Children are afraid of ghosts. They demur when darkness reclaims its rightful dominion over light. Simplicity is the thing, and complexity is no thing. Binarily: black is 1, and white is 0. This is this. That is that. But youth is magic. There are wonders. Gods. Beauty is ineffable. Infinity is awful. A disgusting thought. There must be an infinity. A life after this one. It’s too cruel, otherwise.
Misery arrives–the real kind. Fear. Terror, really. An implosion of the notion that anything can be saved. Loathing, usually inward. Bleak obscurity. Smoke, fire. No pity anywhere. Bitterness. I am too good for this hell. I am something–no, I’m nothing. I strive to attain the neutrality of Zero. Hate.
Adults are reasonable. There will be an End, and I am not afraid. That End implies not just a Beginning, but also a Middle. This is that Middle. There are no fairies in the sky. This Earth is the farthest thing from Hell (just as far as practical is from silly). I will die; soon. And you will. And we will have lived. What will I have done?
You might consider this to be my “Director’s statement.” Let me start with the simple hope that you might consider it.
The Glass Slipper will not titillate you. I showed Hell Is Other People to a festival programmer whose tastes, judgments, and feedback I respect, despite how what follows might sound. He felt disappointed not to have seen crusty cocks, because crusty cocks were mentioned in the dialogue. I refrained from showing you crusty cocks because the dialogue and situations were smarter than an image of a crusty cock. Picture your own crusty cock. If I picture the crusty cock for you, I’m making porn. And then what are you doing? There was no more need to see a crusty cock in that film than there was need to see a Jew’s guts in Shoah.
I tell stories. Stories without cynical hooks. If I needed to “buy” your viewership, these days, I admit, it would take more than titties or crusty cocks. I’d need Paris Hilton boinking Kim Kardashian with a metal dildo while dancing the tango with Gary Coleman’s corpse atop a masturbating Kanye. And that might, if anything, get me on ABC at 10:30.
I’m going to be a grown-up, no matter how unfashionable that might be. And I expect you to be a grown-up, no matter how unfashionable a respect for your intelligence might be.
You see, people go through things. Hard things. Nuanced things. We are idiots, but we’re also savants.
I like you, and that’s why there are no crusty cocks in my films.