A Bedroom Star Is Born

“The neighbors are complaining again about the loud talking at night.”

In the before times, I’d have been utterly humiliated if anyone had heard me speaking, much less acting out scenes from the various characters I imagine myself to be playing. The fare varies with the day – maybe it’s a classic like the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks….” Or maybe I’m feeling especially Skywalker and it’s, “I am a Jedi, like my father before me…” There are even musical interludes every now and then like, “Two Player Game” from Be More Chill. Whatever the material, though, I dive in with a wholeheartedness that would make a cosplayer at comic con jealous and when everything lines up just exactly right, I can begin to visualize the scene that’s taking place around me. Be it a Verona balcony, Death Star Emperor Chamber or Broadway stage, those are the nights that my audience, or as they call themselves, “neighbors,” get the Full Monty – the very best of my vaudevillian potpourri performances du jour. 

Why can’t they just be happy with the free entertainment? I should be charging them for tickets, and besides if you didn’t want to hear an ever-changing playlist of whatever strikes my fancy then you should close your windows. Did I mention I live in a house?

You might ask, why do I do it? Why can’t I confine my impromptu performances and ersatz awards acceptance speeches to the shower stall like a normal human being? Well, after a long period of introspection and self-examination I have discovered the cause of the issue – I am a lunatic. Or, if you prefer the archaic spelling, a-c-t-o-r.

Daniel P. Malito

Author, columnist, disability-advocate, aspiring actor and raconteur.

If I’m being honest, some part of me always yearned to strut my stuff.  Unfortunately, back when I was but a wee babe, lost in the forest of college and the world of “real jobs,” acting wasn’t on the list of viable choices come career day. If you asked my grandfather what he thought of the profession, well, let’s just say he was a one-man trigger warning that could make a no-mask protestor go running for a safe space. God, do I miss him… but I digress – the point is that I had convinced myself it wasn’t an option. So, in order to quell any disappointment I said to myself, “Meh, I’d probably stink at it anyway,” and it would have stayed exactly like that if not for a bitch-slap from the surprisingly soft hand of fate that forced me to re-examine just what the Hell really matters in this deceivingly short life.

Since I was young, I had suffered with rheumatoid arthritis. I know, it sounds innocuous, but it is anything but – it eats away at joints, yes, but it also affects the heart, lungs, and just about any other bit of meat that comes with the standard edition human action figure. I was working an office job like a good little drone when suddenly and without warning, my illness dropped a Wile-E-Coyote Acme-sized anvil right on my head and left me spinning. No more nine to five work. No more left shoulder. No more “normal.” Within the span of a few months my entire life was upended, and I found myself at home, no longer able to do the things I thought I was supposed to. I never could sit around doing nothing… for too long, so I started to write. And I wrote. A lot. I ended up with a book. And a podcast. And talk about developing a TV show. And a new perspective.

When your entire way of life is taken away from you virtually overnight it makes you, no, it forces you to re-examine just what’s important to you and what isn’t, especially when you only have a limited pool of energy to draw from each day. If you have to make every bit count then you either learn how to jettison the crap, and fast, or you end up with a life filled with fluff, and not the delicious marshmallow kind. The bright red boa kind that sheds all over your black sweater and people think Elmo just felt you up in a particularly frisky game of seven minutes in heaven. 

So I drilled down and decided real fast what was important to me, what I enjoyed doing more than anything, what my brain knew I desired without a moment’s conscious thought – and lo and behold it was the thing I had always known but never had the confidence to send to the front of the line. Acting. Performing. Theater. A bedroom star was born.

My sense is that many of you reading this will identify with the sentiments I’m sharing. As I said to my illustrious and wise acting teacher, “I’m screwed because it’s in me now. It’s inside and it’s gotta come out.” Maybe that means someone decides the show developed around my writing is worth producing. Or maybe that means a community theater production of Streetcar except it’s set on an alien planet and Stanley Kowalski has seven eyes and four arms. Sounds like heaven to me, and Hell for my neighbors.

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Daniel P. Malito is an author, columnist (for several prominent websites such as Creaky Joints and The Huffington Post), disability-advocate, aspiring actor and raconteur. He also writes, hosts and produces the award-nominated web series, Chronic Briefs, which highlights the poignant absurdity of living with chronic illness and disability in modern America. Over the past 15 years, Daniel has been honored for his work by The Arthritis Foundation, The Autoimmune Collective, WEGO Health, and is currently working to produce a show based on his writings.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

Music Composer Aaron Paul Low Gives the Gift of Meaningful Advice 🎁

There is a fundamental conundrum for any professional musician who wants to offer advice on the music industry: the true "secrets" of their success are too precious to give away and the advice that's leftover is mostly cliché and common sense. 

In my twenty-some years as a composer, I honestly haven't acquired that many secrets. I won't tell you who my clients are or how I got them. I won't share my methodology for networking. I also won't share my musical influences... for legal reasons!

That just leaves the clichés. But somewhere in those clichés is meaningful advice that I would have liked to know before beginning my career. So let's examine the facts and the fictions of the most common pieces of advice. 

Cliché #1: It's Who You Know, Not What You Know

I was recently on a career panel at a music college where the entire discussion devolved into a repeated iteration on the theme of making connections: how to make connections, where to make connections, and who to make connections with. This one is a cliché for a reason, but maybe not for the reasons you think.

If there's one mantra you need to internalize, it's this: talent is common. Very common. Let's play a thought experiment. Every year there are ten or more violinists graduating from Juilliard. There are also ten graduating from New England Conservatory. And Manhattan School of Music. And every university, community college, and conservatory in the United States. Imagine the numbers when we extrapolate this to the whole world! We could do this for every instrument or art. Yes, even composing. And these are all extremely highly talented, educated, technically proficient individuals just like you. This is your competition.

A misconception I often hear is that the cream rises to the top, but this is simply not true. If we created a graph of the whole spectrum of violinists with a person who doesn't know violin at the bottom and Joshua Bell at the top, you'd find that the gap between the best grad in the world and the worst isn't actually that wide. When you're hiring a violinist to play whole notes, does it matter if you hire the best of the best?

I know it sucks, but the likelihood that anyone is going to hire you purely on how good your stuff is...is unlikely. It’s the old dream of the garage rock band waiting for a producer to hear their sound and sign them on the spot. It just doesn't work that way. You have to be proactive. You get hired because of your reel, because of your work ethic, because of your personality, and because people trust you to get the job done.

I wasn't the most talented composer in my undergrad or grad classes. Not even close, in fact. I'd put myself somewhere at the bottom! This is the truth of why cultivating your connections is important: people hire you for you, because you are the product, not just the music you write.

Cliché #2: Believe in Yourself

One of the best pieces of advice I was ever given was from Pierre Boulez in the words, "Find yourself." If it had been anyone else it would have come off as cheesy and reeking of insincerity. But from him it felt like a rallying cry. Yet here we are as professionals, still trying to find our identities, not just as artists but as human beings.      When a deer is born, the newborn fawn drops out of its mother’s womb and gets up, ready to take on the world. Often, we humans reach our mid-30's still searching for who we are and maybe, more importantly, who we are not. Finding your voice takes time but finding the confidence to believe in your voice can take even longer.

On paper, the advice believe in yourself seems painfully obvious and yet more often than not I find it completely misinterpreted by artists. It's time to come to terms with what your identity means in relation to your career.

The most important factor in your artistic identity is to understand your limits. You, like any talented individual, have strengths and weaknesses. This means being disciplined in taking the gigs where you can lend your strengths to the job while maximizing connections for the jobs that fit your strengths. This also means working on the weaknesses that are keeping you from getting the jobs you want. There's no shame in admitting that you simply don't enjoy writing a certain genre of music. I have never enjoyed writing electronic dance music (EDM) despite having playlists full of dance tracks. It might even be my favorite genre to listen to! Sometimes the music we excel at as musicians isn’t at all the same music we enjoy listening to.

The most difficult part is trusting your voice. Deep down there is a true-you that comes out in your most passionate – and vulnerable – moments. This may be the scariest part of being an artist. Baring your soul to an audience can be no different than standing naked in front of your classmates. You are completely exposed and there is nothing to hide or mask the intimate details in your work that are so personal. I think back to when I was an adolescent and wrote music for fun; there was nothing to hide. I would write whatever came to mind! Somehow, as I grew into a professional, I'd often find myself over-orchestrating my music as a way of hiding my more personal ideas, as if uncovering them exposed me to potential ridicule or criticism that I couldn't take.

My hero in this regard has always been Erik Satie. In a time just before the French were obsessed with pushing the limits of tonality and orchestration, his music crashed through the gates with as few notes as possible. Not a single unnecessary doubling. Not a single note out of place. I can't imagine having the confidence to do what he did, but I aspire to. This is from the 1880's.

Now, let's make something clear: to "believe in yourself" doesn't mean you don't have a backup plan; it doesn't mean you don't take criticism seriously; it doesn't mean you lack humility. You don't need to become a diva to believe in yourself and as we discussed in the previous section, attitude problems can be a career killer. I'm reminded of mediocre auditions on American Idol where the judges offer criticism only to be met with screams of, "You don't know what you're talking about! I'm a great singer!" Their parents probably told them to believe in themselves and now they do so to the point where they are no longer able to take critiques and improve their crafts.

Many artists interpret "believe in yourself" to mean expressing their emotions at any costs, imposing their will on the projects on which they work. This is the most dangerous game you can play in the music industry, where following instructions and being a team player are held at such a premium. In the next section we'll discuss why you need to shake these ideas from your head for good. 

Cliché #3: If You Do What You Love, You'll Never Work a Day in Your Life

 Even if you're a trust fund kid with nothing to occupy your time but chasing Pulitzers, this cliché is still, most likely, not true. And if you're reading this, I'm guessing you're not in such a fortunate position anyhow! The fact is that if you are trying to make money with your work, then this is a job and you need to treat it as such.

The first thing you need to get out of your head is that what you're doing is "high art." It's not high art. It's barely art at all! It's more of a craft and the quicker you internalize this, the more money you're going to make during your career. Your job as a composer is not to express yourself; it's to deliver what your client wants. Sometimes your client gives you some artistic freedom, but at the end of the day your job is to realize the creative vision of your director and/or producer. To use a baseball analogy, I am the pitcher and the producer is the catcher. The catcher’s job is to create a game plan and call the signs. My job, especially as a “rookie,” isn't to decide what pitch to throw; it's to execute the game plan. And maybe in time, as I become a veteran, I'll have more input into the game plan and the pitch selection. But the final say, at the beginning of a career, goes to the catcher. To shake him off would be a sign of bad faith. 

Even Alexandre Desplat, one of the great film scorers of our time, couldn't shake this reality when he was fired from Rogue One: A Star Wars Story for not realizing the director's vision. Peter Jackson fired Howard Shore, the musical genius behind The Lord of the Rings trilogy, when the director was helming his King Kong remake despite their previous collaborations, which earned two Academy Awards for Best Original Score.

The most infamous story of all is the tragic tale of Alex North whose score for Stanley Kubrick's 1968 film 2001: A Space Odyssey was never even used. Not a single note, in fact. He couldn't impress the great Kubrick despite an incredible work of composition and was instead replaced by a collection of classical pieces such as Richard Strauss’ iconic Also Sprach Zarathustra. Tough break.

Furthermore, there are many aspects to the job that don't involve your creative process in the slightest! If you're going to make money, you're going to be doing a lot of networking, sending emails, making reels, building websites, working on your social media presence, bookkeeping, reading and discussing briefings, fielding conference calls, organizing your library, and researching.

Despite all of this, I still love what I do. Getting paid to write music is a blessing and I try my best to appreciate it. But I'll be damned if there aren't days I wish I had just gotten an MBA and took the first job on Wall Street I could find.

Cliché #4: There Is No "Big Break"

Professionals will often tell you that there wasn't a single catalyst that propelled their career. Many of my closest colleagues attest that their careers were a gradual climb with tens or hundreds of individual milestones. What they say is true: there will not be a single moment where you go from unknown, undiscovered, and an unpaid amateur to a respected professional. You're not going to suddenly land a Hollywood gig because some producer liked your reel. You're probably not even going to be hired as a staff composer at a music house straight out of college.

 However, there will be a singular moment or singular moments in your life that will make or break your career, and if you're not prepared for them, you will not succeed.

If you're the reading type, pick up Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. In it, Gladwell examines the idiosyncratic experiences that make high-achievers different. What strikes me as especially relevant is his analysis of iconoclasts such as Bill Gates and The Beatles. It's not just that they were smart or talented or in the right place at the right time - when the chance of a lifetime came to them, they were ready. They already had 10,000 hours of experience. 

However, you won't know which moment was the important one until years and years later so it's best to treat every opportunity as if it's “the big one.” I may not be able to pinpoint an individual moment that made my career (perhaps because I hope that the greatest career-defining moment of my career is yet to come) but the individual successes came because I was ready and I knew what to do with them. For example, as a music house intern (I was paid $50 a week to get coffee, clean, and digitize the company's cd collection) I was given a chance to write on a pharmaceutical spot. We all hope we're ready for these moments as you only get one shot at it. I was able to impress my boss as well as the agency producers who wanted to hear more of my music. I wasn't exactly handed a job on the spot, but it was a major hurdle that I successfully leapt over.

Regrettably, this advice comes with a depressing caveat: you will often do everything right as an artist and you will still fail. As the wise Captain Picard once said, "It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life." This is doubly true in the arts. You can write and submit the greatest dubstep track of all time to a producer who says, "Thanks, but we're going with a jazz track instead."

Some of your greatest works will go unrecognized, and some of your lousiest phoned-in lazy compositions will pay your rent. If just 10% of the music I write and/or submit was licensed, I'd be rich beyond my dreams. And even then, a 90% failure rate can be devastating.

This is an industry where you must be able to treat every opportunity as an important one while simultaneously shrugging off the failure and rejection that is often the result. As we discussed earlier, even Desplat, Shore, North, and many others at the top of their field have faced failure and rejection. You will too. 

Conclusion

If there's one piece of parting wisdom I'd like to leave you with it's this: always be careful where you get your advice. Your teachers can bestow you with critique and analytical knowledge, but would you take career advice from a teacher who has never performed professionally? I certainly wouldn't. Worse yet, there is an entire industry preying upon the desperate: offering workshops, books, and PDF's on how to break into the industry. One shyster I know wrote a book claiming to teach you how to make 30 grand in 30 minutes as a commercial composer. He offers a subscription service. If these people know so much about this subject, why are they selling books and not making money as an artist? I sure don't have time to be selling books or organizing YouTube workshops! I'm busy writing!

And just like the teachers and the hucksters, I deserve the same scrutiny, as you can only trust me with advice on subjects I have experience with. I can offer advice on the commercial, TV, and video game industries. But I can't offer you any advice for film. John Williams may be the greatest film scorer of all time, but I doubt he can offer you advice about commercials! Take that, Johnny.

Each industry is wildly different. You might be tempted to say that composing is composing, but that would be like saying throwing a ball is throwing a ball. Despite the similarities, you wouldn't exactly trust Tom Brady to pitch for the Red Sox. In fact, my closest film scoring friend stresses that he doesn't work in the music industry; he works in the film industry.

At the end of the day, if you work hard you always have something to be proud of (even in failure). You can take solace in your work ethic, as you know you did the best job you could. If your work is rejected, the fault lies in them and not in you. I always told myself I would keep trying and trying as a composer until I finally failed so miserably that I would be forced to move back in with my parents and start over and get a new job. It hasn't happened yet, despite all the failure. I'd call that a success.

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Aaron Paul Low

Award-winning composer, producer, orchestrator and conductor from New York City.

Aaron Paul Low is an award-winning composer, producer, orchestrator and conductor from New York City. A Juilliard-educated composer, APL gained prominence writing for advertising through his years at Sacred Noise, a music house in Manhattan. In his career as a freelance composer, his work has spanned from television shows to film festivals such as Cannes and TriBeCa; from arrangements and compositions for major pop artists to commercials that have aired on the Super Bowl, Olympics, World Cup, and World Series.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

Dead Like Me

I’m not an Opera lover, but I go.  It is a great night out, you hear wonderful music, you have a nice nap, and you get to walk out feeling pretty damn sophisticated. Provided you didn’t audibly snore.   

I know the readers of this blog are theater people and are probably aghast that someone would fall asleep during any live performance but, come on, if you’re sitting in the dress circle at the Met and the only thing illuminated is Tristan’s miniature head amidst that enormous blackened stage while the Wagnerian German verse slowly emits from the poor Tenor’s throat, you can’t help but nod off.  In fact, you almost just nodded off reading that run-on sentence. 

Long operas are not my favorite.  Nor are the real serious ones.  No Ring Cycle for me!  I like the one-acts.  A couple of arias, a love story coupled with a tragic death and boom—I’m home in my robe sipping bourbon and eating Cheez-Its right out of the box. 

One of my favorites is Gianni Schicchi.  It’s fast, it’s amusing, it has a great story and it’s Puccini.  Which means it’s fun.  When I was around 19 years old I had volunteered at a local community theater to do “follow spot” for a production of it--that’s when I learned opera could be enjoyable. 

I’m a working actor that mostly does Film, TV and Commercials.  You might have seen me.  I’m most know for a commercial for Ancestry.com that ran nationally more than 22,000 times over 4 years.  I’m the guy who traded his lederhosen for a kilt.  If you haven’t seen it, ask your parents.  It often ran during 60 Minutes, Jeopardy, the National News, and, inexplicably, Madam Secretary.

I also appear in numerous TV series and movies on channels like Amazon, Investigation Discover, the History Channel, A&E and Lifetime.  I’ve done short films, feature films, and web series.  My Commercial work includes household names like Accuweather, Canon, DeLonghi and Sotheby’s.  I even filmed 3 additional commercials for Ancestry DNA.  I work often.  Or at least I did before Covid-19. 

Actors usually play a couple of “Types”.  For example, I’m often cast as a Priest, Lawyer, Doctor, Father of the Bride, young Grandfather, Businessman, and even your local, friendly neighborhood Racist.  I get these a lot.  But I also seem to have a new type: Cadaver.  Before the pandemic hit, I was cast in three feature films shooting this summer, and I was dead in two of them.  Not the whole time, but dead nonetheless. 

Yes, my new type seems to be “Dead Body.”   

My Ancestry commercial was still running hot when I was cast in G&E Productions’ Cold Porridge playing the complicated role of Albert Jones.  I jest. The role is not complicated. The curtain opens as he dies.  Then he spends the good part of the next hour dead.  They move his body around, hiding it here and there, until he falls out of the linen closet at an inopportune moment. 

So: If I’m doing so well playing people who actually have a pulse, why would I take a gig playing a dead body? 

I’ve been asked this question more than once and I’ve pondered it a bit.  What in my genetic make-up allowed me to be proud of my performance of not moving?  In the films I had lined up this summer I was at least alive for part of the film.  But to be dead for an hour on stage?  To endure hours of rehearsal, just to lie around?  And what about research?  Don’t worry; I studied up by reading a book about cadavers.  I’m no slouch, even when I’m playing a stiff. 

A couple of things you should know. I love theater, and I wanted to be involved in this production.  I work a lot in other media, but stage has been somewhat elusive to me and I was dying to get on stage.  Cold Porridge was an opportunity to be involved in a full production.  To rub shoulders with extremely talented people. But mostly: To learn.  That was my goal.

Kyle & the cast of Cold Porridge on stage with G&E Productions

Frankly, it’s my goal in every step I take in this crazy world of acting.  I don’t go to an audition with the mindset of “I need to land this!” I go in with the mindset “I need to get something out of this audition”.  When I go to set, I watch and listen.  I soak up every bit of information that floats my way.  It makes me a better actor, it makes me a better artist, it makes me better at marketing myself, and it makes me a better person.   

I’ve taken flack for some of the roles I’ve played.  Racist “You’re portraying white people as bad” or Rice Queen “You’re making gay people seem depraved”.  Relax, people, it’s acting.  And if it disturbs you, that’s on you, not me.  Story telling is not all rainbows and unicorns.  

Some people have even launched careers playing dead.  Terry Kiser was perfectly cast in the title role in Weekend at Bernie’s, and Kevin Costner famously played a stiff in The Big Chill.  Many soap actors find out their contract isn’t being renewed when they find themselves in a coffin after a brief hospital stay.  I’m OK with it. 

But the question still remains—what would motivate me to audition for and make the extreme time commitment to play a corpse in a stage play?  The answer brings us back to…wait for it…Gianni Schicchi.  

When little 19-year-old Kyle had volunteered to work follow spot for Gianni Schicchi, he was very impressed with the actor who played Buoso Donati.  As the curtain opens--as it rises into the air and disappears--Buoso Donati almost sits up in his sickbed, seemingly following the curtain, as if to catch it.  And then he dies.  He hits the bed, dead.  And there he lies for quite a long time as the opera takes shape around him.  Eventually they hide the body, assume his identity, and rewrite his will.  I was mesmerized.   

And that’s what I saw in Albert Jones.  Curtain up: He dies.  But Albert was my link. My link to feed my life-long need to do difficult things and to learn.  My link to the stage.  My link to connecting with an audience.  My link to opera. And my link to my younger self. 

Acting is challenging on many levels, but it fulfills me.  I’m going to vigorously pursue it as long as I’m able.  I’ll continue to take on any role that suits me, no matter what people may think.  Even if that character has rigor mortis.  Because someday I really will be dead.  Until then, I’m having the time of my life.

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Kyle Merker

New York native and actor.

Kyle Merker is a New York native who studied acting at HB Studios, Studio Four and Michael Warner Studio. His most recent project was Remembering When I Used to Remember by Patrick Riviere (A Zoom Performance on 8/30/20) and next up is Coolsville (shooting 2021).  Visit him on IMDB or Actor’s Access, and follow him on Instagram @kylemerker.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.  

Q&A: A Conversation with Horror Filmmaker Geroni J. Saint-Hilaire

Let’s start this off as we should – what’s your favorite horror film?

Geroni: Such a hard question but The Omen (1976) does it for me! The way the story took on a biblical theme and brought an ancient fear into the modern world was very original. Evil children with agendas of destruction always creep me out.

What attracts you to horror more than any other genre?

Geroni: I find horror to be a genre of great potential; there is always something new to make you afraid. Choose your poison: zombies, ghosts, demons, serial killers, aliens, conspiracies or cults. And then you have the directors who are daring and innovative and have the creativity to take something unexpected and make it scary and refreshing. Horror gives you a chance to make something that is deeply personal because fear impacts us all differently.

You've made both experimental and narrative films. What are the biggest differences?

Geroni: When working with a narrative storyline, there is usually a character that must ultimately reach a goal of some kind. This approach to making a film is the most common and widely used. If you are going down this route you have a formula laid out for you and it gives you limited creative freedom to express your visual ideas. There is always the three-act structure to worry about and the forced ending. An experimental approach to the craft brings together a series of ideas not too dissimilar from a narrative project but the integrity of the film relies on the auteur’s ability to hit the emotional core of the audience without having to spell anything out for them. The images and choice of sound in this case should do the work for you. And there will always be different opinions of the meaning! It is always a favorite moment when people ask me about one of my works and what it “really means” to which I like to respond with a question of my own. What did you take or learn from it? I actually learn a lot about my own work as a result.

What’s scarier – fast zombies or slow zombies?

Geroni: Slower zombies seem to be more goal-oriented. The fast ones just take a bite and move on to the next human. Slow ones take their time!

I've heard you talk about how horror affects people's emotional state, which is why you personally crave scary stories and why you believe people love them. Can you expand upon this idea?

Geroni: Since we were all young, most of us feared the ghost in the closet or the monster under the bed. There is something fascinating about the unknown. Many people I know would never dare step foot into a graveyard or an occult supply store for that reason alone. We tend to fear what we do not understand so we attach wrong or false beliefs to certain things that are considered taboo or freaky. Out of all the wholesome genres in the world, ranging from romantic comedies to heart string pulling melodramas, horror stands alone as the one that can ruin a good night’s sleep. In many ways it is the opposite of entertainment. It makes its way from the written word or the screen right into your world and into your mind. After a good reading or film viewing, you find yourself extra careful and tense in your own space. You might feel tough until you hear a strange sound coming from your hallway and if you are brave you gather enough courage to stand there and look into the dark and against all your logic you wonder for one second if there is someone or something out there, waiting for you.

Geroni on the set of Wet Paint with G&E Productions

Is there anything you think modern filmmakers have lost in terms of what horror movies used to be?

Geroni: Yes. They have lost the ability to be a generation to explore new topics for the very first time. Also patience and slow building as a form has dropped along with everyone's attention span. As a modern filmmaker, I feel that we have a huge opportunity to make innovative, shocking material. The past is there to provide us with lessons on what works and also with what doesn't. Despite this, there are still so many bad films in the genre being produced that it becomes questionable how some of these projects get green lit in the first place. On the other hand we do have some brilliant storytellers that are passing into new territory with their ideas. 

 Shock VS Tension. It’s an age-old debate. What's more important in your opinion?

Geroni: A healthy balance of both is essential. Like anything else too much of anything is not good. All shock means gory, loud, and annoying jump scares with a lack of character development. I attempted to find a decent balance of both with my short film Wet Paint. Trying to slowly build up to the finale piece by piece without showing too much or relying on jump scares was a challenge but ultimately a rewarding exercise. Too much slow building and tension and the project will come across as “boring” to many people. You have to find a way of keeping people guessing while also finding ways to give enough shock to keep them interested.

What makes something scary?

Geroni: In my opinion, something truly scary is something that can possibly happen to you. Anything beyond normal understanding and control can scare you. Zombies? No. Demons? Yes (I totally believe in demons). Slashers? Not so much. Disturbed fan that crosses boundaries and stalks you? Absolutely yes. 

What do you think most people get wrong when thinking about the process of making horror films?

Geroni: Most people start a script and immediately succumb to tropes and stereotypes and they force themselves into a writing device that ultimately makes a terrible film. How many times have you started a film on Netflix or Amazon just to see the same pack of arrogant teenagers going off on that last weekend get together before college starts only to see those same characters drinking, having sex, and dealing with some crazed lunatic who happens to know that they are alone and isolated all weekend. I tend to turn these off before the 10-minute mark. Many writers are scared to think outside of the box and this is what ironically leads them to make these awful throwaway projects. Everyone does their part and sometimes the image is great and the actors pull it off to the best of their abilities but the ultimate failure happened before anyone ever stepped on set in the form of a weak script. If you cannot keep people guessing what is going to happen next while cheering for someone in the story you will lose interest quickly.

If you were to remake a horror film – which would it be?

Geroni: I would love to take on The Omen! Even though this story is so cursed and infamous, something about working on a project with so much controversy and myth is very seductive. I would dive deep into the spiritual origins of Damien.

Is there a filmmaker who has never made a horror movie that you think should?

Geroni: I would love to see Darren Aronofsky try something in the paranormal or occult (I do not consider Mother! horror). He has a way of sending his characters into this terrible place mentally and physically and so it would be very interesting to see what he can do with horror. He has a very unique way of making audience members invested in characters while also destroying them at the same time. This approach would work wonders within the horror formula.

What’s the part of the creative process that you enjoy the most?

Geroni: Working with actors is probably my favorite part. Seeing how a performer will change and envelop the traits of a fictional character and mold him/her into reality is always fascinating. Actors add things into the mix that I would have never thought of and that experience is always fun. Also location scouting! The location for a film is always the most important and silent character. Think about how some of your favorite films would be impacted if they were based elsewhere!

The least?

Geroni: Writing the script is tedious work. Everyone has strengths and I feel like writing a script that really pops is a gift on its own. If you have a good writer who can help you achieve your vision, half the work is already done. 

You also paint - mostly horror related pieces. Tell us about that. 

Geroni: Yes! After wrapping up production on Wet Paint, I started to get an interest in making art in the medium of painting. I started on canvas and was inspired by Zdzislaw Beksinski and Salvador Dali's surreal paintings. It is a very freeing process because with a painting, there is no limit to what your imagination can create. There are no producers telling you, “No!” Plus, money isn’t as much of an issue. It's all about your unique vision. I was even able to get my paintings into a few small pop-up shows and galleries!

What would you like to see from the future of horror movies?

Geroni: I feel like the future is contrastingly bright for the dark world of horror films. Horror will always be something that people want to see. It will continue to survive the test of time. Scary stories have evolved from campfire gatherings and ancient urban legends to where we are now with people paying money to participate in haunted houses and extreme events. We will always revert to that primal desire to be scared, to get that adrenaline rushing, no matter what the future holds.

What would you like your mark on the genre to be?

Geroni: I want to be able to lift the veil of mystery on the occult. To be able to make solid work that does not lie or exaggerate in story. The occult has many twisted and terrifying secrets that have not yet been explored through the lens of a film camera. I want to show off the dangers of spiritual forces that cannot be seen but surely felt.

Unlimited budget – what's the next film you would like to make?

Geroni: I have one script that I have been working on slowly for some time that I will compete regardless of budget or costs. It deals with witchcraft and an old legend. Sometimes you have to dream big; the money is always possible to secure. Finishing something that seems impossible carries a big reward.

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Geroni J. Saint-Hilaire

Film director and a native New Yorker.

Geroni J. Saint-Hilaire is a film director and a native New Yorker. His short horror film Wet Paint is currently on the festival circuit and so far has screened at The New York Short Film Festival, Scared for your LIIFE, The Russian International Film Awards, and The Videoscream International Film Festival where it is currently a finalist in competition. His other films include Black Valentine, Sex, Drugs & Art, and Side Effect, which won Most Outstanding Experimental Short at Alpha Channel at Tribeca 92Y. Geroni also enjoys making music and painting. youtube.com/blackillusionpictures

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.  

Kindling Creativity: Should I Reignite the Embers of the Artist Who Once Was?

A creative act is a spark of life.  So when life is at a standstill, how do we continue to create?

This question has harassed me ad nauseam since the beginning of this pandemic. I remember, during those early days of fear and uncertainty, being particularly filled with dread by a meme that was circulated online amongst fellow artists. It said something to the effect of, “Shakespeare had written King Lear during a plague.” It presented what seemed to me a daunting challenge: would I use this newfound time and space to create my masterpiece? It was tinged with just enough social media snark-guilt that I felt that if I did not write my own Lear by the end of this “gift” of a time, I would most certainly be a failure. 

Six months into this seemingly endless crisis, I have done absolutely nothing creative. I have not taken one idea and actually put pen to paper. I haven’t even tried. My pages, where short films and screenplays should be facing edits and re-writes are filled with cobwebs. Sure, I have tooled around on my guitar here and there but fine-tuning my bar chord’s really does nothing for me in the long run. 

I have been utterly paralyzed. 

I incessantly wrestle with the why? I have more than enough time these days to allow my obsessive brain to feed on questions like these. Why am I incapable of creating during this time? Why has every shred of artistic discipline I’ve ever had left me? It’s a vicious cycle of guilt and anxiety. The more I ignore what I should be doing, the more I don’t want to deal with the guilt of not doing it. And so on and so on it goes. I often see a ghost of myself in the early morning hours of a restless night, which are at this point a regular for me. The ghost looks like me, in just February of this year. It stands before me, a better more confident self. Suddenly, February me starts violently screaming at me in bed, “This is how you spend these precious hours of your life? You’re lazy. You’re weak. You should be doing more. Writing more. Working more.”

As time has gone by, I’ve begun to realize that who we were in the non-plague times, our very identities were all relative to a society that no longer exists. 

And that is what has led me to the recent realization that the act of creation in-and-of itself reminds me of everything we’ve lost. I can’t create without remembering a time I could do so freely. Every project I started pre-plague had potential. Anything was possible. Now we all must reckon with an undeniable fact: None of us lives in a world of potential any longer. 

Art should reflect the moment. We all know the age-old adage that art often serves as a mirror to society. 

I have no idea how to wrestle with this moment. 

I watch about 10-12 hours of news a day. It plays in the background as a constant reminder, a little voice in my head that no matter what I do I can’t fix or escape this new reality. I am not in control. But I don’t want to dig into it. I don’t even know what to make of it. Maybe it’s because I can’t make any sense of it. Maybe because it doesn’t make sense. Maybe I can’t control a narrative that helps me understand what is happening. Art needs a reference point. All art is inherently in reference to the society it exists in. Comedy is in relation to firm social norms. Ideas of love and tragedy exist in relation to a fundamental understanding and illumination of the world around us. 

And yet, we are in the midst of the most uncertain period of time in a generation. There’s no baseline to refer to. No foundation to reflect on.

In moments of sporadic and fleeting inspiration I ask myself, what do I have to say about all of this? What insight do I even have to offer? Or do I even have a right to try?

How can I create when there are so many people dying, so many getting sick, so many important social justice issues, so many lost jobs, so much workplace abuse, so much gender disparity, so much wrongful prejudice against sexuality, so many dying from abuses in parts far across the world, so much hypocrisy pervading our lives on a daily, hourly, minute to minute basis? 

How can it not consume every waking minute of my day? How is the loss of my own livelihood, potentially my entire career not supposed to consume me? How do I forget the fear I have for my loved one’s who may be vulnerable to this virus? The spiral never ends.

It occupies my mind. Almost every waking hour.

 Right now, I tend towards things that help to soothe. Things that give me comfort. I try as best I can to find ways to forget the woes, even for a moment. It doesn’t work. And I know deep down that these tendencies are antithetical to creation itself. As artists, we must dig deep, rip scabs off of wounds, tear open our guts and take a hard look at what is there. As dark and ugly as it may be. As long as it is in pursuit of the truth.

But here I am, six months in, unable to create. Because doing so would force me to actually face all of these truths. It would take it from the intellectual, the way I can cope with all of this mess and bring it to the full-blown emotional. A place I am afraid to go.

I don’t know that I have it in me. And I’m not sure if I should.

Stay Safe,

Robbie

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Robbie Tann

Professional actor, writer, director & college professor

Robbie Tann is a professional actor, writer, director & college professor. He has worked extensively in television, film and theatre for nearly a decade. 

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.