Night Watch (2004) EXT. HOTEL - MORNING [FRANK, grim-faced archaeologist, leans against a white Ford F150 and scowls at the sun where it rises low in the east as well as the hive-like cluster of bustling construction workers building a bridge nearby. He sips his coffee.]

FRANK (V.O) They say that if you get less than---let's say, five hours of sleep, it's like going to work after, oh, I don't know---two drinks or something.

[FRANK strokes his grizzled chin and sips his coffee again, then aloud:]

Dammit. My feet are on fire in theses boots! Ugh!

[He reaches into the truck and pulls a plastic container and fork. He stirs it, groans, and then pitches the contents into a bush. He easily crushes the cup in a hand and tosses into the bed of the truck.]

Anyway. Even a really bad pineapple is still pretty good.

[SPIKE, sleepy and disheveled crew chief, staggers from the hotel lobby and up to the truck, yawning and gnawing a greasy egg-bagel combo:] SPIKE Still with the G-D pineapple, chief? FRANK Simple pleasures, buddy. SPIKE Yea, right, chief. Simple pleasures for simple... [SPIKE trails off as he climbs into the passenger's seat.] FRANK Simple. A pay check and a job well done, buddy. [After climbing heavily behind the wheel, FRANK pulls his ball cap over his eyes, mumbling:] Well, a job done, anyway... [So, this is a typical day starting for archaeologist FRANK Trautman. It’s pretty freaking boring. For the pretty equally freaking boring adventures of Russian vampires. FRANK recommends you rent Nochnoy Dozor (Night Watch) (Bekmambetov 2004). It is available from Fox on June 20, 2006. The cinematography is OK, as are the effects. But the plot is either dense or missing (FRANK is not sure which). And furthermore, FRANK is tired of one more new vampire mythology to swallow. Even worse: Night Watch portends to be the first in a trilogy. Ugh!

The plot focuses on the bad vampires and the good ones that watch over them. And there’s a kid who is very powerful and ought to take a side. Actually save yourself the time and watch a few episodes of Star Wars (Lucas 1977-2005): the “Force” mumbo jumbo is overly similar. The one good thing is that the film has been made for distribution. Voiceovers are in English and the sub-titles are not your usual fare; knowing that the widely distributed film would be “read” by most audiences, the producers have jazzed them up a bit. Vampire lines are blood-red and drip off the screen. Screams tremble and trail off. Or a violent gesture wipes the subtitles off completely. It isn’t much, but it’s kinda cool. Something new. And for deaf audiences, it probably conveys much more of a sense of the action than plain text. But still, the suspension of belief is tiresome and old hat. First believe vampires exist. Now believe that there can be good ones who only drink pig’s blood…but there ARE good archaeologist and bad (mostly bad). FRANK is one of the good ones…]

EXT. ARCHAEOLOGICAL TEST SITE - MORNING [The truck spins up on an archaeological test site. Backhoes and construction workers are nearby. The site will soon be destroyed. Several inept field techs, coeds from a local university scramble with buckets, shovels and large screen beds and tripods. FRANK pops out of the cab and struts towards the action, stoking his chin by way of thoughtfully surveying the ground. SPIKE follows with a tangle of blueprints and maps.]

SPIKE (Panting and pointing as he goes) We've found the foundations of the 1780s farmhouse and several secondary buildings. We'll put in a few more test units, as many as we can. We would have liked to find the outhouse--- FRANK Privy, buddy. SPIKE Privy. Shithouse. Whatever. But, the bulldozers are breathin' down our neck... FRANK (Extends hand) Just give me the earliest plat and a scale. [FRANK pauses to lay theses out on a nearby screen bed, eliciting a sigh from a coed approaching with a bucket of soil to sieve. SPIKE shrugs at the teen to sever his perceived solidarity with FRANK.] SPIKE Anyway, an out---privy---would be great. Since, we've come up with very little in the way of cultural material, aside from a refined architectural plan, this site has otherwise been a bust. FRANK (Engrossed) Give me a minute. One minute. Hmm...If I were a privy, where would I hide? Privy. Privy. Find the privy. Ah-ha! [He points at the map.] Here. SPIKE Huh? FRANK (Pointing to the map) Here. The 1810 tree-line, here. The road, there. A privy on this corner of the house would allow privacy. Other side of the trees, out of sight of the road. Plus, the house would allow for a wind break from the river, not to mention keeping the missus' ass out of sight of the passing sailors near the docks... SPIKE It sez in the Phase II report that the Stradivari's were using the river--- FRANK (Indignant) Mister and Missus Stradivari, emissaries of Pope Pius VI, did not come all the way from Rome, the height of 18th century civilization, to hang their asses out in the breeze to take a dump. Look at the other outbuildings! They built a pottery kiln and a root cellar before a toilet? SPIKE But, now... FRANK (Switching maps and fussing with the scale) Now, according to the Phase I soil borings, we got thick beds of shale coming out to here... [Reading to himself] But, Well-sorted pro-glacial sands to about here and here... SPIKE (Looking on and nodding in disbelief) Uh-huh... FRANK So... [He heads off, pacing and counting to himself. When he reaches his count he stops and looks around:] Probe! Pleeze! [A student, the only paying attention, runs to an Econoline full of excavation equipment, pulls put a tool with some difficultly and proudly heads back. FRANK shakes his head.] No, not a split-spoon. A probe. [The student looks dumbfounded and disappointed. Frustrated FRANK mimes the proper tool.] Pointy!

[The student nods and is soon handing the probe to FRANK. SPIKE has caught up, still looking dubious. FRANK spears the probe into the spoil. It slides in easily. SPIKE shakes his head, "No." FRANK tries again with the same result and another head shake from SPIKE. FRANK clears his throat and on the third try, there is the distinct, tell-tale clink of the probe hitting solid stone. SPIKE drops his arm in disgust; this will surely mean more work.] SPIKE Aw... FRANK A job well done, buddy. String up a couple test units here, please. [The crew scurry anew as he waves them off. FRANK calls after.] And send somebody on a coffee-run, eh? I could use a large black one. [Pulls out wallet.] And, oh maybe some more of that pineapple, if they still got it...

Grizzly Man (2005)

Room 307. Frank is lying in bed when he hears a hand slap five times on the nightstand next to his head. He warily begins to turn to see what must clearly be the ghost of Dr. Conner, who reputedly haunts the third floor of the Sebring Hideaway in Sebring, Florida. As Frank begins to peek at the nightstand there are two more slaps. No one is there. The raps on the table were unnerving. But even half-asleep, they were more unnerving then the pacing footsteps outside of his door or the rattling of the handle in the middle of he night, both of which a peek through the spyglass suggested to have no human agent. This same doorknob twisted against Frank’s turn often when trying to enter the room at night. The small table with his laptop also jumped up (as if in fear) sometimes. But of all of it, the raps on the nightstand when Frank was uncharacteristically trying to get some sleep were most unnerving of all. If not to mention just plain downright rude! To be fair, Frank had never shared a room with any one else before. Just his cats. Never a soul else. Women came occasionally. They didn’t stay. Frank suspected he snored. There was no one to confirm this. Just a compassionless, companionless mattress and centuries of loneliness slathered over it all. Sadly, the spectral face of Dr. Connor, that well-to-do nineteenth century family physician was the only face which had ever greeted Frank in the morning. Now he swings out of bed. He’ll not even try sleep anymore. It is to be a another night driving aimlessly around Lake Okeechobee listening to Ryan Adams and George Norry and wishing there was something other to do in this otherwise sad, silent universe. To be sure, the only stranger bedfellows than Graveyard Frank and Dr. Connor were Timothy Treadwell and his grizzly bears. He was the sappy (yet savory) bear activist [nee bear shit] who is the subject of Werner Herzog’s (2005) Grizzly Man, a documentary based largely on the found recordings Treadwell took of himself before his death. It garnered several awards. It should have gotten the best documentary Oscar last year. Now some merriment has been made over how fay Treadwell appears, while proclaiming to be straight. He even has the foresight to be eaten along with his alleged gal pal. Frank won’t go there. Watch this documentary and see for yourself.

But Frank will point out the part that fascinated him: That Treadwell was filming himself at all. Treadwell’s true flaw, as is the flaw---the disease of America---was that he wanted to be famous. He started as an actor and was never a scientist. Not only did he live with the fox and bears but also filmed himself doing it, which can now see thanks to Herzog’s appropriation,. Treadwell expects to one day have an audience so he addresses a camera, often in several takes. Thanks to Herzog we the outtakes Treadwell didn’t intend for viewers. One would hope that in these bloopers we’d glimpse some of the real Tim Treadwell. However, Frank doesn’t feel you see the truth even then. Treadwell is always performing, even on the goofs and gaffs. If he has an inner dialog, we don’t see it in the tapes. We see the Tim Treadwell he wants us to see. And that’s the fascinating part. In this day of American Idol and the Apprentice, many, many suffer the life of Tim Treadwell. We posit that we are not living our real lives but are the center of our own reality series. If you think you are the next Idol or Super Nanny, that’s one thing. If you think you are the Steve Irwin of the bear world. You’re gonna get hurt. Be careful, kids. Kudos as always, Werner!

But in any case, at least Treadwell, died with his best girl at his side--- while the fate of most of us is to live and die alone. We all at least suspect this to fucking be true. Certainly Dr. Conner fucking knew it. He contracted what was probably tuberculosis from a patient in 1896. And died after a painful and prolonged sick bed stint in Room 307. And he’s still there. Looking for a friend.