What’s up with Burbank?

Seriously, what’s the deal? I moved out to Hollywood two months ago—sweet pad off Sunset and LaBrea, palm tree out front, laptop, Rico Suave shades, a couple indie films under my belt, IMDB profile, website, big ideas, bigger plans, framed poster of “Waking Life" in my living room, freezer full of Peet’s Coffee, walking distance to Toi, subscription to Creative Screenwriting, actress girlfriend (you know, the works)—and I find myself spending more time up in the Double-B then I do anywhere else in this freaking city of angels.

Not that it’s a problem. I’m a filmmaker fresh off the turnip truck from North Carolina so I go where the work is. And the work, mi amigos, is in Burbank.

CUT TO a strip mall on Victory Blvd. Two weeks ago. Little office in the back. I park my car —yes, you can actually park up there--, I straighten my collar, I walk in. I sit down in a small room facing the street. A guy comes in and shakes my hand. We both sit in silence. He’s looking over my resume. I wait.

“So, you’re a writer and director, huh?”

He raises his head, looks me over, looks back down.

“Yes, I’ve made a small feature and a couple—“
“--Are you good on the phone?” He cuts me off. He looks back up at me.

“Uh, yes. Sure. I have phone experience.”
“Good.”
I sit there.
“Here’s what I need you to do…”

Basically—cliff-notes version-- he wants me to call people to get them to invest money in a “boutique” film production company off Highland. Visions of Alec Baldwin and the “ABC’s” of “Glengarry Glen Ross” speed through my head—Always Be Closing! Crap. Not my bag. But, it is related to the film industry somehow, right? That’s what the Craigs List ad said. Work in film. In Burbank. Screw Craigs List. I politely make like an airplane and jet back over the hill.

CUT TO a big black building on Barham Blvd. 1 week ago. The New York Film Academy. 5th Floor. I’m meeting a film director who needs help producing his TV pilot. He’s from Mexico and his last name is Del Torro. His AD is named Jorge. His writer goes by Javier. Secretly, I’m hoping I have landed in the middle of the Gen-Y version of Alejandro Inarritu, Alfonso Cuaron, and Guillermo del Toro. They are talented, if a bit unorganized, and they swerve in and out of English and Spanish as if they are changing lanes on the 10. I try to keep up. It’s a sci-fi, “X-File”-like story with a time machine in it. They have some nice equipment, a decent crew, a couple small name actors, and even a little money. They like me and it seems like we could all work together. I mention that I am a writer/director myself and they smile. They continue smiling and ask me if I know where the Film LA building is in downtown LA so I can help them secure location permits.

“Sure. Yes. I have a car, I can find it…”

I get back on the 101 South and head towards the smog and big skyscrapers, my car a white blip on the matrix-like freeway grid that is LA.

CONTINUOUS, my car on Magnolia Blvd. 4 days ago. A Starbucks in “North Hollywood”. I’m meeting with the producer of an indie horror film—she needs help in casting. I’ve done some casting. The meeting goes well, lasts for over 45 minutes. These guys are on their way up. Big buzz on their last horror film, overseas distribution, opening up a new office and studio in…Burbank.

I start to tell her that I also write and direct—but, I stop mid sentence and take a gulp of my Venti mocha latte instead. She continues talking about the pre-production schedule and I nod. (Save it for another time, dude). I open up my binder and start taking notes. The sun and her shades and my shades and the blue Burbank sky above us intermingle for a second-- like a plot point or motif (it’s beautiful, actually, warm and right and wonderous)— and then, as quickly as it came, the moment is gone.

But I’m still here. And so is Burbank. And, I’ve got work to do…

by Matthew Sidney Long