I consider humility to be the first part of a trifecta of essentials needed for those who intend to lead a productive life with substance and peace of mind. Few things inspire more contempt from me than arrogance or condescension. Hence, I have always disapproved of my father’s efforts to instill in me the belief that entertainment genius is encoded in my very genes. His only evidence to this claim is that I am related, albeit distantly, to two noteworthy artists: New York theatre luminary Joseph Papp and Israeli pop cultural icon Uri Zohar who later abandoned his prolific entertainment career to become an ordained rabbi and an advocate for orthodox Jewry in the predominantly secular culture of Israel. The former is my mother’s cousin and the latter my paternal grandfather’s cousin.

Acknowledging this illustrious pair as distant cousins can hardly be considered laying claim to a distinguished pedigree. Hence, I could not help but be embarrassed whenever my father would boast about this to our family friends and acquaintances. Later on however, I would display a natural inclination and talent towards cinema and literature that set me apart from my peers.

During my childhood, in the years prior to my parents’ separation, I spent many evenings with my mother and younger brother watching movies on cable television, much to the chagrin of my father, an observant Jew who preferred his children be exposed to more spiritually and intellectually stimulating influences. My mother was quite permissive in regards to the content my impressionable psyche absorbed from the television set. Hence, my nascent imagination was developed over a indiscriminating diet of superhero cartoons, mature dramas, vacuous soaps, and an occasional B-grade movie.

The result of my parents’ bitter separation was my father bringing me along to live with my grandparents in Israel while my younger brother remained in Florida with my mother, who later remarried. This temporary stay in the Holy Land lasted for about a year and was one of the highlights of my formative years. During this turning point, I discovered a hobby that would manifest into a consuming passion that lasted until the end of my teen years: table-top sword & sorcery role-playing. Lots of creative exercise and influence resulted from that and other “geeky” pursuits, suffice to say.

While attending school in Israel, I wrote my first play for a class performance. The plot was an adaptation of a bad joke (which I found hilarious when I was 11) about a trio of wanderers stranded in a desert. They stumble upon a potential deus ex machina in the form of a magic lamp inhabited by a genie who would grant a wish to each one. The first two sensibly wish to be in a place more hospitable then their current environment. The third wanderer was a bit denser then his compatriots and wishes them both to return to relieve his sudden onset of loneliness.

The script was written in English so I had difficulty instructing my prepubescent, Hebrew-speaking troupe through the language barrier. It was ultimately not received too well by the audience who likewise did not have much facility in my primary language. This might not have been a promising debut to a precocious entertainment career but it did provide my first valuable lesson in humility.

My next foray into the field of entertainment was in high school and it proved to be significantly more auspicious. Since I was toddler, I had displayed a moderate level of skill in the visual arts. Hence, my father determined that enrollment in the High School of Art & Design, located in midtown Manhattan, would be the ideal way to refine this talent. Unfortunately, many of my fellow classmates there had an artistic savvy that clearly surpassed my own when the medium happened to be a sketch
pencil. I had originally aspired to be a comic book artist, but a realistic assessment of the competition put the kibosh on that plan. Not to be outdone, I invested the latter half of my attendance in television and media courses.

In a nutshell, my high school’s video program was a joke, but I made the most of my circumstances. When my classmates and I were not whittling away the time by playing our personal video collection (exposing me to exotic genres such as anime and Wuxia in the process), we occasionally had to focus on “serious” projects. The most memorable of which is one I took part of with my circle of friends in the capacity of an actor. It was an adaptation of the popular manga (Japanese graphic novel) “Fist of the North Star”. It is in essence, a knock-off (albeit a high quality one) of the Mad Max franchise only with a superhuman martial artist for a protagonist who regularly faces off against villains of lesser or comparable skill. I had the privilege of portraying one of those villains.

Sure. There was no way we could have safely recreated the over-the-top violence and gore of the source material. The martial arts moves could not have been less convincing if we had used stock footage of children playing pretend. The end result was hilariously bad but none of us cared. We bonded and had fun and that’s all that mattered. It was then I internalized the second part of the trifecta: having
an unconquerable sense of humor and not taking anything overly seriously.

Flash forward several years later. I had served for a period in the United States Air Force. It was a tough, albeit rewarding experience that refined my adulthood. I had ambivalent feelings regarding my discharge being mere months before 9/11. My GI Bill financed my tuition for the undergraduate film program in CUNY Brooklyn College and I was so far content that I had at last truly found my niche.
But the final part of the trifecta was still missing.

I discovered it in my junior year when I was eager to supplement my education with internships. After emailing several resumes, I achieved one callback for an interview from a reputable media outlet. I groomed and prepared myself appropriately but in spite of that, I was in for a nasty surprise. The interview started off on a congenial note. Everything seemed to be going great when I casually made a reference to my prior military experience which I considered irrelevant to my chosen field and hence, was not included in my resume.

I can understand how such a faux pas may arouse curiosity or suspicion from a prospective employer.
However, the interviewer’s reaction was bizarre, alarming, and totally inappropriate. Since I was conscious of the political landscape at the time, there was no room for interpretation where it came from: a blanket animosity directed at our own military that has no justification. I later detected strong and blatant signs of it elsewhere; being spouted by people who should know better. I wanted to showcase this sickness and others on film. And I did. On a budget of $200.

The disagreeable behavior my submitted DVD lambastes are what happens when the first two parts of the trifecta are missing. Without humility, you can succumb to elitism; reflexively dismissing any perspective other than what appeals to you. With no sense of humor, the weight of the world seems to bear down on you and your outlook is cynical and grim. With the absence of the first two, the third,
purpose, is always toxic, self-defeating, or at best, hopelessly quixotic.

I did contemplate the sobering reality that I would inevitably and repeatedly be forced to deal with such difficult temperaments and other eccentricities in my field, especially in the select places it flourishes. Is it worth it? Totally. It’s actually a plum opportunity. In the land of the flakes, a dependable man can go far.