LAINE WENTWORTH
FILM
WRITING
PHOTOGRAPHY
All Dead, All Good
Documentary Short Film
2023
Paloma Strong is a young taxidermist in Los Angeles, California. In seeing her meticulous work process, you will learn what it takes to love death and to preserve a life forever.
Watch it here.
Crash and Beyond: Repetory Cinema in L.A.
Published October 30 2023
It’s a quiet, chilly Wednesday night in Santa Monica and the storefronts on Montana Avenue are dark, save for the glowing marquee of the Aero. A long line has formed down the street in front of the historic theater, packed with movie geeks and cinema lovers waiting for the next film in a stacked weekday lineup. This crowd is particularly excited, as they’re waiting to see a sold-out screening of David Cronenberg’s controversial 1996 erotic thriller, Crash.
I’ve come to take tickets.
When I arrive, I walk right past the line through the double doors to get the little yellow volunteer lanyard. I’ve done unpaid work for American Cinemathque, the non-profit cinema organization responsible for the Aero and another small theater in Los Feliz, for about a year. This is my first shift at the Aero, and it promises to be an interesting one.
We begin to let moviegoers into the theater and I rip the novelty paper tickets they’ve been given in the outside line. They’re so eager to grab seats, some nearly fanatic, that they often try to ignore me entirely and blow right past. A few even begged me not to tear their stub so that they may have a more pristine souvenir from the night’s showing.
Patrons chatter quietly and excitedly as they file in, get concessions, and find their seats. Volunteers and AC employees try to keep the lines inside and out as orderly and efficient as possible.
When the last of them have trickled in, leaving the unlucky hopefuls in the standby line to find another plan for the evening, I am allowed to scrounge for an open seat (if there are any). I find the last one available at the very end of the very back row as Karina Longworth introduces the film.
Longworth, a film historian known for her acclaimed Hollywood tell-all podcast You Must Remember This, has helped program the screening as part of her “Erotic Tuesday” series. Crash is one of the last films to be shown for the series in conjunction with the end of the podcast’s newest season on erotic thrillers of the 1980s and 1990s. Longworth pointedly reminds the audience that the NC-17 cut of the film being shown is a rare one, nearly wiped from circulation to make the film palatable to moviegoers, then video stores, then streamers. But tonight, she explains, Warner Brothers has made a rare exception to its unofficial rule not to show the film.
The audience is elated.
Opening credits roll and the packed theater sits in pin-drop silence for the duration of the controversial drama about a group of Canadian car crash fetishists.
From my seat, I can’t help but be grateful for a place like American Cinematheque on a night like this.
When I moved to Los Angeles about two years ago, I knew no one. I felt isolated by the city’s sprawling vastness, and by the lingering effects of Covid-19 on my college campus and my ability to socialize. Plus, I was broke. All I could think to do was go to the movies.
This soon became a very important ritual in my life, something I did alone to experience new films and experiences in the city built around them. The theater becomes a cathedral where anyone can sit in rapt silence and At the Aero, Los Feliz 3, the New Beverly, Braindead Studios, Cinespia, Secret Movie Club, Whammy, Digital Debris, Westwood Regency Village, and many more cinemas, Los Angeles’ movie lovers converge. They sell out the most obscure of showings and band together to program events all over the city.
In these places, I have found friends, work, and purpose. In a funny way, I feel a deep kinship with the freaks and geeks clutching their untorn tickets to their chests.
American Cinematheque screens films year-round, often with special guest introductions and Q&As. For the rest of the month, they will be screening a host of classic and new horror films leading up to their annual 24-hour Halloween Horror-thon. There are still tickets for sale and always a need for more volunteers. Come see for yourself the special pocket of the world of cinema has to offer.
I know I’ll be there, taking tickets just beyond the double doors.
It’s a quiet, chilly Wednesday night in Santa Monica and the storefronts on Montana Avenue are dark, save for the glowing marquee of the Aero. A long line has formed down the street in front of the historic theater, packed with movie geeks and cinema lovers waiting for the next film in a stacked weekday lineup. This crowd is particularly excited, as they’re waiting to see a sold-out screening of David Cronenberg’s controversial 1996 erotic thriller, Crash.
I’ve come to take tickets.
When I arrive, I walk right past the line through the double doors to get the little yellow volunteer lanyard. I’ve done unpaid work for American Cinemathque, the non-profit cinema organization responsible for the Aero and another small theater in Los Feliz, for about a year. This is my first shift at the Aero, and it promises to be an interesting one.
We begin to let moviegoers into the theater and I rip the novelty paper tickets they’ve been given in the outside line. They’re so eager to grab seats, some nearly fanatic, that they often try to ignore me entirely and blow right past. A few even begged me not to tear their stub so that they may have a more pristine souvenir from the night’s showing.
Patrons chatter quietly and excitedly as they file in, get concessions, and find their seats. Volunteers and AC employees try to keep the lines inside and out as orderly and efficient as possible.
When the last of them have trickled in, leaving the unlucky hopefuls in the standby line to find another plan for the evening, I am allowed to scrounge for an open seat (if there are any). I find the last one available at the very end of the very back row as Karina Longworth introduces the film.
Longworth, a film historian known for her acclaimed Hollywood tell-all podcast You Must Remember This, has helped program the screening as part of her “Erotic Tuesday” series. Crash is one of the last films to be shown for the series in conjunction with the end of the podcast’s newest season on erotic thrillers of the 1980s and 1990s. Longworth pointedly reminds the audience that the NC-17 cut of the film being shown is a rare one, nearly wiped from circulation to make the film palatable to moviegoers, then video stores, then streamers. But tonight, she explains, Warner Brothers has made a rare exception to its unofficial rule not to show the film.
The audience is elated.
Opening credits roll and the packed theater sits in pin-drop silence for the duration of the controversial drama about a group of Canadian car crash fetishists.
From my seat, I can’t help but be grateful for a place like American Cinematheque on a night like this.
When I moved to Los Angeles about two years ago, I knew no one. I felt isolated by the city’s sprawling vastness, and by the lingering effects of Covid-19 on my college campus and my ability to socialize. Plus, I was broke. All I could think to do was go to the movies.
This soon became a very important ritual in my life, something I did alone to experience new films and experiences in the city built around them. The theater becomes a cathedral where anyone can sit in rapt silence and At the Aero, Los Feliz 3, the New Beverly, Braindead Studios, Cinespia, Secret Movie Club, Whammy, Digital Debris, Westwood Regency Village, and many more cinemas, Los Angeles’ movie lovers converge. They sell out the most obscure of showings and band together to program events all over the city.
In these places, I have found friends, work, and purpose. In a funny way, I feel a deep kinship with the freaks and geeks clutching their untorn tickets to their chests.
American Cinematheque screens films year-round, often with special guest introductions and Q&As. For the rest of the month, they will be screening a host of classic and new horror films leading up to their annual 24-hour Halloween Horror-thon. There are still tickets for sale and always a need for more volunteers. Come see for yourself the special pocket of the world of cinema has to offer.
I know I’ll be there, taking tickets just beyond the double doors.
Uneasy Times for Gen Z in Film
September 22 2023
“There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension.” Joan Didion opened her 1969 essay “The Santa Anas” by referring to Los Angeles’ notorious winds and a shift in culture felt throughout the city and thus, the world. Today, we feel the same uneasiness in the hub of entertainment as the WGA and SAG strikes drag on, entering a new season since their start at the beginning of the summer.
Production has reached a near standstill- as have negotiations- as rumors swirl about dissension within the ranks of AMPTP, the body that deals on behalf of the industry’s biggest streamers, studios, and production companies. As the strikes persist, a new generation of writers and actors, as well as production assistants, grips, art directors, camera operators, directors, and a host of other film industry workers face unprecedented uncertainty about their paths forward.
Gen Z film workers, those born after 1997, are entering the industry in droves as they graduate high school and college looking to fulfill their Hollywood dreams. Their introduction to adulthood seems defined by change and turmoil, with the advent of the Covid-19 pandemic nearly 4 years ago, now this. At the moment, there’s no clear consensus about what the future of the industry looks like for anyone, especially young people just breaking in.
Two weeks after the WGA strike started at the beginning of the summer, Orion Eshel, 21, was at Cannes to premiere his short film, one he had made in the Amazon jungle with the independent Thai cinema legend Apichatpong Weerasethakul. “I felt the strike a lot while I was in Cannes,” he says. “It had just begun- the writer’s strike- it was anything that anyone was talking about… Even though it’s the European film market, the American film market affects the whole world.”
Orion fears for the future of independent films, his bread and butter, as a result of the strikes. He supposes that the studios and streamers will leverage an eventual agreement against artists in the industry to make their money back. “We're going to churn out all the sequels and the remakes and the content that everyone has been kind of complaining about, and I have a feeling it might be harder to get small, independent, original projects made for the next few years because of this, especially within the studio system. It's already disappearing, but I'm feeling it'll disappear even more.”
Catie Moore, 22, had just graduated from Northwestern’s Radio, Television and Film program and hoped to find post-grad work that would get her into production. She and most of her peers from her program have been unable to find work in the industry, especially in the Chicago area, where they attended college. “From what I can tell from my job search for the past, I don't know- let's call it six months,” Catie figures, “not a lot of studios are hiring right now, especially entry level.” She supposes that out of dozens of friends and acquaintances, only a handful have film-related jobs in marketing or talent agency mailrooms.
Some are optimistic, like Olivia Meredith, 23, an art director for scripted television shows. “When we do go back to work, everybody is going to have a job because there is going to be such a drought for content.” She says, reminiscing about the production boom that occurred after the initial backup caused by Covid-19. “It's just like, how long do we have to wait to get to that point?”
This weekend, negotiations between the WGA and AMPTP will resume while a new generation of filmmakers wait with big dreams and baited breath.
“There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension.” Joan Didion opened her 1969 essay “The Santa Anas” by referring to Los Angeles’ notorious winds and a shift in culture felt throughout the city and thus, the world. Today, we feel the same uneasiness in the hub of entertainment as the WGA and SAG strikes drag on, entering a new season since their start at the beginning of the summer.
Production has reached a near standstill- as have negotiations- as rumors swirl about dissension within the ranks of AMPTP, the body that deals on behalf of the industry’s biggest streamers, studios, and production companies. As the strikes persist, a new generation of writers and actors, as well as production assistants, grips, art directors, camera operators, directors, and a host of other film industry workers face unprecedented uncertainty about their paths forward.
Gen Z film workers, those born after 1997, are entering the industry in droves as they graduate high school and college looking to fulfill their Hollywood dreams. Their introduction to adulthood seems defined by change and turmoil, with the advent of the Covid-19 pandemic nearly 4 years ago, now this. At the moment, there’s no clear consensus about what the future of the industry looks like for anyone, especially young people just breaking in.
Two weeks after the WGA strike started at the beginning of the summer, Orion Eshel, 21, was at Cannes to premiere his short film, one he had made in the Amazon jungle with the independent Thai cinema legend Apichatpong Weerasethakul. “I felt the strike a lot while I was in Cannes,” he says. “It had just begun- the writer’s strike- it was anything that anyone was talking about… Even though it’s the European film market, the American film market affects the whole world.”
Orion fears for the future of independent films, his bread and butter, as a result of the strikes. He supposes that the studios and streamers will leverage an eventual agreement against artists in the industry to make their money back. “We're going to churn out all the sequels and the remakes and the content that everyone has been kind of complaining about, and I have a feeling it might be harder to get small, independent, original projects made for the next few years because of this, especially within the studio system. It's already disappearing, but I'm feeling it'll disappear even more.”
Catie Moore, 22, had just graduated from Northwestern’s Radio, Television and Film program and hoped to find post-grad work that would get her into production. She and most of her peers from her program have been unable to find work in the industry, especially in the Chicago area, where they attended college. “From what I can tell from my job search for the past, I don't know- let's call it six months,” Catie figures, “not a lot of studios are hiring right now, especially entry level.” She supposes that out of dozens of friends and acquaintances, only a handful have film-related jobs in marketing or talent agency mailrooms.
Some are optimistic, like Olivia Meredith, 23, an art director for scripted television shows. “When we do go back to work, everybody is going to have a job because there is going to be such a drought for content.” She says, reminiscing about the production boom that occurred after the initial backup caused by Covid-19. “It's just like, how long do we have to wait to get to that point?”
This weekend, negotiations between the WGA and AMPTP will resume while a new generation of filmmakers wait with big dreams and baited breath.
Michael Hurley at 81, Folk Legend Plays Zebulon
September 12 2023
On September 3rd, a small crowd formed a line in the Sunday afternoon heat outside Zebulon, a Los Angeles bar. There was a quiet excitement among them as they shuffled from the sun into its dark, moody venue space. The bohemian crowd - clad generally in vintage tees, tiny wire-rimmed glasses, long gauzy skirts, and retro sneakers - waited for the man they had come to see: “freak-folk” legend Michael Hurley.
Hurley, now 81, has long been an important and constant figure in the ever-changing folk music world. He first emerged over fifty years ago in New York’s Greenwich Village scene, which produced outsider folk legends like Karen Dalton and Pete Seeger. Mostly playing songs inspired by his childhood in rural Pennsylvania, he garnered attention from fellow musicians and labels alike. Hurley, however, expressed little interest in recording in a studio album at the time.
Since then, Hurley, who has nicknamed himself “Snock”, has developed an impressive discography, derived mostly from home recordings. Known for his bluegrass-infused sound, playful lyrics, and the original cartoon characters referenced in his songs and illustrated on his albums, he has progressively amassed a cult following. This following has only grown thanks to the internet, which has allowed generations of music lovers to discover Hurley’s talent and charm.
At Zebulon, Portland-based opener Lewi Longmire, whose face was nearly obscured by a cowboy hat and bushy handlebar mustache, sang a few original songs before he introduced Hurley. He explained that it had been nearly a decade since Michael played in LA, and earnestly thanked the team at Zebulon for working hard to establish a relationship with Hurley to make him feel welcome.
When Snock took to the stage and began to play, sporting his signature short-billed railroad cap, the crowd stood very still, save for one couple who swayed together through the entirety of his set. Everyone watched with silent awe while he and Longmire played stripped-back versions of his songs, avoiding his hits. In his typical eclectic fashion, he crooned about everything from deep love and sorrow to pissing dogs and farting horses.
When he had warmed up to the crowd, he explained that he had written the horse song after a suggestion from someone in the industry. Teen girls, he’d been told, are allegedly crazy for horses, and they’re the ones who control the sale of records, after all. He chuckled with his audience.
After all these years, Hurley’s voice is the same as ever. He is consistent, silly and sentimental, and his message of love and joy remains integral to his work. He remains an outsider for his earnest and lo-fi approach in an age where many musicians churn out highly-produced music for algorithms to make viral. In Los Angeles and elsewhere, Hurley still finds a devoted audience among those who might consider themselves outsiders, too.
On September 3rd, a small crowd formed a line in the Sunday afternoon heat outside Zebulon, a Los Angeles bar. There was a quiet excitement among them as they shuffled from the sun into its dark, moody venue space. The bohemian crowd - clad generally in vintage tees, tiny wire-rimmed glasses, long gauzy skirts, and retro sneakers - waited for the man they had come to see: “freak-folk” legend Michael Hurley.
Hurley, now 81, has long been an important and constant figure in the ever-changing folk music world. He first emerged over fifty years ago in New York’s Greenwich Village scene, which produced outsider folk legends like Karen Dalton and Pete Seeger. Mostly playing songs inspired by his childhood in rural Pennsylvania, he garnered attention from fellow musicians and labels alike. Hurley, however, expressed little interest in recording in a studio album at the time.
Since then, Hurley, who has nicknamed himself “Snock”, has developed an impressive discography, derived mostly from home recordings. Known for his bluegrass-infused sound, playful lyrics, and the original cartoon characters referenced in his songs and illustrated on his albums, he has progressively amassed a cult following. This following has only grown thanks to the internet, which has allowed generations of music lovers to discover Hurley’s talent and charm.
At Zebulon, Portland-based opener Lewi Longmire, whose face was nearly obscured by a cowboy hat and bushy handlebar mustache, sang a few original songs before he introduced Hurley. He explained that it had been nearly a decade since Michael played in LA, and earnestly thanked the team at Zebulon for working hard to establish a relationship with Hurley to make him feel welcome.
When Snock took to the stage and began to play, sporting his signature short-billed railroad cap, the crowd stood very still, save for one couple who swayed together through the entirety of his set. Everyone watched with silent awe while he and Longmire played stripped-back versions of his songs, avoiding his hits. In his typical eclectic fashion, he crooned about everything from deep love and sorrow to pissing dogs and farting horses.
When he had warmed up to the crowd, he explained that he had written the horse song after a suggestion from someone in the industry. Teen girls, he’d been told, are allegedly crazy for horses, and they’re the ones who control the sale of records, after all. He chuckled with his audience.
After all these years, Hurley’s voice is the same as ever. He is consistent, silly and sentimental, and his message of love and joy remains integral to his work. He remains an outsider for his earnest and lo-fi approach in an age where many musicians churn out highly-produced music for algorithms to make viral. In Los Angeles and elsewhere, Hurley still finds a devoted audience among those who might consider themselves outsiders, too.
LAINE WENTWORTH
Laine Wentworth is a writer, filmmaker, photographer, barista, and avid moviegoer. Born and raised in the mountainous desert of Albuquerque, New Mexico, she now lives in Los Angeles, California, where she is a 4th-year student at Mount Saint Mary’s University.