September 2004

Sophia, three years old, a moppet sprouting wavy dark brown hair, tall as my leg, naked, and tired of her eel avocado hand roll, whines to her mother. “Booty. I want booty.”

Languishing in the shadows of bigger-shouldered cities like Washington and Philadelphia, Baltimore is burdened with something of a municipal chip on its shoulder, exposed in reasonless civic sloganeering like the much-scorned recent campaign proclaiming it “the greatest city in the world.” Likewise, when, say, three studio films locate here over a one-year stretch, newspaper columnists will rush to christen Baltimore “Hollywood East.

When he’d just sprung from the college gates in 1972, John Sayles embarked on a cross-country hitchhiking trip. “It was a lot safer than it is now,” he said. “Your hitchhiker to serial killer ratio was a lot better back then.” Because he didn’t look like a full-on hippie, more like someone just back from the war who’d let his hair grow a little longer, he thumbed rides easily from folks in every state.

Charlie Kaufman: Screenwriting seminars are bullshit

Donald Kaufman: In theory, I agree with you. But this one’s different. This one’s highly regarded in the industry.