being scared. So I go home, put in The Wizard of Oz, and spend time with what I love.

When I see the Spout website taking shape here, I get excited for me, not just because Paul will introduce me to Wong Kar-Wai. You see, I like a good solid happy endings. I like to know characters may be a little messed up, but they’re on the right track. I like things that are cute and funny. Basically, I like movies that most people are talking about when they say, I just want to see a movie tonight. I just need a helping hand in finding that movie.

All of the dialogue around Kristin’s post, Why Write?, has gotten me thinking.

I’m at the point in my life when two whole hours back to back is far more rare than it used to be. My baby girl has created a bottle neck in my film watching queue. I have so many films passing through my life from friends, Netflix and the impressive collection at the local library, I have been forced to learn discretion. 20 to 30 minutes into a film, if it does nothing for me, I shut it down. Done. Over. Send it back. Sorry Mr. Kubrick. Sorry Mr. Bergman. Sorry Return of the Secaucus Seven. Sorry Women in Love.

The films I send back unfinished (Dogville, anyone?) I used to feel obligated to finish because a certain group of people thought they were great. Looking back, I made the choice to finish them because I wanted to fit in with those people. But maybe I’m not ready for those people and maybe I’m not ready for those films. Because, although The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie may be a “modern masterpiece” this guy is just not ready for it.

Which brings up the central question of Kristin’s post, when is a movie bad? Certain movies simply do suck, but I’m willing to bet there are a lot less out there than we think.

It’s no secret that I love Cassavetes. Let’s take Faces as a case in point. There’s nothing easy about that film. If I’d watched that film as a freshman in college I would’ve hated it. Ever listen to junior high boys talk about their favorite movies? Those are the guys that made Alien Vs. Predator profitable. My little sister watched Clueless in junior high and started talking like a bimbo because she thought Alicia Silverstone was cool.

Loving a film is like a relationship with another person. It’s organic. Different films speak to us at different times for different reasons. The point is to watch what we love, but be open to something new. You never know when something totally new will grab you. But when you’ve gotten a mouthful of green eggs and ham and it isn’t working, have the sense to say, “Sorry. I don’t want this right now.” Shut it off and recognize the beautiful thing about movies: They change as we change. They pass in and out of our lives and mean different things depending on when and where we cross paths. It certainly isn’t close minded to shut one off every now and again.

I think a lot of us are confused when it comes to being open minded. Being open minded means being tolerant of ideas we disagree with at a given point in time. It doesn’t mean we adopt those ideas as our own. Someday, we may adopt this idea or that idea, but we may not be ready now. So don’t do it. Give the idea a shot. If it doesn’t work out, drop that idea in the mail and send it back to Netflix.

(The following is a story from Kristin, she’s a friend of Spout. I heard this story and thought she put into words something I’ve been trying to put my finger on for some time now. I asked her to share it on the SpoutBlog.)

One of the most common complaints people have when films “don’t quite work” is “It wasn’t believable.” Sometimes the character is too bizarre. Other times the dialogue seems too contrived or poetic (look at the love/hate thing with Hal Hartley), or the situation just seems too impossible.

Just an hour ago I tangentially had an experience that made me think:
1)    My life feels like a scene from a movie; and
2)    If this was a movie no one would believe it.

Here’s what happened: I agreed a few days ago, as a favor to a friend, to meet with someone he knows who is new in town and needs some professional networking opportunities (ie: he’s looking for a job). This guy, I’ll call him Tom, and I exchanged some emails, agreed on a time to meet at a certain cafe, and then I described myself to him so he could identify me: Dark, shoulder-length hair, dark-framed glasses, working on a 12-inch Powerbook. I told him I’d be looking out for someone who seemed to be looking for someone.

So Tom enters the cafe through a doorway out of my vision, gets a coffee, and then approaches the first person he sees-a 30-something year old woman with dark hair, dark-framed glasses and a Powerbook. He asks “Are you Kristin?” She says “yes,” so he sits down, saying something like “It’s good to meet you. I don’t even know exactly what kind of writing you do.” And she, looking confused but not wanting to be rude, says something like “I’m a PhD student, so I’m just writing my dissertation, but I hope to turn it into a book.” They chat a bit, but it’s incredibly awkward, and she soon makes up an excuse, packs her stuff and leaves. Tom’s left thinking “That was strange.” Shortly after that I notice him and wonder if he’s the guy. I think it’s odd he hasn’t approached me, but I decide to approach him, and ask “Are you Tom? I’m Kristin. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” He turns pale and says, “The strangest thing just happened to me,” proceeding to tell me about the other Kristin.

The whole set of circumstances leaves me amazed at how bizarre life is. Somehow I quite regularly find myself in situations that seem too coincidental to be real, or with people who come across as too caricatured to be taken seriously, or in conversations where the people involved are so “on”-so witty, insightful, and quick-that you think “there has to be a script somewhere.” So why, if films and fiction are meant to mirror and enunciate life-often the very strangeness of life- are we so suspicious of such moments on film?

Paul Auster, who I think has mastered the ability to capture everyday moments and characters in the context of crazy-bizarre situations, points to this as he answers the question “Why Write?”  in his slim yet amazing book by the same name. The answer he gives is simply demonstrated through five anecdotes, each in the spirit of the one I just told. Why write? Why create? Why capture it on film? Because life itself is so often too bizarre and wonderful to be dismissed.

I have had the good fortune of coming across one of the best short films I’ve seen in a long time (I met the filmmaker and ordered a DVD from him). Gretchen and the Night Danger is a 20 minute short, shot on video, created by Steve Collins of Austin, TX (a feature length film is currently in production based on the characters from the short). Gretchen is a high school girl, painfully awkward and repressed. There is nothing physically attractive about her and to hear her speak, at first, is pretty wince inducing. It basically sounds like a set up for the female counterpart to Napoleon Dynamite-which my wife and I watched last night-but they are nothing alike.

For what it is, Napoleon Dynamite is a funny movie. But other than the unusual tone of the film, it still hits all of the same points as a typical teen movie. It’s a film of characters who are caricatures played up for laughs. Each person is an imitation of somebody we vaguely remember (or were) in high school. Gretchen is about the the girl I vaguely remember, but in 20 minutes that film takes me beyond the caricature in my mind to reveal a real flesh and blood human. I found myself really caring about her. Steve Collins hit “puree” on the blender of my emotions. Gretchen had me feeling embarrassed for her, feeling compassion for her, she had me laughing, I was angry at her at times and then I was wanting to rush to her defense. When I laughed, it wasn’t at her, it was at how funny and sad and tense life can be all at the same time. When the credits rolled, and this is a little embarrassing, I found myself alone in my living room clapping. For her.

I said there was nothing physically attractive about Gretchen, but by the end of the film she is beautiful. That sounds super-corny, but if you see it you’ll totally say the same thing. And it’s not because Collins cast a model who walks around in a pony-tail and glasses, then she takes them off in the last scene. It’s much deeper than that.

Man, what a great experience to have with a film. It feels so good to watch something where originality flows from the screen. In 20 minutes I had this incredibly broad range of emotions that I didn’t come near in 90 minutes watching Napoleon Dynamite. Yet another reason why short films need to become a part of our broader film watching experience. I’ll keep tabs on the feature and post any news on how to see it when it’s available.

I finally got around to watching Oldboy last night. It’s a Korean film by director Chan-Wook Park. Oldboy was named Best Asian Film at the Hong Kong film awards, won Grand Prize of the Jury at Cannes, and has come highly recommended by several friends of mine. I understood why in the first several minutes. Chan-Wook Park has a true gift for making a film about somebody who kicks ass.

As a matter of fact, I’m going to coin a new genre right here on the SpoutBlog. I don’t know the origins of the genre, but between the U.S. and Asia it is the one type of movie that crosses all cultural barriers. The genre is, “One Man Kicks Ass.” A great ass-kicking in movies will trigger some primordial fight-or-flight mechanism that reduces even tenured philosophy professors to saying, “Huh. That’s cool.” Physical violence is something the medium of film can do so well. I remember what a thrill I got when Matt Damon (as Jason Bourne) unexpectedly kicks the asses of those two cops who wake him up on the park bench in The Bourne Identity. I’d like to think I’m more refined than that, but I’m not. I just want to be.

So I have to say I was ultimately disappointed with Oldboy. The film stands among the most intelligent of the One Man, Kicks Ass movies, but still falls into cliche. I know right now our friend Nat is screaming “heresy!” but it does. Because the biggest cliche of all is when the only real connection I form with the man kicking ass is my admiration of his ass-kicking abilities. As one who only used the “Overturned Turtle” technique the few times I had the opportunity to kick ass (laying on my back and kicking), seeing someone do it right on film is exotic. But compared to my everyday life, ass-kicking is so overdone.

Compared to, say, the paintbrush, film, as a medium, is so very young. Why is it so many movies keep exploring territory we already know works great in cinema? Why can’t the “Best Asian Film” represent a film that explored some really new territory? I think we need a Nobel Film Prize because the high profile awards seem to go to this year’s best recycling of an old cliche.

Since the rise of DV, I’m encouraged to see more and more filmmakers taking cameras into their everyday lives. They’re exploring what film can reveal in that context. The more of these little films I see, the more I realize how much everyday life is an adventure-a personal Lewis and Clark exploration. As I’ve said before, I don’t believe that these films need to take over the world, but I do feel a desperate need for balance. The balance being I can watch films about an adventure I probably will never have, but also see films reminding me that waking up every morning is adventure.

(Joy is the newest member of Spout and, currently, in the evenings she performs in the stage version of THE WIZARD OF OZ)

Growing up in a more stage-focused than film-focused family, I saw The Sound of Music on stage for the first time at age five. By all accounts, it made me crazy. I went around singing and dancing, thinking that at some point the orchestra would join in and we’d escape from suburban Atlanta to freedom on the other side of the mountain. That’s not exactly what happened, but for years afterward it transported me into another realm, each time I joined the millions who tuned in to watch The Sound of Music on TV. At the time I was simply captivated; now I’m reflective, and aware of how much the movie (and others I watched over and over again) shaped my understanding of the world. Today marks the 40th anniversary of the film, and in its honor, I present this list of what The Sound of Music taught (and in some cases continues to teach) me.

1. Solfege (what the "Do-Re-Mi" song is about-the major scale)

2. When you’re 16 going on 17, it’s okay to have a secret boyfriend.

3. Clothes made from curtains can be both stylish and resourceful. A lesson reinforced by Gone With the Wind.

4. It’s also okay to change your mind when you’re trying to figure out what you want to be when you grow up.

5. Sometimes nuns can be gossipy.

6. Sometimes nuns can give great advice.

7. Singing “I Have Confidence” may help you in a new job.

8. The definitions of “goatheard,” “champagne” and “edelweiss.”

9. Rainy days are good because it means you can jump on the bed without getting in trouble.

10. Life takes unexpected turns and people who sing together stay together.

Ah, so many independent films out there and so many to choose from.

Here’s Empire Magazine’s 50 Greatest Independent Films List.

I want to know which of these independent films you think should have hit the Top 5. Personally, I don’t know why Clerks made the Top 5. And who knew Nosferatu was an indy? Is it just me or is that a picture of Mario (not Melvin) Van Peebles for Sweet Sweetback Baadassss’ Song? And where’s Easy Rider?

(This post makes reference to two films discussed in my last post)

I think Bob Schulz’s comment on my last post is a great way to start this next one:

So how does a director feed his ego? Make a smaller movie that truly reflects his vision, where he can control everything? Or accepting more money, a bigger audience, and the influence of countless others, watering down his vision?

It’s a tough call, but I’m a fan of the auteur, even when they stink (George Lucas, I’m looking at you).

I see an alternative between a director controlling everything and working under the thumb of those who control the money. Maybe it’s a little corny sounding, but I think it can be boiled down to two words: Good People.

Kissing on the Mouth was really a case study of four filmmakers who were willing to take big chances and trust each other. Drunkboat was a case study in a top notch crew too stubborn with “how it’s done” to set aside their experience and find a new way of working, the way that fit Bob Meyer and his film.

FIlmmaking is an inherently collaborative process. Finding the right people to collaborate with is often mistaken for finding the most experienced people. Regardless of experience, there are people out there who either get it-each day of shooting is a chance to discover a new way to work-or they don’t. Find people who may not understand where you’re going, but they’re excited about getting there with you.

I think often these are people you would hang out with even if you weren’t working on a film together.

I spent Saturday at the IFP Filmmakers Summit in Chicago. I have to say that being there only reinforced something I believe, which is there’s no right or wrong way to go about making a film. There’s only the way that the film itself calls for. If you can’t afford to make your project the way it asks to be made, choose another project you can afford. Making one type of film may rely on private investors or a Major Studio, but making a great film relies solely on you, the filmmaker. So there’s no excuse for saying that somebody else keeps you from making a great film. They can only keep you from making a particular film you think could be great if circumstances out of your control were different.

Two panel discussions at IFP were case studies on two films-essentially this involved crew members of a recent film talking about their process. The first case study was for Kissing on the Mouth, an exceptional film I’ve written about before, shot by four filmmakers who doubled as both crew and actors. Their process of making the film allowed for barriers of intimacy to be genuinely broken down, something rarely seen in film.

The second case study was for Drunkboat, a new film starring John Malkovich and John Goodman, shot last summer in Chicago. It was shot with a union cast and crew and a budget of $2.5 million. The Drunkboat panel was five members of the Chicago crew (the Assistant Director, Location Manager, Executive Producer, and two of the Producers). The first half of the discussion was basically about how great it was to work with John Malkovich, the second half was about how bad it was to work with the first-time director, John’s best friend Bob (or Baab, if you’re in Chicago).

Together, the case studies revealed the range of creative processes available to filmmakers. For instance, a few of the audience members had trouble with Joe Swanberg, director of KOTM, because he didn’t write a script. In my mind, he did write a script. His DV camera, a small and committed crew, and a budget that came from his own pocket meant he could write his film with the camera and actors instead of using pen and paper. The old adage is There’s the script you write, the script you shoot, and the script you edit, and they’re all different. What Joe did was combine the traditional three-step process of filmmaking into a one-step process: He wrote, shot, and edited his script all at the same time. Actually, John Cassavetes used the same process in 1963 to make Faces, but it took him three years and cost $225,000. Advances in technology have afforded Joe to make his film in less than a year and it cost him $2,000. Yay for technology.

On the other end of the spectrum is Drunkboat. It was shot with a tiny budget according to Hollywood standards (Malkovich’s current project, Beowulf, allegedly has a budget of $250 million… yes, a quarter of a billion dollars), but Drunkboat was shot in a traditional manner with professional crew and talent and a script. Bob Meyer, a first-time director who is an accomplished fine artist, had difficulty conforming to the rigidity of shooting a film of this size. He drove his crew crazy. He wanted freedom to explore, but the reality was they needed every dollar to pull off what was written on the page and still make payroll for the cast and crew. In retrospect, I would bet Meyer probably would choose something closer to the Swanberg route for his first film rather than one with a large budget, union crews and huge set pieces, like a boat sinking in a storm.

I guess what it comes down to is there’s always a battle going on between art and commerce. The more a filmmaker gives up commerce, the more freedom they gain in the artistic process. The more a filmmaker pushes for a project that requires a hefty chunk of change, the more they hedge in their creative process. More money does not mean less art, it just means less room to make sudden changes and explore. Fortunately, we now live in a time when, no matter what the financing may be, a great film can be made. I believe smart filmmakers don’t just have a good idea, but they find the process to make that idea fit what they are willing to spend in time, money, and freedom.

I really love this quote from Ray Carney’s book, Cassavetes on Cassavetes, when John Cassavetes in 1963 came up with the idea (out of frustration with the movie industry) to shoot a film paid for out of his own pocket:

… when Cassavetes consulted a high-level entertainment lawyer about the legalities of the project with respect to contracts, unions, and a future release of whatever was created, the lawyer heard him out, and rather than responding to his questions, simply said ‘What you have in mind to do, cannot be done. Forget it.’ You cannot build a rocket that will fly to the moon in your garage.

I look at the landscape of filmmaking today and what that lawyer said seems so preposterous. But the mentality remains especially in the movie industry: what hasn’t been proven before can’t work in the future.

The film Cassavetes made is Faces.

Yesterday was Halloween. A day when it is acceptable to have perfect strangers knock on your door and ask for candy. I love it. My wife and I had so much fun handing out candy last year, we decided to take the experience one step further and move to the front porch. We set up a table and had dinner with some friends while all the little tinkerbells, vampires, skeletons, pirates and various other creatures made their way up our front steps to get some candy. My favorite trick or treaters were the little ones with their moms coaching them from the sidewalk whispering, Say "trick or ‘treat." Say "thank you." Then they would carefully walk down the steps saying "bye-bye, bye-bye."

There’s a subtle but palpable difference between being inside and being on the front porch. The front porch experience is about me hanging out at my place, but making myself available for spontaneous interactions to happen. I’m likely to see people I know, but also likely to see people I don’t.  It’s a lovely sort of limbo between private safety and being in the public eye. Many times I’ve quickly grabbed the mail in my underwear because of that very sense safety. The things I see while I read a book or take my lunch on the porch, I would have missed if I were inside. I’m watching the world go by and participating in it at the same time.

What I’m getting at here are the little nuanced ways of interacting in a community. We’re building an online community here at Spout and so we spend time thinking about how the real world and the digital world interact. At an online community, like MySpace, I get frustrated because I can only do a few things. I can keep track of what people are leaving on my page-kind of like calling up a friend and catching up-and I can do a search, which is like leaving my house to go across the street and ring on a neighbor’s doorbell. I can also check out recent activity, which is kind of like watching strangers walk by in the mall. But I can’t have the Front Porch experience.

Maybe there is no paradigm for the Front Porch in an online setting. It’s something I’ve wrestled with and can’t seem to come up with a clear alternative. It seems like all of my online experience jumps between being either totally private, or frighteningly public. But the Front Porch has become a valued part of my real world life. I don’t think I’ll ever buy a house without a front porch again. It’s a stretch, but what we’re pushing for at Spout is an experience like living in a neighborhood with a bunch of people who love film, walking up and down the sidewalk while I sit on my front porch with a sandwich and say "Hi."