David Dodson: Art Patron

Kit Romano bought a camera. She's my main account contact at Pivotal Post, the company in LA that supplies the Avids used on the overwhelming majority of feature films. Pivotal supplied my Avids for Outlander. Pivotal Post! Pioneering the all HD workflow!

So Kit Romano bought a camera. A nice digital SLR. Never really took a picture in her life. Just decided to up and buy one. First photos out of the gate -- like the first -- look like this.




Well done, Kit. What am I shooting? Sour cream.

Think I'll go shoot myself.

Night Moves

So I woke up last night to a faint whirr. It only took me a minute to remember that I had put a sheet and a couple of pillow shams into the washer before I went to bed. But that was hours ago. It's four freakin' thirty in the morning! So I got up and went into the kitchen. And doncha know the machine was still in the middle of a cycle!


I waited to see if anything was going to happen that seemed in any way definitive but it just kept up its routine of faking me out with false stops and starts. So I decided to document what the kitchen looks like at 4:30 in the morning. I took this one...


...then I took this one.


Somewhere in Moscow this was also happening at the same time:


But I wasn't there.

Wanted: Dignity

I don't know who these guys are but they appear to be in the holiday spirit.

As I mentioned, there is Christmas here. Nothing special about December 25. There are de facto Christmas trees called New Year's trees. But presents get opened on January 1.


Alright, so look. I don't ask for much. But I do require a bare modicum of dignity, even while asleep. But this isn't helping:



See, when I first got here, the production had been good enough to set up the apartment and provide me with a few basics. Among these items were two sets of sheets and pillow cases. The first set I put on was a kind of antique French pattern. But of course you have to wash your sheets. And because of the time it takes to wash and dry, I had no choice but to wash the remaining set first then replace the first set with the second set.

Now, I don't know what they were thinking, but I am not an eight year-old girl. So the choice of sheet design seems a wee bit suspect. But what can I do? So this is what I'm sleeping on.

Nappus Interruptus

Today has been Sunday. I walked across the street to the ATM at the World Trade Center then hurried back into the tunnel where I had previously seen a kiosk selling toiletries. I ran out of shaving cream last week but my work hours had since prevented me from getting to the store in time to get it. I haven't shaved in a week. But today, today I would get my shaving cream.

Anyway, so after completing my only real goal for the day, I walked to the editing room and got to work.

Every day I haul my laptop back and forth in my black DaKine backpack. At The Sugar Factor I set the computer up on the Ikea shelf just to my left. This is what it looks like:


After a few hours of cutting I realized that I was just too tired to do anything worthwhile. Editing is a physical thing for me. As some of you know, I cut standing up. On every project I have the show build my console high so I can stand. I can't work sitting down. Can't. Won't. So if I don't feel rested then the "performance" of editing suffers. Especially when it comes to action scenes. Think of it as dance. Your body is involved, too. I don't mean to sound precious about it. But that's just the way I do it. Legendary editor Walter Murch is the preeminent evangelist for working this way. I tried it. I liked it.

On the way home I stopped in a market and bought some milk. I know molokwa. But there are the per cent variations to deal with. I was able to say "adeen - point - pyet" (one point five). So I got the low fat milk I wanted. Customers in line behind me got into the spirit of things and tried to coach me on the proper Russian words for low fat. It was actually quite sweet. Kind of a meeting of peoples separated by language but joined by milk.

But I also needed butter. The clerk didn't speak a word of English. And I don't yet know the word for butter. Eventually I saw a container which to me seemed promising as butter. I saw the cow. I saw the friendly-looking dairy matron. I thought it was butter. I pointed urgently. The clerk added it to my bag. Turns out it was sour cream.


Back at home I was lounging on the couch watching Glenn Ford in TERROR ON A TRAIN. But there was a palpable dearth of terror on the train and I found myself dozing. I was startled awake by my cell phone. Marius was disproportionately excited to find out that AMERICAN GANGSTER was showing at the Kino Oktobr in the English language theater. My lovely, languid nap escaping out the window, I agreed to go to the movie.

At the concession stand, an older homosexual heard Marius and I speaking and he jumped in to our conversation. An American who lives in Chevy Chase, the man began railing against Bush and Cheney. More sympathetic I could not be. But not every conversational tidbit is an invitation to create an anti-Administration pun. Or maybe it is. At least for him it was.

The tiny theater was packed. But ten minutes into the movie something snapped, the screen went blank, and the house lights went up. No one came to our aid. People milled.


Finally Marius and I set out to find someone of some authority...


We found someone. They ran into the booth. Then someone else arrived. Then the first guy ran back out and five minutes later he returns with two more guys. Finally, a conclave of six or seven people are gathered in the booth. Amongst them they were able to get it sorted out because 20 minutes later the movie cranked up again. And you know what? It was pretty good. Here are the credits.


So don't let me forget to tell you about Father Frost and Snow Girl. More about them later but suffice it to say, they're much cooler than Santa Claus and a bunch of annoying elves.

Now. Off to shave.

Vlad Putin, Line One

It's Yuri's birthday today. He's bouncing around somewhere in his late 20s. He's an actor. Not a great actor, but a working actor. He had his birthday party at a place called Dacha. You couldn't possibly find it if you didn't know what you were looking for. It's in a former apartment building. Inside, the restaurant is themed like one of the classic communal apartments of the Soviet era.


Several candlelit salons break away from a winding corridor. Yuri's party was in one such salon. It's worth noting that back in the bad old days when the KGB was at its most ornery, the communal residents of the communal apartment would retreat into their respective rooms when the KGB would enter a house to come take someone away. Doors would slam and no one would dare look out. You sat in your salon hoping the pounding boots would pass you by. You would hear a door kicked open. There would be shouting. And after the KGB had gone, everyone would emerge slowly to see who simply wasn't there anymore. Most of the time, they never came back.

Now, this restaurant is a strange kind of Disneyland designed to evoke that era. Portraits of Lenin hang on the walls. The wall paper, the tapestries depicting Russian myths, it's all here. It's cozy. It's warm. It's lovely.




It's not that any of this is lost on the younger generation. It's just that it doesn't have a visceral hold on them. And why should it? I think it's both a good thing and a bad thing. It's good that this generation isn't emotionally enslaved by the country's past. For too long, Russians' relationship to their history has been like an abusive relationship. But now, there is a generation of young Russians who can shed the yoke of their past and, with luck, build a more open future. I don't see how they can't.


For example, Pasha showed up wearing his Third Reich officer's uniform from HITLER KAPUT! Everyone thought it was hilarious. People passed around the hat, the jacket, the holster. This sort of thing would have been incomprehensible just 20 years ago. Again, it's not that they don't understand the horror of what happened; there's hardly a single person here who didn't lose relatives among the 20 million Russians who died in World War II. It's just that the idea of tyranny has been defanged somewhat. And laughing at a tyrant is the best way to render him a fool.


Speaking of which, Yuri's phone rang and it's Vladimir Putin on the line wishing him a happy birthday. Putin knows Yuri's sister. That's all I'll say about that. But an immediate hush fell over the room while Yuri stood in the middle talking to Putin. As the call started to wind down, a TV director named Yaroslav began to chant, "Pu-TIN! Pu-TIN! Pu-TIN...!" Soon the entire room was chanting and Yuri held the phone high over his head. There was a great cheer. Yuri sad goodbye. And that was that.

A Walk To Work

Thanks, Chomper!

I've been sucking on these things, one a day, as I walk to work. Feeling fine and I like to think this is why.

Thanks, Chomper, for thinking of it and packing 'em!

Ludmilla

Here's some advice for those who might be considering an extended stay in Moscow. Don't bring any clothes you can't squeeze out in the sink at night. Seriously. Learn from my experience.

Ludmilla is one of the many women upstairs who work for KinoTraffic. There's also the odd dude but they mostly sit around waiting to do whatever the women tell them. Ludmilla has hair of a color that I can't quite pin down. But she seems to be the one assigned to help us out the most. She has no English skills whatsoever but she gets a kick out of my furtive attempts at Russian. For some reason she finds me very amusing but I don't know why because I have no idea what she's saying. She's also an effective blur of competence. Just gets everything done, done well, and done quick.

Which brings us back to the clothes thing. I have these five shirts and a smoke encrusted sweater that I needed dry cleaned. Don't get me started on the whole dry cleaning thing. Whoever heard of clothes you can't wash yourself? Really. Give it a think. If you can't wash your clothes yourself, if you have to pay someone to do it, then aren't you really just renting your clothes? What a racket.

So I've been working like a coal miner to get someone to point me in the direction of a dry cleaner. But dry cleaners are a rarity here. I pointedly stuffed my shirts and sweater into a grocery bag and brought them into work so that everyone can see them each and every time they come in the door. Finally I got the call; it's time to go to the dry cleaners. Ludmilla comes down armed with maps printed off the internet. I don my coat and we get in a car being driven by one of the dudes-in-waiting from upstairs.


So off we go through the traffic-clogged Moscow streets until we finally arrive at a small storefront.


Inside begins what appears to be the greatest negotiation since the Dayton Accords. Every shirt is thoroughly examined. Everything is documented in extremis. All I can do is stand by while Ludmilla and the counter woman discuss the situation. For the love of god it's just five shirts and a smoke encrusted sweater!


Then there was the paperwork. Closing a loan isn't this complex. I don't know what was being written but a shirt would be examined then a voluminous note was made, fully annotated and cross-referenced to a separate document.


Here you have to pay in advance. It's not like in the States where you can just throw your shirts out the window of a moving car and someone will dry clean them for you in good faith. After a lot of punching on a calculator, Ludmilla spun it around for me to see. 1875. At first I thought I was looking at the date of the coronation of Nicholas I. But no, this was Roubles. Roubles! That's $75!

I counted it out and handed it over. As the counter woman punched away on her register long enough to have written a modestly-scaled Russian novel, I picked up one of the store's brochures. Lots of images of wrestling polar bears.


Apparently for $75 my shirts are going to be airlifted to the Arctic Circle where they'll be given to specially-trained polar bears that'll tussle over my clothes until they're clean.

Best Darned Green Thing Ever

Marius and I bopped out for lunch to Six Thirteen. Or Three Seventy-eight. Or Fifty-eleventy-seven. Who knows? Anyhoo... This was actually last Sunday afternoon. Right around 3pm. And it was like, dark, like super dark. Middle of the day.

So there were these kids running around. Totally uncontrolled. Everyone was giving the two moms pleasantly lunching obliviously the stink-eye. It seemed to imperil several champagne cocktails or whatever they were.


So they've got these chicken wrap things there that I love. Don't ask me to identify what particular spice/seasoning/preparation method goes into making these bad boys so tasty. They just are. Simple as that.

World's Biggest Goober

How cool is this?


Here's what I ordered:


Mark, you put a dent in yours?

Sad Cobaka

Poor sad Cobaka
Under the gate you sit
Your legs slip beneath you
I never give you no lip.

So why did you try to bite me?
I only just walked by
I might've fed you a nibble
But not a nibble of my thigh!

Just Push Play

In spite of what you've just seen, HITLER KAPUT! is really a very sweet, almost innocent film. Not that that is paramount on my mind just now. I'm trying to calculate how many hours I've been up. Let's see, this entire effort just ended a couple of hours ago. I only dozed for an hour or so sometime around 5am while waiting for an export to finish... So, what is that, roughly 36 hours. Sounds rather incredible but sometimes it comes to that in this business. You don't just burn the midnight oil, you dry the lamp, smash it on the floor, smelt it down, and use the hot glowing slag to work by.

The actors in the movie are truly some of the biggest names in Russia. By any definition it's a star-studded cast. As well, it's not possible to overstate how novel this kind of movie is here in Russia. Without hyperbole, they've never seen anything like it. Yes, sure, they've seen the odd American import, such as TOP SECRET or 'NAKED GUN' but those weren't theirs. It's also not possible to overstate the scale of importance the Russian experience in World War II is. Everything about it is sacred. More, the idea of dictatorships resonates very powerfully with the Russians. Now, with Russians experiencing remarkable freedoms, the idea of being liberated from the the boat anchor of their own history is thrilling. Because for a Russian, history is everything. To be able to look at Hitler and World War II and to be able to laugh about it is something never attempted here before. When people come into the editing room and we show them scenes, many of them just sit there with their mouths on the floor. And then they start laughing, and some have tears filling their eyes.

Now if you'll excuse me there's a square pillow with my name on it.

The Beacon

Saturday night seems to mean dinner out. So I walked home from the editing room in a light snowfall.


Marius always says he'll pick me up in his car but he never does. I end up hailing a gypsy cab. I had practiced exactly what to say and how to say it. It should have been a slam dunk. "Pvrashaya prudi." I mean, it's nothing. But sometimes you lean into the car and give it your best "Pvrashaya prudi" and all you get back is a blank stare and cold eyes in which you can swear you hear, "You...are...an...idiot."

The plan was to meet Sophie Shevaradnadze and Pasha at the Pavillion. But when I got there I ran into Fwad's sister and her husband. But no Marius and no Sophie. I called Marius and he garbled that there had been a change of plans and that he was at the Academia restaurant. Fwad's sister and her husband would give me a ride to the restaurant then they were off to meet a friend at Pushkin.

At Academia, Marius and I waited and ordered and soon Sophie showed up, having just gotten off the air. You may remember that she is an anchor on the English language station RUSSIA TODAY. In any case, Sophie can't put down her phone for a second so half the time she's texting someone.


Alright, so then Pasha shows up. But he seems like he's in a funk. Because he is in a funk. It's not long before Uma Thurman shows up. Of course not the Uma Thurman. But a friend of Pasha's who bears a resemblance to Uma. So people frequently call her Uma. But her real name is Olga.


Okay so try to keep up. And remember, Pasha's in a funk. So... Pasha like Olga. Olga likes Pasha. Sophie likes Marius. Marius likes Marina. But Pasha really likes Masha. Yuri also likes Masha. And reportedly, Masha is giving Yuri the go sign. So while Pasha likes Olga and Olga likes Pasha, Pasha is ignoring Olga because he is pining for Masha -- who is reportedly giving the Yuri the go sign. Olga is losing patience with Pasha. Masha is unaware of Pasha. Sophie once almost married a man with a limp. Pasha could have Olga and yet he wants Masha. Olga feels like a friend but wants more than a friendship. And reportedly Masha is giving Yuri the go sign. And that's why Pasha is in a funk.

Sophie has a friend named Sabbath. I don't remember her first name. But she was having a birthday party at a club called:


Not sure why but so many places around here are named the number of their street address. Seems kind of lazy. But maybe that's just me.


So having piled into Olga's M Class Benz, we took the road running along the bank of the Moscow River to 1171 so as to drop in on Somebody Sabbath's birthday party. That's Olga, Marius, Sophie, Fwad, Pasha and myself. But let me just take a wee detour to say that Olga was the designated driver for the evening, which I found a particular frustration. I think I should be the designated driver since I love driving in different countries. It's the number one way to learn the city. But no. Anyway, that's my protest.


So you got a dayglo wrist band which gave you access to the mezzanine over the dance floor. It was here on the crowded mezzanine that Sabbath's Sabbath party was happening. Below was some anemic dancing. And on a separate balcony was the DJ with some variant of exotic dancer writhing around in lame' scantiness.


After a (very) short while, Pasha's funk got the better of him. He left. Not long after, Sophie and Olga wanted to leave. So we made our way back out to the M Class.


Sophie had to be on the air in the morning so she decided it was best for her to go home. I tried to go home but Marius cajoled me into staying. So off I went with Marius, Fwad and Olga to a place called The Beacon.


Up these stair is a warm room with what must be the strongest tables in all of Moscow. Because people dance on them. I don't mean to say that The Beacon has Dancers. What they have are young Moscovites who like to drink vodka and dance on tables. As the video below clearly illustrates.



I've said it before, I'll say it again, Moscow is a second-hand smoke nightmare. I may have to shave my head in order to get the smoke smell out. But it was fun just being in the middle of this place, this place where there was so much exhuberance and where every girl is blessed with perfect cheekbones.


Nothing obscene going on here. It's just that the guy on the left passed out onto his buddy's lap.

So The Beacon... Exactly the kind of place where you have always imagined that, as people dance and sing along to the music, five guys at a corner table are hatching the first seeds of revolution.