4B — Thursday, March 26, 2015
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Before Shere knew it, a mere
eight months into bumbling
around L.A., he sold “Goat
Cheese is Dead” to United
Artists.
Though
his
script
eventually ended up shelved next
to with Wheezy the Penguin
(much like the fate of Burnstein’s
first project), “Goat Cheese is
Dead” lodged his foot in the
door — and more importantly, it
inspired him to continue pushing
dark,
personal
experiences
from pejorative to positive. His
original script was based on his
own heavy metal garage band
during high school.
“I think a lot of comedy
frankly comes from things that
were once really painful — so,
at the time, playing that gig that
no one showed up to,” Shere
chuckled as he recounted the
experience. “I think there’s a
sort of empowerment to that
when you can laugh at yourself
or experiences that were cruel or
demeaning,” he added.
Shere
has
since
written
commissions for monster studios
such as DreamWorks and Sony.
Quite recently, he co-wrote the
animated feature film “Epic.”
Though
he
had
extensive
experience in the L.A. scene, like
Burnstein, he eventually relocated
back to the University where it
all began. Now, as a lecturer of
more than 10 years, he becomes
animated whenever he teaches
Michael
Arndt’s
“Little
Miss
Sunshine” or talks about “Toy
Story 3.” He always makes time in
class for personal anecdotes about
spontaneous
encounters
with
Dustin Hoffman at L.A . coffee
shops and run-ins with Paula
Abdul at fro-yo. It’s clear teaching
has become an ancillary passion.
“Just as Jim was able to
guide me into this new world of
screenwriting, I think that in my
years here, I’ve been able to do that
with some students.” Shere said.
“There’s always something very
special to me about this place.”
Looking into the future as
a writer, Shere has an array
of projects including a new
animation, a live-action comedy,
a bit of music — and perhaps
even a novel. Though he is solely
a
screenwriting
teacher,
he
encourages all his students to
experiment with the multifaceted
aspects of film — an openness to a
variety of mediums he attempts to
emulate himself.
“Screenwriting was never the
only thing I saw myself doing … I’m
open to other kinds of writing, and
I just want to continue to explore,”
Shere explained. “The main thing
is to just develop a wide range of
interests and to be able to look at
things from different perspectives
… I think creativity is a lot more
fluid than people maybe assume.”
Shere’s main pieces of advice
drew
from
his
liberal
arts
background,
highlighting
the
importance of growth by opening
up to new challenges. Especially
in today’s fluxing screenwriting
world, he stressed how writers
only have one thing to fall back on:
trusting good stories.
“You just have to really follow
what excites you, what inspires
you as a writer … Don’t just aim at
where you think the marketplace
is, but aim at what entertains
you. The vast majority of people
who try their hand at writing or
directing fail. You may as well
fail being true to yourself,” Shere
advised. “For me, ‘Goat Cheese is
Dead’ is what I wanted to do,” he
chuckled.
“The other great thing about
being a philosophy major is
… you’re pretty much free in
terms of exploring,” he finally
added.
“There’s
nothing
that
sounds crazier when that’s your
background. It’s not like I had an
engineering degree or anything.”
Just then, Prasad entered their
office, a perfect segue into his even
more egregiously atypical start
to screenwriting. Prasad laughed
heartily when I brought up his
electrical engineering past, an
undergraduate major his parents
nudged him into. However, his
unrelenting
Martin
Scorsese
obsession that stemmed in high
school prevailed and carried him
through today.
Pensive
and
meditative
in
nature — Prasad beamed a quieter
enthusiasm than his colleagues,
but he also unraveled a reel of
insight I had never heard before.
A graduate of the University’s
1997 class and an alumnus of
Burnstein’s
first
screenwriting
classes like Shere, Prasad is now
a University lecturer. Indian by
descent and Ann Arborite by
birth, Prasad grew up before the
emergence of prominent Indian
filmmakers, a period he refers to
as “pre-M. Night Shyamalan.”
“The only Indian people I knew
were either engineers or doctors,”
he explained. “The only Indian
person I would see on TV was Apu
from ‘The Simpsons.’ ”
It wasn’t until halfway through
college when he decided to pursue
this elusive passion, with few
footsteps to follow except the
guidance of a passion rooted from
youth. It was his discontent with
the stagnation of stability that
launched him into the lucrative,
but engaging world of film –
landing him among the prestigious
American
Film
Institute’s
graduating class of 2000.
“A lot of people (said), ‘Oh,
it’s really brave of you to follow
your dreams,’ but it never really
seemed that way. It seemed like
that was the natural thing for me
to do,” Prasad recounted. “The
risk would’ve been more staying
in engineering and knowing I
would’ve been unhappy.”
Upon obtaining a degree from
one of the most renowned film
schools in the world, he was asked
by a Michigan doctor to write
“Ocean of Pearls,” the feature film
that first grounded him into the
working industry.
“I’m
a
big
believer
in
bisociation,” Prasad said, “This
idea that creative breakthroughs
come from putting two things that
don’t necessarily belong together,
together.”
In this respect, he refers to
“Ocean of Pearls,” which attempts
to find common thematic ground
between Sikhism and health care.
Prasad, raised Hindu, is interested
in his religious roots as creative
inspiration. His current projects
include
“Head
on
Straight”
which is about a gay Indian man’s
arranged marriage, as well as
a ghost story set in India and
another feature linking classical
Indian dance and piety — tales
which all amalgamate his cultural
and spiritual background with
other challenging aspects of life.
It is this dedication to telling
unique ethnic stories that he
credits to Burnstein for spark-
ing within him 18 years ago. He
recalled his script for his intro-
ductory
screenwriting
class
about a taxi driver in a college
campus, and how he had initial
qualms about creating an Indi-
an protagonist. However, Burn-
stein motivated him to “write
what you know,” giving way to
Prasad’s aspirations to blaze an
industry trail for his heritage.
“There weren’t a lot of people
making stories about (Indian
characters). I always want to
do something that hasn’t been
done before — whether it’s
telling a story in a new way or
telling a story that hasn’t been
told before,” Prasad said.
In his pursuit of originality,
he has since been a story
consultant
for
Lionsgate
Entertainment and a features
juror for the Traverse City
Film Festival, among other
achievements. However, after
seven years in Los Angeles,
the Midwest called him back —
with an offer from Burnstein at
their alma mater, and with the
understanding that Burnstein
himself
made
a
successful
career remote of Hollywood.
“I love L.A., but I think the
one downside of being there
is sometimes it breeds this
culture of waiting — waiting for
other people to tell you you can
make a movie,” Prasad says. “If
I could go back in time and give
myself advice, I would’ve just
jumped into making things.”
After reading a New York
Times article about college
students finding sugar daddies
to help pay for tuition, he became
the director of the feature-
length film, “Consideration,”
which grew from modest roots
into a project that inspired the
filmmaking fire within many
other students.
He
recounted
his
initial
mission: “Start writing, shoot it
in a year with whatever money
we can find, with whatever
locations we can find, with
whatever script we have.”
“Consideration”
has
since been premiered at the
Cinetopia International Film
Festival in Ann Arbor and at
the Massachusetts Independent
Film Festival. The feature will
soon be available for streaming
rental online.
Recently, after bouncing his
career between Ann Arbor and
Los Angeles, Prasad made the
move to Chicago for a fresh com-
munity. Just like he once doubled
in engineering and screenwrit-
ing in college, he now wishes to
simultaneously teach and pursue
independent filmmaking proj-
ects. Despite a lengthy weekly
commute,
he
mentions
how
he’d like to direct more, perhaps
working projects into his curri-
cula or shooting stories pertinent
to campus issues.
“There’s so much content out
there so diversity is survival,
Prasad stated. “You need to dis-
tinguish yourself in some way.
So write the story you want to
see that no one else will make.”
Burnstein
reflected
on
Prasad’s humble beginnings:
“(Prasad’s) first five pages were
the first five pages I ever read in
that class. I remember reading
it and saying to my wife, ‘Holy
shit, if they’re all this good ... ’ ”
While Prasad and Shere
may have been more modest
about their accomplishments,
Burnstein openly showcased his
pride for his students, boasting
accolades of achievements he
had a part in initiating. For both
Shere and Prasad, Burnstein’s
introductory
screenwriting
and rewrite class summed up
the entirety of their formal film
education. Like Burnstein, they
have all taken their winding
paths
to
the
intersection
between pursuing — and now
passing on — their passion for
screenwriting.
“Most writers are in a hurry
to fail, which means they send
their first draft out.” Burnstein
continued, “If I had sent my
first draft out ... I’d never get
to meet Prasad, Dan Shere …
I’m not teaching at Michigan.
If I had not learned that you
don’t send something out before
you’re sure it’s good …” he trails
off in contemplation.
It is this drive and perspective
Burnstein offers that has paved
his speedway to success. His
career has soared because of his
refusal to submit anything less
than his highest potential. He
understands how every aspirant
must pay their toll to the top. He
understands how success in the
film industry — or any field, for
that matter — is dependent on
his patience and perseverance.
Burnstein took a breath. He
had spoken for about an hour
straight. Despite his affinity for
loquacity, he uttered one final
phrase of wisdom: “Learn to
rewrite.”
SCREENWRITING
From Page 1B
When people I know say they
don’t like rap music, the first artist
I usually play for them is Common.
It’s not that Common is the greatest
rapper of all time, but when he’s
at his best, Common is a shining
example
of
how hip hop
can be so much
more
than
just a genre
of music, and
he can serve
as
a
stark
counterpoint
to
the
commercial
hip hop that
many think defines the genre
completely.
Through
socially
conscious lyrics and innovative
instrumentation,
the
most
intelligent and most ambitious
hip-hop artists of today are, by
extension, the best artists in all of
music. No genre is at the moment
more relevant, more transcendent
or more important than hip hop.
The most obvious example of
Common’s transcendence is in the
song “Glory,” his Oscar-winning
collaboration with John Legend
that closed out the film “Selma.”
It’s the first end-credits song that
I’ve ever seen keep an entire the-
ater in its seats for its entire dura-
tion, and it’s the first performance
at the Oscars that I’ve ever seen
get the standing ovation that it
did. Common’s verses on the song
aren’t technically incredible, but
his clear enunciation gives spe-
cial emphasis to the issues he raps
about, connecting the struggle
we’ve just seen in “Selma” to
recent protests in places like Fer-
guson, MO.
But Common has been doing
this long before “Selma” was
released. Back in 1994, he spoke
out about the mainstreaming of
gangsta rap and the fall of social
consciousness in hip hop with
“I Used to Love H.E.R.” And
though his career has been slightly
inconsistent since that breakout
song, his best records (led by
2000’s Like Water For Chocolate)
stand up as classics of afro-
centricity, experimentation and
intellectual lyrics. I play Common
for people who claim to dislike hip
hop because his earnest message
and old-school style make him
like a more poetic Motown song —
learned and likable.
I’m not by any means saying that
hip-hop artists have to be acces-
sible to all to be valid. Cutting-edge
artists like Young Thug or Migos
are great because they’re weird,
unique and unafraid to hide it.
Their songs are relevant not just
because they’re bangers, but also
because they break down musical
boundaries. I mean, have you ever
heard any sound that even remote-
ly resembles Young Thug’s voice?
What also shouldn’t be lost is
that hip hop will always be a Black
genre of music, and most people
who claim not to “get” it are white.
Hip hop shouldn’t have to dumb
itself down to appeal to white
Middle America — as we’ve seen
with artists like Macklemore and
Iggy Azalea, those attempts can be
painful. However, more accessible
artists like Common, The Roots
or A Tribe Called Quest — artists
who make clear, easy-to-listen-to
music but don’t compromise their
messages — can serve as gateways
to the rest of hip hop, a genre that
music fans need to accept and listen
to because it’s the most vital and
important genre of this generation.
I used to think that Kendrick
Lamar thought he was too good for
hip hop. In the past, he’s insisted
on calling himself a “writer”
not a rapper, and while yes, he’s
undeniably a writer, the “rapper”
label is so much more important.
By
calling
himself
a
writer,
Kendrick seemed, in a way, to be
disavowing his blackness. It was as
if rap wasn’t a valid enough means
of expression for one of its brightest
stars, and he sought the credibility
of a more “respectable” art form.
To Pimp a Butterfly changed all
of that. From its opening sample of
Boris Gardiner’s “Every N*gger is
a Star” and its name-checking of
Black icons like Kunta Kinte and
Marcus Garvey to its covering
of seemingly every aspect of the
Black American experience (or
at least as many as he could fit
in), Kendrick’s latest release is
one of the defining albums of our
time, made even more important
because
of
its
overwhelming
blackness. To Pimp a Butterfly
completely redefined the most
relevant genre in America today,
and even if you claim to dislike rap,
if you’re a fan of any kind of music,
you need to listen to this album.
Hopefully, it will lead to your
discovery of tons of other fantastic
hip-hop artists.
From longtime legends like
Public Enemy to great turn-of-
the-century artists like Black
Star and modern torch-carriers
like Killer Mike, hip hop’s
political and social relevance has
lasted for over three decades now,
and even become more powerful
as the clout of other genres has
waned. It used to be rock music,
with protest songs from artists
like Bob Dylan or Crosby, Stills,
Nash and Young, that dominated
the charts and captured the
nation. But it has been a long time
since any band with the ambition
and creativity of The Beatles, U2
or even Radiohead in its prime
has been on the national radar.
Now, with bluesy leaders like
Jack White and The Black Keys,
rock is a genre that’s constantly
looking backwards, where its
artists think all the “real” music
is. By contrast, hip hop is a
perpetually
forward-thinking
genre that features some of the
smartest, most creative minds
of today. Even if what you hear
on the radio doesn’t strike you
as particularly great, you owe it
to yourself to dig a little deeper
to find the pulse of modern
America’s best music.
Theisen’s wondering if he
can kick it. To assure him,
email ajtheis@umich.edu
MUSIC COLUMN
Hip-hop superiority
VIRGINIA LOZANO/Daily
Prof. Jim Burnstein directs the University’s screenwriting program.
“Write the story
you want to see
that no one else
will make.”
ADAM
THEISEN