2 FREE MOVIES; "MORGAN'S CAKE," and "AMERICAN ORPHEUS" (with STORIES' around their creation).

SEE TWO FEATURES: <https://vimeo.com/manage/videos/168153085>, <https://vimeo.com/manage/videos/200839366>.

(Stories Excerpted From TWELVE DEAD FROGS AND OTHER STORIES--A Filmmaker's Memoir by Rick Schmidt.)

EGO ADJUSTMENT (1989)

On the day of my 45th birthday, wife Julie and I decided to join friend Lowell Darling and his wife, Laurie, for a movie. My spirits were pretty high because my fourth feature, Morgan’s Cake, was currently mid-point into its theatrical run at the Roxie Theatre in San Francisco, that local premiere due, in part, to the glowing review the film had received by JANET MASLIN, in The New York Times the previous spring. And although the Bay Area reviews hadn’t been nearly as positive as New York, the publicity generated was adequate to keep the theatre two-third’s full for most screenings, returning over a thousand dollars to my cash reserves. The no-budget feature had been selected for presentation by twelve international film festivals, so I felt good about my accomplishment.

Morgan’s Cake poster designed and produced by Joe DiVincenzo, featuring Morgan Schmidt-Feng and Aaron Kenin.

The evening was resplendent with a touch of fog in the air, sun streaming down past the Marin foothills as we drove toward the theatre in San Rafael. I looked forward to being transported away from reality by the acclaimed foreign film, Cinema Paradiso, escaping into what I’d heard was a charming and pleasurable experience. Pure entertainment. I was ready for that! Icing on my cake.

As I waited in line with Julie and friends to buy tickets, the guy right ahead of me started bad- mouthing a film he’d just seen to his girlfriend. He began by prefacing that it wasn’t a “real” film like the one they were in line to see, just a little independent thing showing at an out-of-the-way theatre in San Francisco. When his companion asked the title, he said it was a film called MORGAN'S CAKE.

Oh my GOD!

My throat started to constrict.

I quickly glanced over at the other members of my small group, praying that they hadn’t heard this guy identify my film by name. Wrapped up in their own various conversations, they hadn’t.

By the time we reached the ticket booth I had overheard him say more…that he “didn’t buy the father and son working-together business” and that he was glad his father, a Hollywood director, had never tried that with him. I didn’t bother to inform him that Morgan's father was next in line. Happy birthday from twelve dead frogs.

TIRE IRON (1992)

Within the first two years of relocating to Port Townsend in Washington state, my wife Julie, son Marlon and I took a side trip to a mall-infested community about an hour away. Returning to our car after shopping, we discovered our rear-right tire was flat. Lacking the sufficient enthusiasm to face the heavy job of changing tires (my back was out), I called the AAA road service and a guy soon appeared with a tow truck. He immediately got to work on the tire, but it was soon obvious that he hated every minute of it. He seemed virtually consumed with anger, hostility, all those negative emotions that are all the more frightening when a stranger exhibits them.

While I was scared of this man, and would normally avoid intervening with someone like him, he was working on MY car, and he seemed capable of making a huge error in judgment given his overall mindset. I found myself finally forced to confront him, just couldn’t stand another minute of being around this volcano of negativity. I just wanted him to back off, get in his truck and leave. I was delicate at first, asking him if maybe he wanted to call in someone else, since he was obviously having a bad day .

“No. NO, I can get it!” he said, continuing to rattle both himself and the three of us as he pounded away on things, swearing out loud.

“Sir, excuse me,” I said, after about three more minutes of witnessing his rampage on my tire, “YOU’VE GOT TO STOP WORKING ON MY CAR.”

“WHAT?” he shot back, a tire iron clutched in his right hand at that moment. Unfortunate timing for me, I thought, if he suddenly went ballistic. I was scared, but tried to keep my eyes focused on his hands, so I could spot the slightest hint of an attack if it came. Of course, that tactic would have done me some good only if I had been carrying a weapon of my own.

“You have to stop working on my car,” I repeated, in a lower voice, adding, “I just can’t stand your negativity anymore.” This last statement made me feel half new-age, half idiotic, but there jus weren't any better words my mind could come up with under the circumstances.

“I want you to call in someone else to finish up the job,” I finally uttered, waiting for him to spring on me with that tire iron and beat my head into a bloody pulp. I still couldn’t understand why I was attempting to interact with this psycho. But I was. I waited for his response.

He slowly put down his tire iron, took his hands and placed them on the top of his head, rocking back a little as he closed his eyes. He stayed like that for maybe twenty seconds.

“Thank you, Man,” he said, finally opening his eyes. “It’s been a really fucked week and I know I’ve been going around in circles. I really needed that.” He paused and took a deep breath. Thanks for waking me up,” he added, meaning it. “I’ll be alright now.”

Calmly and quietly, even efficiently, he finished up the tire changing job, I signed off on the AAA work sheet, and drove away.

CATLIN BOOK (1993)

The last time I heard a voice in my ear was when a book sale was about to happen in my small Pacific Northwest town. Being the garage-sale enthusiast that I was, it was natural that I would plan to attend the library sale I saw advertised, being always in need of another good book. Nothing special, I thought, though it looked like fun. But for the rest of that cold and rainy December week (the local paper first advertised the sale on a Wednesday), I woke up each morning to experience the same phrase bouncing around in my head. As if it was whispered in my ear, I heard, “Don’t forget the book sale on Saturday!”

I’d read plenty of other notices in the paper, listings for garage sales that tempted me more than this one, with words like “Antiques,” “Turn of the century,” or “Collectibles,” catching my attention, but a voice (whatever it was) had never solicited my attendance like that before. Anyway, that same message was repeated three times, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday morning. Then on Saturday, the morning of the sale, the words changed. When I awoke about 7:50 AM, the voice was much more insistent. “GET UP,” it said, emphatically. I had received an order!

“YOU’RE GOING TO MISS THE SALE! YOU’VE GOT TO GET THERE EARLY!”

The strange thing about the voice was that it sounded almost identical to thoughts. I might normally have thought about getting up early for a sale (I usually do), but my own thoughts don’t seem to drag me along by the lapel like that. They just sit there, quietly, as if to give me a chance for introspection. These words demanded that I get my butt in gear!

I got dressed, threw down some eggs, and hurried over to the site of the sale, a garage behind an old Victorian-era house only three blocks from my own. Three or four other people were already there, standing in line ahead of me. It was 8:40 AM, twenty minutes before the sale was scheduled to begin. An older guy, who was obviously in charge of the sale, was pacing back and forth, nervously going a few directions at once. He walked down the block, temporarily visiting with a group of elderly women who were conducting the library furniture sale at the same time. Since they had already opened their sale to "early birds" he decided he could do the same, and dropped the flag. Immediately my little group took off, heading into the garage, directly to the side that held the antiquarian books.

I followed them into the narrow, right side of the enclosure, but was hardly able to see the table where the old tomes and multiple volumes were displayed in piles. The four people ahead of me clogged the space (I later learned they were antique and book dealers), and I was left out in the cold. I circled inside the back of the garage and waited for my turn, figuring that all the books of real value would soon be gone.

While I was pressed to the rear wall, I couldn’t help noticing a very large, flat book, leaning against the rear window, effectively blocking out much of the light. I read the title of the book, Catlin’s North American Indian Portfolio, Hunting Scenes and Amusements, and that it was being sold for a whopping $300. That seemed like a huge amount that morning, any morning, for a book at a garage sale. Whoever had written out the sales tag was trying hard to convince the customer that it was a good deal, by including the information that another copy of the same book had been auctioned off in London in 1970 for $1,500. But that fact just played into my suspicions. Why were they selling this one for only $300?

My brain, in its sleepy state, didn’t realize that a major correction was probably in order on the tag. That $1,500 they spoke of was probably in pounds, the standard currency for anything sold in London (which, at a ratio of 3:1 with U.S. dollars back then, would have brought the auction price to something like $4,500!). At any rate, I laughed off the expensive item and looked back around at the main table. It was clear! The other people had evacuated the rare book side of the sale, and were now searching through modern fiction, stacked on the other side of the partition.

I immediately figured their desertion probably meant one thing, that the remaining old books were overpriced. I started to leave that side, move with the herd, but something drew me back once more to the expensive Catlin book. I thought I should at least take a look inside.

Before I opened the large cover, though, I couldn't help noticing the gilded leather binding along the spine and top corners, and gold-stamped leather title plate (to which I had paid only cursory attention a momentbefore). That's when I began to appreciate just what an extremely high-quality printing job I was holding in my hands.

Inside, the first surprise was the pristine nature of the pages. There was no foxing or soiling. And the date of publication was 1844. That fact seemed to have a special significance for me. The book I held in my hands had been published exactly 100 years before I was born.

Flipping carefully to the center of the book (it was almost unwieldy, measuring nearly 17” by 23”), I suddenly found myself staring at a huge illustration of an Indian warrior, with a Mohawk haircut and war paint, tugging on a rope tautly connected to a wild mustang resisting at the other end. The title of this magnificent print was “Catching the Wild Horse.” In the background, other Indians rode at full gallop across the plains and hilly slopes, the sepia brown print elegantly showing off its chalky white clouds against the sharp contours of distant mountain peaks. I was totally transported to another time and place.

After examining a few other illustrations, and being particularly struck by one engraving of a magnificent buffalo, the image measuring over a foot in length, I knew against all logic that I had to buy that book. As I stood in line to pay for it I added up all my rationales. First, it had been published exactly 100 years before the year of my birth. Secondly, I collected old books on Native Americans, having purchased one a few years back for $200 (and it had been a much smaller book, from 1880). Thirdly, I had $344 in my checking account, just enough to write the check (I could use my charge card to refill the account later). Fourthly, my wife Julie would kill me for such an extravagance. Oh well, I thought. I’m ready to suffer for this gorgeous book.

On my way out of the sale, after writing the big check, a nice woman asked if she could just take a look inside. I opened the book under an umbrella- sheltered table, as a light rain began to fall, cold wind rustling the cellophane between illustrations, and we both gasped at the lovely pictures. I cut the viewing short when the wind picked up, worried that a page might get torn from my hand.

Arriving back home, I carried the book through the living room to my study, showing wife Julie the book cover on the way, just long enough to exclaim I’d been naughty, to the tune of $300. She handled it pretty well, only glanced up from her library book long enough to say she hoped it was worth it. Her few words prompted me to make a phone call.

I dialed up the Blue Stem Bookstore in Lincoln, Nebraska, where I had bought a few rare Native American books in the past, and asked the friendly guy who answered if he knew what my book (Catlin Portfolio, 1844, etc.) might be worth. He quickly looked it up in his current auction records, asked a few pointed questions (yes, it had been published in London, had 25 tinted illustrations, etc.), and then asked if I was sitting down. Yes, I said, awaiting the verdict.

“Your book auctioned off in 1989 for $14,000!” he exclaimed, a laugh breaking up his last few words. My whole body started tingling. I thanked him profusely and hung up. Between my farily-controlled hysterical whoops, Julie tried to understand what had happened.

On the following Monday, I called Sotheby’s rare book department and the gentleman who answered said it sounded like my book probably fell more into the range of $18,000-$25,000. Nobody pinch me, I thought.

When it was finally auctioned off that following June, as part of Sotheby’s “Fine Manuscript and Printed Americana” sale of 1993, its price range had risen once again, listed $20,000 - $30,000 due to its classification as a “brilliant copy.” It was hammered down at $25,000. When the check finally arrived into my hands ($21,000 after auction fees), the sale matched almost exactly the total credit card debt that I’d been saddled with since ‘CREDIT-CARDING’ the completion of my fifth feature, AMERICAN ORPHEUS, to complete it in time for a Rotterdam Intl. Film Festival premiere.

After clearing my “Orpheus” debt it dawned on me that through a few fateful twists and turns (the voices…), the universe had patched me back up after ‘Orpheus,’ financially and psychically speaking, returned me to a stable place from which I could keep making my art.

Hands outstretched, I direct a conversation between lead actress Jody Esther (stripes) and friend Jan Burr, for American Orpheus (Port Townsend, Washington, 1991). My small crew included cinematographer Kyle Bergersen (my left), filmmaker and actor Karen Rodriguez (right, rear), musician Paul Baker (mic/boom pole), along with veteran soundman Neelon Crawford (center, rear). Photo by Julie Schachter.

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