Soaring Above the Trees

The Pelican

In the early days of the pandemic, I became obsessed with pelicans. I’m still not exactly sure why, but these remarkable creatures began appearing in my dreams.

Creative sessions feel best when they’re almost like an excavation.

A site to dig at each day with some adventure, excitement and anticipation.

On some writing days, it’s easy to lose confidence, and putting pen to paper can be a struggle. Fear creeps in. Worries about not finding anything.

If the pandemic gifted me anything, it was a greater ability to write daily while feeling un-rushed — even if it was just for an hour. With no deadlines hanging over me — writing with a flexibility and open-mindedness came easier. A workflow that previously eluded me. I began trusting the process more and more and just had a lot more fun. I wasn’t so concerned with immediate results. And I found myself believing something good was calling and waiting for me underground.

The first time I encountered pelicans was in a script I wrote for my daughter to act in. She was approaching that unique age of 15 — as close to 10 as she was to 20. I found this innocent age so rich with questions and also some real wisdom. I found it so inspiring and wanted to capture this beautiful mid-point in her life.

I wrote the story quickly, and it emerged in tact — which was unusual. It almost felt like I was watching the film unspool and the story unfold in the dark as I followed the ideas and scripted it. There were no outlines and no structures imposed on the material. It all came from somewhere though and felt like a right-brained writing experience, with the left side just observing.

The story begins when a 10th grade teacher gives his Biology class an assignment — to report and present on a species from their ecosystem. Our hero APRIL is a new student in the class, who finds herself suddenly living with her grandparents on the Oregon Coast. Her mother had multiple arrests and was in a treatment center for drugs and alcohol.

Almost arbitrarily, April chooses a pelican. Why? Well, I don’t really know. I just imagined her watching the colony feeding in the surf — that was it. Looking back, this choice was more practical than inspired.

But then? The meaning of these great birds grew wild in the story. It felt out of my control — I just followed the trail and this beautiful residual effect of the choices these characters were making.

The ideas continued to evolve, and I rewrote the script and prepared for production. Eventually, the shooting script title changed from THE BAD DEATH OF ALVIN SUTTER to PELICAN.

Sadly, this short film was never made. The writing is a critical part of filmmaking — which in this case was fun, limber and almost easy at times. But in terms of producing the film, the stars didn’t quite line up, even though I did my best to make it happen. We had a team coming together to make the film and had some financing in motion. But, for some reason, the challenges mounted, and it became clear that it was a film that didn’t really need to be made, which is a problem.

Filmmaking often feels so unwieldy, that you can easily fall into a powerless state. The process requires so many resources — storytelling and filmmaking skills, time, money, acting talent, crafts, multiple collaborators and artists, producers, locations, equipment, weather, light. The list goes on and on and on. And the sheer size of the task at hand — even on a short film — will not only make you rush, but it will make you feel small and incapable.

Which brings us to our newest feature ABOVE THE TREES. You heard it here first: there are remnants of PELICAN in this feature. The bird itself didn’t make the cut, but what it represented and where it flew did.

My original idea during the pandemic — after the vaccines came along — was to safely film a short film anthology starring strong actors who were also really good friends of mine. PELICAN would be the first short and five other shorts would follow — each story starring a new actor — but also on the coast with some other common denominators.

This all turned out to be the wrong form, because the story I was most excited about was a longer one and didn't need to be seaside. And, almost like a puzzle, it merged beautifully with two other stories I’d written in the anthology. And so the intersecting storylines felt more valuable, powerful and exciting as one feature.

The process really did feel like an excavation. And I’m convinced it wouldn’t have happened this way, without the pandemic. The clock wasn’t ticking, and I had the space and bandwidth to let the writing process take as much time as it needed.

David Lynch talks a lot about living the “art life”. You move the paint around the canvas every day. And for him it really is fun and fulfilling. It’s not a painful struggle, because he’s not a tortured artist. He meditates twice a day and catches ideas like fish. The kind of ideas that are outside of himself. And he takes his own sweet time to wait for and discover them.

In order to serve this daily process, I’ve realized it’s best to have patience — the kind that film production schedules and budgets don’t allow for.

ABOVE THE TREES was born from patience and trust — ingredients that were baked into the process — and we followed their trail to the finish line. All of us did — our wonderful producers Annie and Lui, our terrific cast, and our tiny little crew. It was an act of trust, especially when times got uncertain and difficult and we were tempted to give up.

I’ve already written in depth about our pandemic-induced production style. How I always longed for a slower process that was more spontaneous and less chaotic — so I won’t go into that here.

But I would like to elaborate briefly on the meaning of ABOVE THE TREES. Why I had to make this film.

This movie was always about second chances — how we require them, even though we may not deserve them. We might be hobbling along without meaning or direction, but then we find ourselves surprised by joy, because around that next bend along the trail, a new adventure somehow begins.

Even when I’m dealt a terrible blow.
Or treated unjustly.
Even when my habits nearly destroy me.
Or I’m failing at what I love.

Until I’m counted out, my story goes on.

And maybe suddenly, the will inside me and outside forces conspire to lead me out into a clearing, and I feel fulfilled and happy.

And even if this life kills me, perhaps real peace awaits on the other side. Maybe it’s a new state of being in a place that’s warmer, brighter.

Is fulfillment really waiting around the corner? Perhaps it’s around the next switchback. Perhaps it comes one way or another.

Or maybe? It’s here in my life right now as I walk, and I’m just realizing it.

Maybe I already have the life I wanted?