Guest Post: SFFILM FilmHouse Resident Jason Sussberg on Redefining His Relationship to His Doc Subject

LONG-TERM THINKING IN THE TIME OF A PANDEMIC
by Jason Sussberg

I was invited to be a FilmHouse resident at a time of profound change in my life. My directing partner David Alvarado and I just started our third indie feature film We Are As Gods, on the extraordinary life of Stewart Brand, editor of the counterculture’s bible The Whole Earth Catalog and president of the Long Now Foundation, whose mission is to nudge humanity to think longer term — 10,000 years to be exact. The film we made centers on Stewart’s biography and his most recent mission, which is to bring back extinct species using biotechnology. In January of 2018, only two months after we started developing this film, I became a dad, which nudged me personally to think longer term for my son’s future. I presumed having a FilmHouse residency at the time was perfect timing, as I wouldn’t be traveling too much during my FilmHouse tenure being a new dad and all. However, that ended up not being the case, since the film on Stewart took us to Europe, far Northern Siberia, and all over the country from Stewart’s boyhood cabin in Michigan to West Texas: the site of The Clock of the Long Now. The clock, built by the Long Now foundation, is a monument meant to last at least 10,000 years. It’s a massive mechanical artifact, larger than the Statue of Liberty, housed in the core of a mountain, and most importantly for us as filmmakers, it functions as the film’s ultimate scene that pretty much sums up Stewart’s life.

Since the pandemic de facto canceled the film’s release into the world, I’ve been reflecting on the raison d’etre of the clock. Our film explores the clock in two scenes, but the film’s main drama is about resurrecting extinct species. That said, it’s one chapter of Stewart’s life that deserves more time and exploration than we were able to accomplish in our 95-minute movie. The clock is a mythic icon and a true engineering feat — how does one build anything that is meant to function for 10,000 years? The mission of the foundation that Stewart envisioned back in the ‘90s was to counter civilization’s revved-up and “pathologically short attention span.” As Stewart sees it, civilization is incentivized to think and behave in the short-term. As Stewart’s friend and Long Now Foundation co-founder Brian Eno says, “Everybody was talking about the opinion poll in the paper tomorrow, or next week’s shareholder results, or at best the next election which was four years ahead. We now had all of this power and no concept at all of the future that we were going to be building with it. That was what the clock grew out of.” As Eno sees it, the clock is a provocation to get humanity to think longer-term and behave more responsibly. (As an aside, we had the pleasure of collaborating with Brian Eno on this movie, both as an interview subject and in that he created the beautiful, timeless, and indelible original score. Not farfetched to say that this is the highlight of my life as a filmmaker.)

Our film chronicles Stewart’s ability to make trippy thought experiments become culture shifting realities, starting first with the photograph of the whole Earth. After an insightful LSD trip, Stewart started an ad hoc campaign to provoke NASA into releasing a photograph of the whole Earth. Stewart thought that humanity would become more ecologically responsible if we could see how small, fragile, and alive the planet is. It worked — shortly after the campaign, NASA released the image of the whole Earth and that kicked off the modern environmental movement with the first Earth Day in 1970 — whose 50th anniversary we just celebrated this spring. The clock is intended to do what the photograph did for the green movement, but for time and responsibility. The hope is that the clock will last all 10,000 years, come nuclear war, asteroid, climate catastrophe, or pandemic.

The idea of the clock originated from his friend Danny Hillis, but Stewart literally wrote the book on it and the philosophy of long-term thinking. I read the book shortly after I graduated from college in 2004 and I was sold on the philosophy, though I’m sympathetic to the criticism and not naive to the controversy. I think humanity would act more responsibly to the planet and each other if we had a longer time frame in mind. At the time, my concern was environmentally motivated because of climate change. Obviously our COVID-19 reality has everyone thinking about how this could have been avoided, or at least ameliorated with less death and devastation. It’s my reasoned belief that had we been thinking long-term, governments, corporations, and large philanthropies across the globe would have been better prepared for a pandemic and mapped out several scenarios for recovery. We need to apply long-term thinking not just on an individual consumer level, but at large scale on a governmental and ecological level.

It’s comforting to think that the clock is ticking along somewhere in the desert and will live well beyond this current crisis and many more. Still under construction, the clock is born into the world at a moment when humanity is reminded that civilization is fragile and requires diligent maintenance. Civilization has only been around 10,000 years, which is a blink of an eye in geological time. Even when compared to the scale of our own species (250,000 years), civilization hasn’t been around that long.

Perhaps our next movie will just be on the Clock of the Long Now. If we are to survive as a global civilization and avoid nuclear winters, asteroids, mass extinctions, climate change, and pandemics, we need to think and behave long-term. For me, having a kid jolted me into thinking about the future, but it’s merely the near future of my son’s life and maybe his children (a weird thought since he’s barely two). In the final scene of the film, we see Stewart’s silhouette as he walks through a dark tunnel out of the mountain housing the clock. Over this imagery and sounds of Brian Eno’s score, Stewart says “Generations is a good way to think, but let’s go way longer than that. Once you are holding these longer time frames in mind, it starts to raise the question of what do you do on Monday? Does your behavior start to reflect this larger frame?”

Jason Sussberg is a San Francisco-based filmmaker focusing on art and humanity in the sciences. He started his career working in sports television as a producer and editor for the San Francisco Giants and Golden State Warriors. After receiving his MFA at Stanford University, he and filmmaking partner David Alvarado founded Structure Films, a science storytelling production company. They directed and produced The Immortalists (2014), Bill Nye: Science Guy (2017), We Are As Gods (2020 or whatever) as well as a slew of short documentaries that have broadcast on PBS, TED, BBC, Facebook Watch, and screened at prestigious international film festivals. He is a 2018 SFFILM FilmHouse Resident with this production.

David Alvarado is an award-winning documentary filmmaker with a passion for science, philosophy, and human rights. He is the son of a Mexican immigrant and although he dropped out of high school, his pursuit of filmmaking and his love of science helped him find a passion that changed his life forever. Today, he lives in Brooklyn, NY and works tirelessly to put science back in its rightful place in society.

For more information about SFFILM’s artist development programs, visit sffilm.org/makers.

Guest Post: SFFILM Westridge Grantee Kobi Libii on Making Art During a Pandemic

NON-ESSENTIAL WORK
by Kobi Libii

I’d just gotten back from the store — one of those formerly mundane runs to the grocery store that now has strong Mad Max vibes — and I was sitting on my kitchen floor, crying.

I was surrounded by rolls of toilet paper.

Good news: the store had toilet paper for the first time in six weeks. And none of this doled-out-by-the-single-roll bullshit—a proper 18-pack. Bad news: I was curled up on my linoleum with it, a month into quarantine, not exactly bawling, but whatever you call it when sadness floods out of your body in waves.

I was also listening to a song on my headphones: Only Children by Jason Isbell.

Driving home, I had had a little swagger in my steer. All of my work and prospective work has ground to a halt, so my job for the last couple weeks has been Chief Forager, while my wife has worked remotely, turning the living room into a command center. And toilet paper has been my white whale. Apart from two, piddling rolls from Trader Joe’s a couple weeks ago, I had found none and was starting to take it personally. After all, I’m me. I clawed my way from non-equity open calls to a consistent living as a TV actor. I transitioned to writing and directing and got a feature financed that, before all this, was poised to shoot this summer. I’ve hustled and scraped and made a living as an artist for over a decade now: I should be able to scrounge for something to wipe my family’s ass, supply lines be damned. So, TP in my trunk like a ten point buck, I turned up a playlist of new songs on the ride home.

But I got stuck on one this one Jason Isbell track. Something about it was speaking at me, so on the whole ride home, I just kept hitting repeat, even transferring it to my headphones as I carried the groceries inside.

I only paused it when I stepped into the kitchen and dropped the toilet paper at my wife’s feet as she paced the room on a work call. There was a vague “tada!” in the way I presented the paper to her, like a cat dragging a dead bird to their owner’s feet. My wife, a deeply patient woman but our sole breadwinner right now, glanced up from the call and gave me the same kind-but-patronizing look the owner would give the cat: “It’s a sweet gesture, just not as grand as you think.”

It should be said that I’ll have no work for the foreseeable future. Nothing I have ever done to make money as an adult is possible right now. None of the side hustles. None of the hard-won hustle hustles. Yes, I’m working on longer term writing projects. Yes, I’m pestering my producers for updates on when we, or anyone, can safely shoot again. But mostly, these days consist of toilet paper runs, half-hearted calisthenics and hoping my wife doesn’t get fired.

This is all to explain why, after my wife wandered into the next room to finish her call, I curled up on the kitchen floor in a puddle of bathroom tissue, put my new favorite song on repeat and cried.

It was a good cry. A healthy cry. A stress-leaving-your-body cry. An I-didn’t-know-I-needed-a-cry cry.

It should also be said that the song slaps. It’s an uptempo ballad about love, loss and the childish audacity of young artists.

It’s also exactly how I feel about making art during a pandemic.

The song is wonderfully ambivalent about what artists do. It drips with nostalgia about the speaker’s early days living “hand-to-mouth” and “bet[ting] it all on a demo tape.” It has great affection for that time — those heady, early days — and great sadness that those years, and some of the people you shared them with, are gone. After all, there are few things as sublime as crafting something you love.

But the song is also skeptical of those young artists, repeatedly describing them as “overindulgent only children.” Too young and high and inspired to understand how short life is and how little their ambition or fights about Dylan really mattered. The implication is clear: there’s something deeply selfish about the choice to make art.

It feels that way right now.

One of the many half-baked ideas that gets passed off as wisdom in artistic communities is the notion that you should only be an artist if you “can’t imagine doing anything else.” The thought goes that the rigors of artistry are so extreme, the career path so exacting that only the pathologically committed could possibly survive. This idea is insane to me. Who are these raging narcissists who, despite having world class imaginations, can’t conceive of other ways to contribute to the world? Teach. Volunteer. Build a Habitat-for-Humanity house, you fucking monsters. And in these times? Who, upon hearing horror stories from ICUs and unemployment lines, could possibly believe that our poetry is a better contribution to the world than what nurses, grocery store clerks, and other essential workers are doing right now? Yes, it’s nice to have Netflix in quarantine, but it’s nicer to have food and N-95 masks. And before you point to the great art in periods of great strife, go rewatch that tone-deaf Imagine cover and see how confident you feel that we, as a population, are the healers society needs right now.

I am not an essential worker. Not in this pandemic. Not even in my own family. For god’s sake, we could wipe with Kleenex if need be.

The hard truth is, pandemic or no, it’s always an indulgent choice to make art. There are always domestic pressures that make a career in the arts “impractical.” There are always global injustices that demand our full-time attention as activists, not dreamers. So in a moment when these realities are undeniable, how can I go back to my desk and write a screenplay? How can I even stand up off the kitchen floor?

Yet, there I sat, surrounded by toilet paper, listening to a song that was, by definition, non-essential. It was wise and full-hearted. It made me feel better.

It wasn’t until the song finished that I could stand up.

Kobi Libii is an actor, writer, and director, most recently seen writing and performing on Comedy Central’s The Opposition with Jordan Klepper and Klepper. Past acting credits include Transparent, Girls, Jessica Jones, Madam Secretary, Doubt and Alpha House, and the upcoming feature We Broke Up. Kobi studied theater at Yale University and comedy at Second City Chicago. As a writer/director, his feature debut The American Society of Magical Negroes has been supported by the Sundance Screenwriter’s Lab, Sundance Director’s Lab, and SFFILM Westridge Grant, and will be produced by Sight Unseen (Bad Education, Monsters and Men).

For more information about SFFILM’s artist development programs, visit sffilm.org/makers.

Guest Post: Novelist-Turned-Filmmaker Natalie Baszile on Her SFFILM Djerassi Fellowship Experience

June: Good News
It’s mid-June at Chicago O’Hare, and I’m standing at the edge of Terminal C food court, debating whether a quick bite at Billy Goat Tavern or Manchu Wok is less likely to kill me, when I check my phone and see a new email from the folks at SFFILM. The email says they’re offering me a month-long residency at Djerassi Resident Arts Program. They want to know if I’m interested and available. I’ve been to artists residencies a small handful of times although it’s been many years. I’ve been so busy trying to get my new novel on its feet and write the accompanying screenplay that I haven’t applied for any, not wanting to pester friends for recommendations. I keep telling myself I’ll get around to it “next year,” but “next year” never seems to come. Still, I know they are magical spaces where time slows and the world falls away. I know how glorious it feels to step away from the daily grind and completely lose one’s self in one’s work. I know that even two weeks at a residency can be as productive as three months at home.

It takes me approximately 5 seconds to respond to the invitation. “I’m In!” I write back.

August: Breaking Away
It’s one thing to accept a 30-day residency; it’s another thing to prepare for it. There are bills to pay, dogs to board, laundry to do, plants to water. Normally, there’d be a husband to console, but he packed his bags two weeks ago and relocated to Los Angeles. He’s a lawyer and has a big trial that’s demanding every ounce of his time and attention. THANK GOD. Otherwise, I’d have to watch him mope and listen to him sigh dramatically about spending a month by himself. “Man up!” I fantasize about saying. “You don’t hear me complaining when you travel for your job.” It’s an old response to an old dynamic; one that arose years ago when I was struggling to write while taking care of kids and pets and managing the challenges that come along with having creative life and a family. But those days are long gone. Our daughters are young adults with lives of their own. It’s just the two of us. We’re Empty Nesters. And the truth is, he’s happy for me, excited for this new phase I have pivoted into as a novelist-turned-filmmaker. So, I give myself a little pep talk. “Come on, Baszile. Be fair.” Then I head down to the garage where I’ve set aside one of the super-sturdy cardboard boxes from Sunbasket, the meal delivery service we subscribe to now that we don’t have to cook for kids. I drag it up to my office and for the next two weeks toss in every novel, craft book and film script I think will inspire me, along with all the notecards, notepads, and Post-Its on which I’ve scribbled notes for my story. I shove in the three-ring binder that houses my novel draft and the folder where I keep the different versions of my script. A bundle of Ticonderoga #2 Pencils. A ream of paper just in case I need to print pages. Extra pens. A fresh pack of highlighters. Poetry books. A hole punch and paperclips. Everything I can think goes into my box. If I were stranded on a desert island, I could keep myself occupied — no problem — until the rescue party arrived. By the time I finish packing everything I think I might need, I can’t lift the box.

September
In the past, I’ve always flown to the residencies I’ve attended, but now, for the first time, I can drive. Djerassi is a little over an hour south of Oakland; 50 minutes if I time the traffic just right. My Toyota Prius is packed with everything I think I might need and then some. In addition to my box of work stuff, I’ve stocked up on gummy bears, potato chips, those sinfully delicious baked Cheeto-type-things from Trader Joes. I never eat this stuff at home (well, not too often, and certainly not in these quantities) but I’ve never been away for a month and Dejerassi is located on a sprawling 600-acre ranch in the middle of nowhere. Who knows when I’ll next see civilization. I’ve packed my special tea and my favorite ceramic mug with the thick handle, along with two containers of whipped honey. I don’t have a lot of writing rituals, but a morning cup of tea is essential. I cram everything into my car, double-check the front door, and set off by 11:00 am. For the last three months I have dreamed about this day, wondered how I’d get everything done so I could step away, but now I seem to have done it.

Yield To Whim
That’s what the sign on the Djerassi Property reads as I pull through the big iron gates and make my way down along the winding road to the barn. I’ve actually seen that sign once before — 10 years ago when I visited a friend who had a residency here. She invited me down for dinner and we spent the late afternoon hiking around the property — past the enormous nest made of fallen branches and across the babbling stream that cut through the redwood grove. She showed me the watercolors she painted on the private deck outside her room and introduced me to a French dancer whose tumble of blond curls and child-like figure made me think of pixies and wood nymphs. After dinner he handed out hand-drawn maps and invited everyone to his performance, which he held in a cave somewhere on the property. Gripping our flashlights in one hand and each other’s elbows with the other, we stumbled through the dark until we found the cave entrance then inched our way through the tunnel until we reached the den where he lay naked except for a baby-blue blanket. We all huddled around shivering as he recited poetry. It might sound crazy, but it was a magical.

Now, as I pull up to the barn, I think about that night, that dancer. I can already feel myself relaxing.

But it’s when I get to my Middlebrook studio that the real magic happens. The moment I open the door and step into my room overlooking the wide meadow and the ocean beyond, I know I’ve made the right decision in coming here. There is nothing to hear but the wind in the grass and the occasional screech of a hawk overhead. The quiet is ABSOLUTE and for the first time in so long I can’t remember, I can actually hear myself think. The silence is revelation — a reminder of how noisy my life is with constant drone of BART trains and the low din of traffic, the text notifications and the occasional sing-song of my neighbors’ voices. The news. The News. THE NEWS! No wonder I haven’t been able to dream my way into my story that way I need to. No wonder I haven’t been able to hear what my characters have to say. No wonder that for months I’ve felt like I had cotton in my ears and a layer of cement spread over the top of my brain. No wonder.

Kabuki Dancers, Playwrights, Painters, Poets & Mountain Lions
Just as I suspected, my fellow residents are a fascinating bunch. They hail from states as far as Vermont and Main, and countries as far as Australia and Argentina. They are visual artists and playwrights, memoirists and Kabuki dancers. There’s a young composer who sings like an angel, a woman who paints by shooting ink through tanks of water, and another who fashions rope from items she finds in the natural world. On our first group hike, we all show up with our sunhats, water bottles filled, and our long pants tucked into our socks.

We are a gentle group, curious about each others’ work and various life’s journeys. Over the next 30 days we will laugh together and cook together, listen to presentations on each others’ work and engage in deep conversation about music and the power of dance and poetry. We will reveal our vulnerabilities and insecurities. Drink too much wine and kombucha and eat too many avocados and chocolate chip cookies. We will bond over many things, most of all a shared preoccupation with mountain lions which we’ve been told roam the property. At dinner every evening, we talk about what we might do it we were to encounter one on the trail. We keep an eye out for their scat. We listen for their cries in the night. And when one resident celebrates her birthday, we toast her with a homemade mountain lion-themed card and a toy someone bought on their trip to town.

October: Souvenirs
How do you sum up 30 days of uninterrupted creativity? What price to do put on 30 days of peace and quiet? How do you measure the gift of time and space? I don’t know.

What I do know is that as I packed up my studio and returned everything I’d brought with me to my cardboard box, I promised to take a bit of Djerassi home with me. I vowed to remember the stunning quiet and the view of the rolling hills unfurling all around. I promised to remember friends I’d made and the conversations I’d had. The redwood groves and the sunsets.

December: Reflections
I’ve been home for exactly two months and I am happy to report I’m still able to slip back into that space. The difference my Djerassi residency made has been profound.

So, thank you to SFFILM for the generous gift of time, space and quiet. I had no idea I needed it as much as I did.

For more information about SFFILM’s artist development programs, visit sffilm.org/makers.