tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44961933430807560762011-04-21T14:41:04.664-04:00Will Haddockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05769461377701540715noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4496193343080756076.post-54687088059740970592008-09-03T13:09:00.003-04:002008-09-03T13:37:59.704-04:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">Hallway<br /></span>Silence. Emptiness. Approaching feet-heels. Click, click. Each step echoes off the Sheetrock. Door opens with a rush of wind. Another rush. Two girls chatting. Something about rushing-maybe sorority, maybe late. Too many words in a breath. How do they walk and speak that fast? Swoosh of the door. Muffled footsteps and heavy breathing. Repeat. Repeat about twenty times. "This is our last stop on the tour." Ahh. Group separates left and right. "How do we get to the parking lot?" Rustled paper. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Mom</span>..." Quickened steps. Leather slapping the floor, flip flops. Smattered steps. Silence again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Commons<br /></span>Water pouring slowly. Constant stream. Gentle. Chirps in high register. Water still. Rustle of tree branches. Soft scratches from needles on bark. Distant barking. Large dog, deep bellow. Man shouting. Apparently its a bad dog. Water still flows. Clicks constantly come closer. Clicks and clinks. Bicycle. Grass crunches as I lean back. Wind blows into my ear. Sounds like distortion. Barks are closer now. Man yells at dog. Water flows gently.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4496193343080756076-5468708805974097059?l=bunsenburned.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Will Haddockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05769461377701540715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4496193343080756076.post-2280098175129547462008-08-25T09:08:00.006-04:002008-09-17T10:22:59.763-04:00<div>Well, this is my first week of my new Experimental Film class but not my first dance with this tango <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">del</span> a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">muerte</span>. I have discovered that once you have dabbled in this dark art the body becomes consumed with self-indulgent power and it lusts for the complete control that can only be achieved with hands-on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">film making</span>. </div><br /><div>I wasn't always so drunk with power. As many young film students do, I came to film school with aspirations of directing big Hollywood blockbusters. I soon discovered, however, exactly what <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">responsibilities</span> a director has on a film set. While directing these movies were fun and lovely, they lacked a certain <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">indescribable</span> quality. My style was bland and my plots, weak. The passion started to slip away. </div><br /><div>I was then introduced to experimental <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">film making</span>. Granted, I had been introduced to experimental film before and had to ease myself into the water to get acclimated. For some reason, everything just clicked. I realized that narratives, docs, and experimental films were not mutually exclusive but in fact different beasts that sometimes shift and combine to create a new, spectacular film.<br /><br />So, that's about it. I am a filmmaker. I make films. It is easy as that.<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4496193343080756076-228009817512954746?l=bunsenburned.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Will Haddockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05769461377701540715noreply@blogger.com0