![]() |
|
| THE HANDSTAND | FEBRUARY-MARCH 2008 |
| TONY
SILVER DIES Tony
Silver, director of seminal graffiti film Style Wars,
dies by Jeff Chang, ![]() The great Tony Silver. Tony Silver passed last week after a courageous fight against brain cancer. A few years back Henry Chalfant, Tony, and I went up to Billy Jam's radio show at KALX to talk about "Style Wars" and its impact. It tells you the kind of person that he is that after the show when the rest of us were wiped out, he was still just getting started. Although I only knew him after he was safely in the AARP target demo, I will always remember him as one of the most youthful people I've ever known. Tony is also for me a model of an engaged aesthete. He always knew great art the instant he saw it, not a little of which he was making himself. And he didn't sit there smiling with it, he immediately became its champion. He wanted to share it. That's the way it was with graffiti. Tony had been working as a director and actor for about a decade when he and Henry Chalfant began planting the seeds of what became "Style Wars". Graffiti was the scourge of NYC, a public nuisance and embarrassment. Yet he staked his all on the loony idea. They ran out of money trying to shoot it. More than a few times. But to Tony, the story of hip-hop--esp. graffiti and b-boying--was like an opera . He was convinced graffiti was some of the most important art he'd ever seen--if it could survive heartless politicians, cold municipal bureaucrats, and its own internal beefs, it might change the way people saw the world. When the movie came out on PBS, people couldn't believe he and Chalfant had glorified property crime and feckless urban youths. But for a new generation, "Style Wars" became a spark for one of the most vibrant and influential global visual art movements of the last two decades. Tony is a reason that street art lives all around the world, even fetches hundreds of thousands of dollars in rarified auctions. Elitist art historians may not give up the love now, but time will prove Tony was right. To a man who lived deeply and always saw clearly, this one's for you, Tony. A remembrance will be scheduled in New York for Tony on February 16th. Donations in Tony's name may be made to the important program (Out)Laws and Justice.
By DAVID M. HALBFINGER / New York Times Published:
December 27, 2007 LOS ANGELES
At home, in gang territory near the 10 freeway,
Malcolm Mays, 17, sleeps on the faded carpet of his
grandmothers living room. For the last week
or so, however, hes been sleeping as often as not
in an editing room on the Sony Pictures lot in Culver
City, crashing there late at night after viewing rushes
of the movie that he is shooting by day. To a degree that
would make any adult desperate to get into the film
industry jealous, he has mustered the support of studio
executives, a powerful producer and a top talent agent.
It would be easy to tell this as the story of a bunch of
Hollywood people doing a good deed in time for Christmas,
except that it isnt. They all say they hope to get
as much out of Mr. Mays as he gets out of them. When he was in
the eighth grade, Mr. Mays says, he told his friends he
would become rich and famous making movies one day
he hoped to use his money and fame to make a
difference somehow and that hed have
his first movie out before he turned 18. They all
laughed, he said. A year later he
entered Fairfax High School, where the racial tension
among students bused in from far and wide was a jarring
contradiction to its upscale West Hollywood neighborhood.
That fall he was caught up in a black-and-Hispanic melee.
A friend was attacked with a knife; Mr. Mays says he saw
the assailant lunging and headed him off with a punch.
His mother abruptly transferred him to another school.
The violence continued without him. Three of his best
friends, he said, were killed that year. But Mr. Mays had
found his movie. He banged out a screenplay that year and
gave it the name of his main character: Trouble, a boy
who means well but always gets into jams, who does the
wrong thing for the right reasons. An incorrigible Romeo,
Mr. Mays gave his alter ego a Juliet: the sister of a
Mexican-American gang member. And he imagined an ending
in which the cycle of violence between black and Hispanic
teenagers might be broken, after a shocking, sorrowful
twist. He bounced from school to school, finishing 9th
grade at a community magnet; 10th grade at Dorsey High in
South-Central, where his father is a coach; then, at his
mothers insistence, another move, to University
High in West Los Angeles, which was safer but a long bus
ride from home. He never stopped
pursuing film. When the producer Peter Guber of Mandalay
Entertainment spoke at his church, Mr. Mays, a leader of
the youth ministry, wangled a meeting. That didnt
go anywhere. But when he injured his leg at Dorsey, the
athletic trainer mentioned that his wife worked for
Martin Campbell, the director of Casino
Royale, and Mr. Mays soon had an internship in Mr.
Campbells office on the Sony lot. At 15, he
co-directed the first of several dramatic shorts,
Open Door, which was accepted to a Los
Angeles short film festival. At 16 his script and plans
for Trouble were recognized by
Panavisions highly selective New Filmmaker Program,
which lets novice directors borrow a camera package. He just needed a
plan to put its camera to use. Last year he
signed up for a mentor program at University High that is
run by the United Talent Agency. Howard Sanders, of the
agencys book department, commended Mr. Mays for his
interest in a film career. Mr. Mays corrected him. He says:
Its not what I want to do, its what
Im going to do. Im going to make a
movie, Mr. Sanders recalled. He knew
exactly what he wanted, and nothing was going to stop
him. The mentor
quickly found himself more inspired by the teenager than
the other way around. I learned so much about who I
want to be from Malcolm, said Mr. Sanders, who is
48. This kid, obstacles are thrown in his way, and
yet he remains utterly positive, passionate and confident
in his abilities. Mr. Sanders
introduced Malcolm to DeVon Franklin, a junior executive
in Sonys development department and one of the few
African-American executives at any studio. In this
scrawny little kid, Mr. Franklin said, he saw
a glimmer of hope for a new generation of black
filmmakers. Mr. Sanders also
pointed Mr. Mays to Todd Black, a producer of the
feel-good, true-life movies The Pursuit of
Happyness and The Great Debaters, who
had discovered another eventual movie subject, Antwone
Fisher, when he was a security guard. Mr. Black too was
blown away. I never met
a kid that age who was that in command of, and secure
with, who he was and what he needed and wanted, Mr.
Black said. He really made me listen to what he was
saying, quickly and efficiently. He wanted to get his
scripts made into movies, he wanted to go to U.S.C. film
school, he wanted a career in the business. He wanted to
lift himself out of the situation he was in. Hes
almost entrepreneurial. He knew exactly how to work it,
but not in an obnoxious way. In a very professional,
proper way. Mr. Black steered
Malcolm to Gary Martin, the president for studio
operations at Sony, who said he was reminded of a
21-year-old John Singleton making Boyz N the
Hood. You just got the feeling this
kids got the same kind of chutzpah, Mr.
Martin said. He laid down one condition for helping
Malcolm: Trouble must have its premiere on
the Sony lot. Cynthia Mays, Mr.
Mayss mother, is usually in charge of bringing food
to the set of Trouble. Mr. Martin got
Kodak to donate 50,000 feet of film, about $25,000 worth.
He also made a call to Panavision when, according to Mr.
Mays, it threatened to cancel the New Filmmaker Program
in response to the Hollywood work stoppage. The result?
I had Bob Beitcher, the C.E.O. of Panavision,
calling me in my third-period class, assuring me Id
have a camera, Mr. Mays said. As Christmas
vacation approached, Mr. Mays was a walking whirlwind at
his school, lining up actors, hiring a tiny crew,
obtaining permits and insurance, putting out one fire
after another as problems arose, even while taking his
exams. He planned to begin shooting on Monday, Dec. 17,
with exteriors at Fairfax High. But at 3:10 p.m.
the Friday before, he learned that his permission had
been revoked. An assistant principal at Fairfax, David
Siedelman, had just found out that Mr. Mays hadnt
yet graduated. You were
very professional, I agree, Mr. Siedelman told Mr.
Mays. You convinced me that hey, you were a former
student, an alumni here. You never said you were still a
high school student. Mr. Mays politely
said that Mr. Siedelman had never asked, and that
hed never lied. But Mr. Siedelman said his decision
was final and wished him luck. As usual,
things crash down, right? Mr. Mays said as he hung
up. But well pick em back up. True to his word,
as night fell that Friday, Mr. Mays bought time by
rearranging his production schedule to start with
interiors. One of Mr. Blacks location managers
began making calls on his behalf to other Los Angeles
schools, hoping to find one to replace Fairfax. Mr. Mays
raced across Hollywood with a $500 deposit to release the
camera from Panavision. And a giant lighting truck with a
generator in tow rumbled up to his grandmothers
tiny house, vainly searching for a safe place to park.
(Mr. Black and Mr. Martin wrote personal checks for $850
apiece when Mr. Mays couldnt come up with the truck
insurance fast enough, the only cash his powerful
supporters have laid out on his behalf.) He also stopped
at Sony to meet with a postproduction supervisor about
the arduous editing and mixing process. The supervisor
asked if Mr. Mays had a deadline in mind, say, for
submission to a film festival. Id like to get it done by Feb. 14, Mr. Mays replied softly. Thats when hell turn 18. Marvin X Reviews
"The Great Debaters"
|
|