I still remember one of my first meetings with a prospective producer. The year was 2009, and I was just out of college. Seattle still made narrative features in those days. The man wore a stetson which he didn't take off, and he was at least three times my age. You wanted to dislike him, but you couldn't. He was patient with me.

"This is the amount of people who want to make a movie," he said, leaning back in his chair, spreading his arms as wide as he could to indicate the large quantity. Then he halved the distance. "This is the amount of people who finish writing a screenplay." Half again, his arms coming closer: "here's the amount of guys who actually go into production and shoot some footage." Again, half the amount, as he continued: "here's how many make it through production." I saw his point, but he wasn't done. "Here's the percentage of that group that makes it into post and actually does something with all that footage they got." He then leaned forward.

He held up just two fingers now, an infinitesimal millimeter apart. "And here, here is the amount of people who actually finish making a movie." He paused for effect. "Finish your films, Nathan. People will remember that. If you have actual finished products under your belt, you've got something most of your competition can't even come close to."

I didn't end up working with him, but he lit a fire in me that hasn't gone out since. I've completed each film I've set out to make. The latest one, Men I Trust, is complex given its budget, and the Sisyphean effort required to survive and sustain this big little movie over the recent months– financially, creatively, psychologically, logistically– cannot be overstated. Preproduction and production are the hard part. Once you have the footage, you can pump the brakes all you like, but until then, you have no idea if you've got a movie. You don't have a movie until the last minute of the last day of shooting– and even then, post remains a question mark. But as exec producer Kevin Cook reassured me, you take it one piece at a time. You breathe, reminding yourself:

All great things are predicated on a maybe.

We wrapped production Sunday at 1pm. My first reaction was to continue the habit I'd formed: keep worrying! Look for problems, try to fix stuff, diplomatically guide this orchestra to do their best… but there was nothing left to worry about. Could it be true? How did we get here? 

The only reason this beast made the finish line was because we managed to assemble one seriously crack team of ace professionals. If even one of them– camera operator, boom, supporting actor– bailed on us, we wouldn't have a movie. That's how fragile filmmaking is. It's not like writing or photography. One lazy apple will ruin weeks of dozens of people's memorizing, assembling, scouting, performing, investing… but these were the non-bailers. They showed up in the morning, before call time. I did everything within my means to make the experience satisfying for them, but it's to their credit they came. 

Our guys were wildly overqualified. I don't just mean they all know Lynn Shelton; that goes without saying. Kevin Cook worked on Transformers 4, Z Nation and Captain Fantastic, and is trained in everything from method acting to gaffing to production management. Niall James, our gaffer, worked on Fifty Shades of Grey and the new Twin Peaks. Steadicam operator Daniel Mimura has 50-plus IMDb credits and if something's been shot here in Seattle using steadi, you can bet he operated on it. These people are rock stars.

Actors Eleanor Moseley and Martyn G. Krouse don't just have significant film roles under their belt, but also thriving stage careers: witness Eleanor chewing subtle scenery in lead roles in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Death of a Salesman, and The Lion in Winter… all within the last year; or Martyn mopping the floor in recent productions of Slaughterhouse-Five, Othello, and Richard II. You may know Meagan Karimi-Nasir from The Scottish Play and Glitch, or Katherine Grant-Suttie from Portlandia and others. Our media manager had two films playing at SXSW while we were shooting; our AC is a director in his own right; the list goes on, even down to our smallest positions. Our PAs are engineers and lawyers, for heaven's sake. They're administrative supervisors and corporate HR wizards. Our crafty has two degrees. Nobody was grabbed off the street for this production. 

You may wonder why such levels of talent were assembled for a short. I say, why not use a boulder to crush an ant? It works. Why not use $20,000 cameras on a tiny short, if you are able? I see no reason not to do our absolute best. What this group all had in common was an understanding not just of passion projects (you can bet I couldn't afford to finance them the way the corporate giants can), but of craft. Kevin and I picked these people because they were solid, respected craftspeople who do good work because they like to. Because they know how to, and because doing good work with good people is about as great as filmmaking can get. These guys like getting paid like anyone else, but that wasn't why they were here; they also like working on projects they care about, and I couldn't be more honored they found this one of even the smallest interest. 

It's about showing up, and giving it your all for the person next to you.

You may wonder when watching awards shows why the winners always make boring speeches where they just thank a bunch of people you've never heard of. You have to understand: when you receive an accolade implying that you alone brought something amazing to a film, with no assistance, it feels absolutely ridiculous. It wasn't you! It was everyone else there, the whole cast and crew, who made it great. It was because of that group who believed, who cared, who made it a well-oiled machine.

To the non-bailers. 

--
​
I'm not done thanking people– click here for more on our production!

What a pleasant sensation, to come back to the textured urban haunts of South Seattle and be greeted with welcome, as if a returning friend. I've been scattered in my work schedule and absent entirely for the past week, focusing every iota of my attention on my film (I'm this close to being done with shooting; cross your your fingers for me for sunshine on Sunday!). Film directing is the hardest thing I know how to do, and therefore I must do it. I love doing it. It may be the only gig I like more than driving wonky bus routes through questionable neighborhoods at all hours of the dark night....

Here I was now, off for the evening and walking towards my midnight bus home. 

A figure stood in the gloom. He called out to his companion, pointing at me, a coach's sporting yell:

"That's the best bus driver, right there!"
"Ha! I'm not that great!" I laugh-yelled in reply.

He further elucidated his claim to his friend, and I began to notice other faces in the dark. These are souls I recognize, I thought, on more than one level. They were relatives in sensation, if not blood; I felt the textures of their lives as my own, the workaday grit and rhythm of service job life. These were the hands that knew the takeout restaurant kitchen sinks, the loading dock garage handles, the construction gloves that grow to know the shape of your fingers.

In spending time in a wide latitude of different status circles, I've noticed a problem the very rich and the very poor share in exactly the same capacity. Both groups have to contend, in nearly every interaction they have, with preconceived notions of who they are based on their income. I know wealthy white landowners who overflow with compassion, self-awareness, and a desire to contribute and understand others with genuine empathy, just as much as I know destitute people of color who are educated, selfless, and concerned with ethics and the advancement of society at large. And yet, these folks tend not to get evaluated as such. Abraham Lincoln comes to mind: "I don't like that man. I must not know him very well!"

Tonight, however, there's nobody around but us service folk. In a way I hope one day works amongst everyone, we all get each other here. I'm in the Fifth and Jackson plaza, and a gaggle of passengers for different south-pointing routes is loitering about.

"Heyy," I say to the middle-aged Chinese man seated on a concrete bench. He's rail thin and doesn't speak English, and tonight waits with one sock-clad foot out of his shoe, maybe resting from a standing job. We fistpound. I can tell the gesture is culturally unusual for him, but he grins at my youthful enthusiasm. Wonder if he has kids.

A voice to my left: "Heyy, are you driving the 7 tonight?"
"No, I was earlier, I just got off! I'll see ya tomorrow!!"

I turned away with a grin and walked right into another man, a chubby friend who sleeps on the Night Owls. We spoke briefly about how I've been away from the bus of late.

"Even if I pick something else for a while I always come back around," I said. "I'll be around. They're not gonna fire me, right? Fingers crossed!"
"Oh they better not, Nathan! You're one of the best bus drivers around!"

He knew my name. How did he know my name? To hear the compliments, this camaraderie in the midnight hour on foot, exposed here at this legendary intersection, engendered a feeling I can hardly describe. The interactions were brief, lasting seconds, but they represented connections I've been building for years. Season after season of smiles and small talk are the seeds of this, now, the sensation of a warm embrace in a place that's supposed to be dangerous. An invisible exhilarating outdoor cocoon. Maybe that's why I don't wear a jacket to work.

I have many homes, and am as anxious to return to a film set as anyone else; but there's something special about this home, the great urban experiment I've been conducting for nigh eleven years now, whereupon the forgotten flotsam and jetsam of America behave at their best and their worst, but as ever offer their love toward me, their respect and acceptance… with no agenda whatsoever. They love, expecting nothing in return.
​
I can learn from that.

You know from my horrendously intermittent posting here that I'm deep into preproduction on my latest film. We roll cameras in two weeks, and I'm looking forward to it. It's a SAG-registered picture toplined by a terrific cast and buoyed by a passionate crew– if you're at all familiar with Seattle's vibrant film and theatre scene, you'll recognize names. I can't believe we've gotten a group this strong together on a single project.

I'll be back to posting regularly after we wrap production on March 5, but in order to get there I need your help. I'm shooting a club scene on Monday afternoon, 3/5 and need you as an extra– if you love to dance, love free food, catering, credit and IMDb credit! Dress code is fancy chic; the scene is supposed to be European. And we're not just looking for youngsters: again, we're in Europe. If you're 21-55 and any of this interests you, or you know someone who does, send me an email!

Thank you. I'll see you on the other side.

Again, apologies for the intermittent posts these days as I wade through preproduction on my latest film. I'll be back to a regular posting schedule on March 5.

One year ago last week, I packed my bag with rolls of film and a lens or two, boarding the bus downtown. Traveling through the tunnel, things seemed almost normal. Just an extra sign here, a dollop of pink hats there.

Only when I rose above did I see it, an ocean of pink, approachable, drifting at walking speed. Had I ever seen so many people so quiet? Unbeknownst, I had happened upon the silent portion of the march. The visual and aural impact was remarkable. The human organism as collective, stretching out as far as the eye could see, but somehow, incredibly, hushed. You heard a thousand jackets ruffling, swishing jeans, the readjusting grip of hands on signs. We usually only see details; now you could hear them. 

And what to make of the feeling? There are events where people come together almost in spite of each other; this was different. It had a potency to it, a strange conflation of urgency and enthusiasm that shouldn't make sense, but did.

In our house, women and minorities were always celebrated, not just because we fit into those descriptive terms: it simply made sense. Violence against women, from physical attacks to the more insidious arena of sublimation of agency and identity, was always abhorred. The recent fourth wave has felt, among other things, like the world catching up. Didn't these notions always make sense? In what way could they possibly be controversial? In my little cocoon, I thought we all were feminists. I was a child, and children know what side of the line to stand on. They don't hate or discriminate. 

We used to be so good at this.

I don't wish to discount others' opinions, but I will share what I believe: the fight for women's rights is the fight for equal rights.*** Equality is additive; you don't lose something when others have a chance to prosper and be heard. There's nothing to be scared of here. Everyone benefits.

What a crowd, I thought, slipping in with my camera. Why the turnout? Were we atoning for the sins of not voting? One of the traps of modern life is complacency. With this much stimuli, this much speed, you get swept up in the current. People don't form opinions nowadays; they get them from reviews online, op-eds and soundbites. We don't live life anymore; we document it. Urban life is too fast to experience, only to record. We jot it down with the latest technology, hoping for a mythical later time when we can finally review it all. Would that we lived so long. I don't have the answers to why we forgot to vote– I voted– but I suspect it has something to do with this pace and texture, perhaps similar to how the youth vote never materializes in any meaningful way: you get swept up in the distracted, cluttered wonder that is young adult life. Yes, we could ask the question, for which there is no good answer: where were all these people when it mattered? A lot of lives would be very different.

But at some point getting angry at the past loses value. I realized there was something I could learn from those marching beside me. The toddler with a rainbow flag; the vet with a clever sign.* The women; oh, the women!

The worst political sin in many generations had just been committed, harsh and regressive enough to make certain past warmongering presidents look downright lovable by comparison... and these folks around me were the victims of those sins. These were the people who had, in the blip of a moment, been reduced to second-class citizens. How did we live now? What did today feel like?

Downright celebratory.

The most surprising thing about the Women's March is how joyful it was. It'll hardly make sense on paper, but I'll try anyway. You really had to be there. This was the largest and most important march since the invention of the internet, not to mention the numerically largest protest in U.S. history, and the first time 4.6 to 5 million people worldwide engaged in the same specific activity at the same time on all seven continents, and I don't mean basic activities like eating or sleeping. That many people felt that strongly about the worldview reflected in a particular set of attitudes; so strongly they weren't going to let certain moral truths** be shunted aside. We were a crowd in the millions who believed in something, and it was basic: 

You should be nice to other people.

All are equal, and should be treated accordingly. Fairly. What I didn't expect is how much joy being around people who think that causes. I felt so safe. Had I ever felt this safe, among thousands? This crowd. All genders, ages, races, orientations, income levels. Everybody could be who they were, could trust in the humanity of those next to them. We didn't have to hedge ourselves, didn't have to be concerned the person next to us thought differently. You would not be hated on in this beautiful space. Most marches you don't bring your kids to, but it made sense there were children everywhere. They get it. 

The truth we hope for was there, living on the smile of everyone's lips: love is additive. It burgeoned forth, snowballing, made by us. We were an air-feather-light cotton candy-happy tidal wave, and we had charged the air with the best of ourselves. 

That was the reason for the turnout. That was the reason I was there. It wasn't about voting. We had strong, deep-rooted values** of human decency, kindness, love. Equality. We needed to show each other, and not with a whisper, that we knew, loved... that we cared. And that we were not about to let those notions go down in the darkness.

Now that is cause for celebration.

*More photos from the March, Nathan-style, coming soon!

**Yes, I'm intentionally using language from the other side of the aisle here, for two reasons: I don't see the concerns of fourth-wave feminism as mere political issues. They're bigger than that. I appreciate my friends with differing sociopolitical perspectives, and don't want all my friends to think the same as me, but I hope they can understand equality as a human issue before anything else. There's no reason words like morals, virtue, family values, and so on should be co-opted by a political party. Ethics are ethics are ethics.

***What is feminism? Rebecca West wrote in 1913: "I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat."

From the April 27, 1895 edition of Athenaeum: "[a woman who] has in her the capacity of fighting her way back to independence."

Nora, in Henrik Ibsen's 1879 A Doll's House: "Before anything else I'm a human being."

Susan Faludi, 1991: "Feminism's agenda is basic: It asks that women not be forced to choose between public justice and private happiness. It asks that women be free to define themselves– instead of having their identity defined for them, time and again, by their culture and their men." 

A pulitzer-prize winning journalist, Faludi's book, Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women, is a landmark text exploring the anti-feminist backlash of the 1980s, and how political, social, and media entities were able to dismantle nearly all the progress of the previous decade, often using women themselves, by turning the language of feminism against itself and ultimately transforming "feminist" into what it remains in many circles today: a stigmatized, baggage-heavy bad word. Following what happened after first, second, and third-wave feminism, I expect a comparable backlash to occur against the current movement within the next decade or so.

Just as compelling (and gigantic) is her 1999 follow-up, Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man, which explores why men feel emasculated all the time, and how the rhetoric of both anti-feminism (asserting men should dominate) and feminism (blaming men for culture's problems) actually imply about the same thing: that men are supposed to be in control. Except they generally don't feel that way. The book dives into how and why that is, from the impossibility of living up to post-WWII expectations of what a man is supposed to be, to the problematic "hero" concept, from which men are expected not to participate in society but rise above it, and how these unrealizable narratives manipulate and doom men in their own insidious ways, bringing as much unhappiness upon them as anyone else. ​

A year and half ago, the sight was a sorry one. A man and his son, the father ribbed in sweat, the coked-out shameless shudder of withdrawal, where all the world is invisible, but for the next fix. He was lighting up his crack pipe right there, big as life in the front seats. That story continues here. 

There's a certain streak of behavior I witness out here that tends not to work in the favor of longevity. You see the same activity, sure, but not the same faces; Seattle had 332 fatality overdoses last year, and those souls get wiped aside for– by– others, new kids on the habit, convinced they're unassailable. But it's a game of diminishing returns if there ever was one. Unless you're Keith Richards, William S. Burroughs, or Denise, you tend to disappear after a while. 

Six seasons later I'm on the other side of town, watching a guy lift his groceries out of a shopping cart. He knows carts can't go on buses, and is scrambling to get his bags in hand for the ride. I should help him. I love helping. Who was it who said, "the best way to cheer yourself is to try to cheer somebody else up?"* Jumping out of my seat, I ask, "hey, you need some help?"
"Aw naw, I got it." 

He was the epitome of Joe Average in terms of dress– another neighborhood fella in denim and sweats, mid-forties with the 'fro cropped close, necklace and sneakers on a casual weeknight. I glanced at his shopping cart. All that remained was a bright green twelve-pack of beer. In my bus uniform I paused. I grinned at him and quipped, "yeah, I guess I probably shouldn't be seen with the Heineken!"
"Ha!"

He boarded in good spirits, and the ride continued without incident. The following day he showed up again, easy, the lucid smile, mild-mannered: "aww, hey!" 
"Heeeey, two days in a row!"
"You're a good dude," he said, "God bless you!"

In a fifth of a second I figured it out. That's who that was. I almost didn't recognize him, he looked so normal. His life, his year, his struggles and stories and setbacks and triumphs… all of it had to have happened, because here he was now, able to speak, able to focus his eyes. Less than a second had passed, but I felt the tidal wave of confirmation hit me, and the best I could do was stammer out in response, "you too, my guy, you too!"

Walker Percy once posited** that when the same or similar incident happens twice, everything that's transpired in the interim can be evinced by the subtle differences between the two events. There was no crack pipe tonight, no youthful accomplice, no signs of withdrawal. He was whole. It's a tough job, this life, and a tougher one when it looks like you're doomed to be one of those 332 deaths. Tough job walking down the street. Tough job going out for groceries. But he did it.

​Did he know I knew? Did anyone else tonight know, what a hero he was? They didn't know. No one knew. He was just some guy getting on with paper towels and a bag of TV dinners. But I wanted to jump for joy. Rich, coursing respect flooded my veins, deep admiration shaking my head with pride for my fellow man. This is possible. It can be done. The difference between those bus rides a year and a half ago and now represented something colossal. He had made it to the summit.

Congratulations, my friend. You hero. I learn from your strength. 

---

*Mark Twain.
**The Moviegoer,  first published 1961.