How Many Jews Does It Take To Make a Movie?

The opening night party for the Tel Aviv – Los Angeles Master Class was in full swing when I arrived. The organizers chose the trendy, miamiesque, seaside restaurant Shalvata as the scene for the media covered event. The Tel Aviv evening smelled of gasoline, tobacco smoke, and sea air tainted with floral accents of perfume. My contribution to the medley included my new cologne of the hour, a heady mix of Pomegranate and Anise tones. Eat your heart out Tel Aviv. Shalvata’s pristine white bar balanced dozens of plates overflowing with Middle Eastern yummies. By the time I made my appearance Tahina, a flavorful paste of sesame seeds-garlic-parsley-lemon, lie smeared and congealed like wallpaper glue drying in the sun. Grape leaves hung over their porcelain plates, raped of their dignity, with their warm rice centers viciously eviscerated. I made my way to the pre-poured Israeli wine, which reminded me of the stuff in those unlabeled bottles you get charged by the glass for at Italian restaurants. It would do the trick, loosening the vocal chords and lubricating the conversation gland. As far as I was concerned the evening would be a success if I could get to speak with Edward Goldman. Goldman, the host of NPR’s Art Talk, seemed the epitome of culture, a “Google”-man of all things art. Goldman was at the party, he was also a guest of the Jewish Federation with another visiting group, he was Russian, and a dozen other art fanatics vying for a moment of his Russian accented charm were swarming him. I made my way to him, stopping for a moment to appreciate the Rattan hat he was wearing with its colorful sash. “Mr. Goldman, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a huge fan of yours.” I could hear the voice in my head yelling “brown-noser, ass-kissers, could I dust your hat sir or perhaps offer you the shirt off my back.” Good god! I stopped and waited for his reply. Suddenly, that voice emerged from his lips, that voice I had heard so often over the radio waves, that deep European graceful tone with the powerful inflections of his Mother Russian tongue. We talked for a few and then he asked if I had been to Jerusalem yet. I had not but told him that I would be there for a few hours that week. He replied that visiting Jerusalem for a few hours was akin to visiting one of the wonders of the world for a few hours, more masturbation then actual visitation. The visit with Goldman marked the first half of the opening night of the master class. The rest of the night would prove wildly more complicated bordering on the surreal. Most of us in the class had heard that there would be a special event as part of the Tel Aviv International Student Film Festival. On one of the nights of the festival, teams would be created from the visiting filmmakers to create short films in the course of a single night. Six teams would be formed comprised of six or seven directors each (Oy Vey!) and given 24 hours to develop, write, shoot, and edit a film. There was but one instruction, the theme must be “One night in Tel Aviv”. The prospect to actually create something while in Israel seemed enticing but since we were not part of the film festival it seemed out of the question. In addition, the teams had already been formed and had been preparing the whole day, the official start time was 8PM and it was now 11:30P. The film was due the next day by 8P. A few of the crazier master class attendees huddled together. Justin, a fellow filmmaker from L.A. had spoken to someone high up and we would be allowed to join if we could put together a team and find a camera. Luckily I had my Panasonic 24p mini-DV camera and there were a few of us with a wild and adventurous streak. We separated ourselves from the group of revelers and found a quiet corner of Shalvata. Justin, Uval, Brad, Anaya, Myself as well as Sharon (the assistant to Michael Kuhn and an actress) and another actress friend of hers decided to go for it. The sea threw off a damp coolness that cut the heat of the night. Concepts were thrown into the air and we soon realized what a difficult predicament we had signed up for. Each of us had powerful motivations and aesthetic inclinations; each in turn tried to do what he/she does best, direct. Too many cooks undoubtedly spoil the soup. By the time we had come up with a suitable concept it was nearly 1:00A and we knew that we would be up all night. Faces seemed twisted, eyes drooped and energy levels waned. I popped a caffeine pill and took a few more with me in case I felt sleep stalking me. By this point it became clear that there would be no way to get everyone on the same page, the process of artistic elimination had begun. We split into two groups: I would go and get my camera and stuff I would need for the night. The girls would go to pickup costumes and make-up. Uval went to search out a location. We would meet in 45 minutes at the Sheraton Tel Aviv to begin shooting. Our concept was simple – a young man was coming to Tel Aviv on a mission to visit and protest the newly built dividing wall near Tel Aviv but do to language and other comedic barriers he would constantly be derailed from accomplishing his mission. Ultimately, he would find himself beaten and robbed on the outskirts of the city near the very wall he was looking for but not recognize it as any different from any other wall he had ever seen. We had even gotten directions through Uval’s friend or relative as to an area by the main road only 60 meters from the Dividing wall where we could film. We intended to shoot the closing scene in the beauty light of the Israeli sunrise. By the time we arrived at the Sheraton and lied our way through the guards, we had lost one of our directors do to irreconcilable differences. It seemed every minute of this night had been stretched out; we were in the moment, energized on a lack of sleep and fueled by an artistic fervor. As the night pushed on, plans had to be changed, emotions erupted and subsided, visions were recast to fit specific desires. From 2AM and until 6AM we shot across the landscape of a sleepless Tel Aviv. For those brief hours we lived under the tainted neon lights of Dizengoff Street, we roamed the mosquito-ridden outskirts of Northern Tel Aviv; our actresses were taken for actual whores and propositioned by men driving SMART cars and mopeds. We fought but remained civil, we battled with the light as do all filmmakers irrespective of the continent, we shaped out of a patchwork of ideas a coherent plot and we learned that passion is greater then ego. We never made it out to that dividing wall. It didn’t really matter. The day was fast approaching and we had already taxed our bodies and our actresses to the breaking point. Finally, as the sun cracked over the horizon and the film was “in the can” as we say, each of us in stunned silence pondered exactly what had transpired over the course of these few hours. When we began the night, we had pledged no matter what happened, this task would not undermine us, would not unravel the fragile thread that had brought us together in the master class. The night’s intentions were not as noble and certainly each of us stood before the abyss at least once in those hours. Now though, we were like brothers, having just reached the peak of Kilimanjaro. Weak, bleary-eyed and with hours of editing and class to attend to, we found strength in our accomplishment. It seemed now that the dividing wall in our film was never the actual goal but a metaphor; it was our characters journey that was so important for him and for us. Indeed, it was not the film that mattered so much in the long run, it was the ability to uncover and see the contours of our individual spirits that remained long after that magical night. That's how it happened, that's what i saw.

P.S. Our film screened in competition with six other short films at midnight the following night to a crowd of 700 people (the largest of any of the festivals screenings). Their laughter and appreciation were worth the tribulations.