The Movie "Inside" a Nutty Film About Art

I know artists are a bit crazy, but art thieves?

Inside is a 2023 psychological thriller film written by Ben Hopkins and directed by Vasilis Katsoupis in his feature directorial debut.  The film follows an art thief (Willem Dafoe) who is trapped inside a luxury penthouse, slowly losing his grip on reality. I watched this nutty film on Amazon Prime Video and I must say, it is very weird.

Nothing beats watching Willem Dafoe going crazy when he's trapped, alone, in a luxury penthouse full of expensive art. I give Ben Hopkins credit for trying to keep this story interesting. It must have been a challenge to write the screenplay. Just how many ideas can one come up with to keep our art thief busy for the weeks (months?) he's trapped inside a penthouse that looks like a museum in Soho. One rich dude owns that place. 

The theme is obvious, not to say well-intentioned. Defoe's character, Nemo, says it aloud in voice over. "Cats die, music fades, but art is for keeps." (Nemo, looking rather worn and aged for an art thief, tells a story of his childhood, in which a teacher asked him to choose three things to save in a house fire. Rather than his family, Nemo selected his cat, an AC/DC record, and his sketchbook. He reflects that the cat died and he lent the album to an acquaintance who did not return it, but he still has the sketchbook.)

My only reaction is this: being an artist is a lonely choice, we are often isolated and alone in our work. Only other artists appreciate our desire to create. Many think we are foolish. We are all broke. I can relate to being trapped. 

Deion Sanders and the Buffaloes Teach Patience

After the amazing comeback win last night (or should I say this morning), a broadcaster pulled head coach Deion Sanders aside and asked him what he learned from their amazing win. "Patience," Deion said. "We learned a lot about patience." 

Colorado was behind eleven points in a game full of terrific action and ups and downs. I, for one, thought they had lost. Colorado State was driving the ball with under three minutes left and the game was over, or so I thought. But then I look up and see Colorado State having to punt on fourth down. The kicker sets the ball nicely on the two yard line with a deftly timed punt. Luck was certainly on their side. The Buffaloes had ninety-eight yards to go. Being down by eight points, they had to score a touchdown and convert two extra points to tie the game and get into overtime. 

Deion's Cinderella team did exactly that. They not only scored the touchdown and extra points to make it to overtime, they scored twice in two overtimes to win the game. 

Sanders has turned the Buffaloes into the talk of college football since taking over a team that went 1-11 last season.

Patience. Deion said they learned to be patient. The confidence in his team and coaching staff were evident. It was like he knew things were going to turn out okay if they would just continue to work and be patient. Wait for something good to happen. It did.

The next time I'm stressed out to the point of exhaustion, I'll remember Deion and this game. I'll fight like hell to be patient and let the game come to me. I'll wait for something to turn things around. 

LinkedIn Updates and Boy Have I Got a Headache

 I have just spent an hour updating my LinkedIn page and it gave me a headache.

Why? The multiple times I was asked to fill in blanks about my education, skills, and all kinds of information which was already on my profile just about drove me insane. I know what you are thinking: Mitch needs to take a course in updating his LinkedIn account. I agree. 

Why must these social media sites be so confusing? I'm not an idiot, though LinkedIn makes me reconsider that notion. Maybe I am stupid. When asking me to choose a job title for what I'm currently doing, the automated list had no title fitting my current work as a a YouTube specialist and social media content creator. I had to choose "Business consulting and development" or something remotely related to social media. Then, after an hour of spilling my brains on the desk, I entered another section of LinkedIn which gave me a list of all kinds of job titles. I finally settled on Social Media Specialist. 

The point is: if LinkedIn was my company, I'd quit. But then it would take me a day to find out how to resign. Layers upon layers of interconnecting information portals on LinkedIn reminds me of a hurricane in the Gulf Coast swirling around and around looking to drown someone. 

Sure. LinkedIn has been around forever. My first account was dated 2008, I think. I've not used the site that much in the past. Now, it has become such an engine and social media darling I felt obligated to return to the LinkedIn black hole of sucking the life out of me. So, I'm updated and feel quite proud of myself. 

Now to deal with my headache. 

 Holy Crap, Where Have I Been?

I suppose I've neglected this blog with the misconception that blog writing was outdated, unnecessary, and downright a waste of time. 

But you know what? I don't care. I've stop trying to care about such things. All I want to do is what I want to do. And I want to write things here. I want to write down my thoughts. Don't ask me why. I don't care. I just do. Someone once said you can't steer a parked car. I'm tired of being a parked car. I'll just do what I want and then steer myself into a ditch.

So...how have you been? I see my last blog postings were excerpts from a fantasy novel I've been working on for years and will mostly likely never publish. It's the process, right? The fun is in the DOING a thing. Boy, I have done a lot of DOING. 

Anyway, I welcome myself back to this blog. I mean, why not? It's here. It's a space to hang out and let my thoughts go wherever thoughts go these days. 

Which brings me to the topic of being creative. Something in me has always said "create." Maybe Satan has a sense of humor and it's he whom whispers in my ear "go create something out of nothing." I'm doomed to dying a creative death of a hundred deaths. Because you see, I can't create unless I'm willing to die. Creating and dying are two sides of the same coin. They coexist, mirrors of each other. Took me a while to figure this out. In order to create I have to be willing to die. Bummer. 

Woodrow, Sam, visit a church. Excerpt from my fantasy novel. Current word count: 18,864

 

At the end of the hallway, Woodrow took a left turn and found a door leading into the church's sanctuary. A terrible odor emanated from the mustiness and darkness within the confines of the building. As Woodrow entered the sanctuary, he had to cover his mouth and nose to repel the suffocating smell. The odors of rotting damp wood mingled with the grotesque scent of greasy burnt ashes. The stained windows provided no light, having been covered by wooden sheets of plywood. The only light came from the hallway and the open door through which Woodrow had taken a few steps; total darkness beyond the first row of pews ten feet away.

Woodrow reached out his right hand and found the wall of the sanctuary. The wall framed an aisle, which ran the length of the sanctuary to the front of the church. He felt his way down the aisle in the darkness. His right hand palmed the wall as his feet shuffled and caressed the floor one step at a time. 

After walking about ten feet, he tripped over a body.

 

###

 

Sam stepped out of the van and walked to the double doors at the entryway to the church. She tugged at the door handles, but they were obviously locked. She listened for any sounds coming from inside. Did she hear her father? He told her to wait at the front door while he entered the church from the back. Where was he? 

She checked the windows on both sides of the doors, but they were boarded up. She heard nothing but the cracking noise from the van's engine as it cooled down in the morning breeze. She noticed cobwebs in the upper corners of the small portico encasing the entryway, smiling at the faux sculpted columns holding up the roof. The doors needed paint and the concrete flooring leading to them was cracked in various places. In other words, the church was a typically old and aging Baptist church. Sam had seen many such churches in Texas, so she wasn't that shocked to see such disrepair. 

She walked around the left corner of the church but stopped when she heard the front doors of the church begin to open behind her. 

"Sam?" Woodrow asked loudly. "Where are you?"

"I'm here."

Woodrow stepped out into the portico and closed the front doors behind him. 

"We need to leave," he said.

"Why?" Sam asked. "Did you find anything inside?"

Woodrow walked quickly to the van and sat in the passenger's side. He looked straight ahead through the windshield, saying nothing.

"Dad?" Sam said, walking toward the van. "What's wrong?"

"Let's just go," Woodrow said. "There's nothing here. We need to put some distance between us and this God-forsaken town."

Sam got into the van and looked at her father. She knew he was upset but didn't press him. She started the engine and slowly pulled away from the church. She turned right on the street heading south and quietly drove out of town. 

Ghelfunn Having Fun with Margon, Not. Word count: 15,366

 

"Beat me if you must," said Ghelfunn, "but I have never heard about the book you seek. Perhaps he left it in the palace. He had a very nice library there." Ghelfunn spit blood on the floor, making sure he still had all of his teeth.

"I'm out of time," Margon said. "Either tell me where it is or I'm going to let you taste some of the Nprudi's famous poison." Margon motioned to one of his men, who then promptly brought forward a Nprudi spear, most assuredly one with a poisonous tip.

"Ghelfunn," Margon bent down to speak softly to this captive. "All I must do is scratch you with the tip of this spear and you are gone. Understand? Within a few heartbeats you will cease to exist. All I want is a location. Tell me what I want to know, and I'll leave you here, alive. Once the king is found dead, everything will change. It will be too late for you to do anything about it.

Ghelfunn looked up. He took a moment to consider his options. They were few. He could tell the truth and probably die. He was now certain that Margon was serious, running out of time, and would not hesitate to kill him. It became clear to him in that moment. Facing death strips away all pretense and grips the mind, making survival the only goal. Ghelfunn knew what to do--make up a story, tell a lie, stall for time.

"Okay," Ghelfunn said. "The book you seek is in the Sovereign's private sanctuary, a place no one knows about. He gave me the location after promoting me to lead his private guard. He said it was to remain a secret until he was dead. Then, he said, depending on the situation, I could divulge it's whereabouts." Ghelfunn winced in pain, gasping for air as if he was about to pass out. This was part an act, to make Margon believe his sincerity.

"Well then, out with it," Margon said. "I have wasted enough time dealing with you. Where is it?"

"It's in the Colla-Ti." 

Margon motioned for the two footmen behind Ghelfunn to raise him up. After a brief struggle, Ghelfunn returned to his knees, facing Margon.

"The Colla-Ti?" Margon grinned. "You must be lying. That's a two-day ride from here. It's nothing but ragged cliffs and mountainous trails that only goats can navigate. Why there?"

"The Sovereign discovered a cave there," Ghelfunn said. "He was just a kid, climbing around like a goat, I guess. The cave became his private place, a place he could go and escape the demands of being a kid, and later, a Sovereign."

"Draw me a map," Margon ordered.

Woodrow Orenda Visits Fred's Diner (excerpt from The Second Son, first draft, a fantasy novel I'm writing)

 

Woodrow closed his eyes for just a moment. All was quiet in Fred's Diner and Gas Emporium. Sleep. Just a moment of peace. He could feel the blackness overtake him, and he saw swirls of light, sprinkles of color forming circles. I hope Samantha survives this. She's all I've got. I have nothing else. Why do I even try? His right hand slid off his lap and rested comfortably next to his right leg. His hand still had blood stains on it. So what? He'd wash his hands later. Within a few moments, Woodrow looked up and saw a tree outside the window. 

He stood up and looked around and found himself beneath a huge tree. Where the hell am I? Woodrow looked up and the limbs of an oak tree spread out above him. It's branches crookedly stuck out in all directions, spreading themselves outward from a huge trunk which must have been five feet wide. Green bushy leaves filled the air. Woodrow could smell the wood. The sun was bright, so bright Woodrow had to shield his eyes. It rode high in the sky. The heat. Where did the heat go? Coolness hit Woodrow in the face from a breeze coming from somewhere beyond the trees. He looked at the huge oak tree and couldn't decide what to do. I'm lost, he thought. 

To his right, Woodrow saw a narrow path through the trees. He walked down the path for a while but found the trees obstructed his view. He saw no open space anywhere. Just the path ahead, and the tree limbs climbing upward, causing ripples of shade and lines of light that crisscrossed the trail through the thickly green forest. He walked for hours, or so it seemed. He could find no way out of the trees. Amazingly, fatigue had not set in. He felt great. He had strength in his legs. He could go on for a while without pain. If only he knew where he was going. He thought of his childhood in the deep East Texas piney woods and how he could walk for hours without ever leaving the shade.

After a while, Woodrow finally saw an open area in front of him. A grassy plateau rolled out before him to the far horizon. As far as he could see, a field of gold, green, yellow and auburn colors saturated his point of view. To the left side of the scene, he saw glimpses of a river. The bluish green river water was flowing in a steady stream from right to left. He took a moment to consider his position. The sun appeared to be setting on the horizon in front of him as he entered the plateau, westward. The river to his left must be to the south, so north would be in the opposite direction of the river. The oak tree, where his journey began, must be eastward. Woodrow stood there for a moment and sighed.  It's confusing as hell. I'm all turned around. Which direction do I go? The river. Get to the river and follow it.

Woodrow walked for a very long time southward and the river continued to flow without noticing him. He should have reached it by now, but distances could be deceiving. He was determined, however, to reach the river before the sun set. He looked westward toward the horizon to his right and the cool blues of the coming darkness were beginning to appear high above. The sun itself glowed bright yellow as it began to sink behind the forested area beyond the golden and green plateau rolling west. If he continued walking southward, he should arrive at the river by sunset. His next move after that remained a question in the back of his mind. He didn't want to think about the future. Just live in the moment. He knew from experience that in times of crisis a person must live in the present, one step at a time. Get to the river. Then I'll decide what to do next.

            Woodrow approached the riverbed and stopped just before entering a group of trees. The grassy plateau stretched behind him leading back to the path which brought him here from the huge oak tree. His memory went as a far as that oak and no further. His life began at that tree. Why am I here? If I could just remember. He heard the river flowing just ahead and found a trail leading to it. The sun lowered its face toward the western horizon, dark shadows taking over the landscape in front of him. Down the trail he walked, one careful step at a time. The ground beneath him began to slope sharply toward the water and he almost slipped as he entered an open area at the riverbank. 

“Dad? Don’t cross the river.” A voice from behind whispered to him. “It’s too deep.”

“What? What was that?” Woodrow asked out loud, startled at the sound coming from the shadows. “Sam? Is that you.”

Woodrow turned his head toward the voice. His neck. Damn, it hurt. He reached up and rubbed his neck with his left hand.

“Dad, wake up,” the voice said quietly. “Your eggs are ready.”

Woodrow opened his eyes and saw Sam staring at him from the other side of the booth. His neck had a pain slicing through the back of his scalp like a sharp knife. His back hurt, too. He slowly sat up, his stiff body not cooperating. 

“Hey, Sam,” Woodrow said. “Guess I dozed off.” 

“I woke up in the van and you were gone,” Sam said. “I came to find you. Staying in that van by myself creeps me out.”

Fred was standing at the end of the table with a plate of food in his hands. He set the plate of eggs in front of Woodrow and walked back to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.