Let’s catch up. The trailer got finished, save for a few pieces of trim left to install (now installed) and a stubborn saggy part of the roof that occasionally leaks when we get dumped on (not yet addressed - what can be done?). It looks great, it’s been upstate and back, and Alex has been using it to sell sell sell. But, honestly, having a trailer in New York City is a non-trivial exercise in logistics. But this is what we train for - moving camper trailers by hand into driveways.
What else? It’s Junior year for the clone army, so college is an event horizon that comes in and out of view like one of those Star Trek malevolent clouds the Enterprise seemed to always pass through. How’s that for mixed-sci-fi-metaphors?
Industry-wise, well, we all know what it looks like. As I said to a director last night over fancy pizza after wrapping an advocacy project: “Prove me wrong, but it’s my observation that the entire documentary ecosystem has collapsed.” Taking a bite of he said, glumly, “I cannot prove you wrong.” Truth time - everything is changing, and it’s not coming back.
That said, September was unusually busy for sound work with a mix of corporate, a feature doc, one-offs, and yes, I can do that, thank you, come again. And October might be the same, for as I am writing this, I am sitting in the SkyClub waiting to depart for Nashville on a resurrected show (it had been cancelled in the Spring by our Great Leader). So… At least for the next two weeks, it seems like old times.
And also what else? The video podcast I mentioned last time is coming together. We’re going to start rolling on it this month. Check out more about it at the bottom of the post. For now, here’s a sneak peek:
And now, the thrilling (maybe) conclusion to my Greenlandic adventure!
April 10, 2025
Vision Quest Prog Rock Album Cover Unlock
I was jolted awake in the pitch-black abyss of pre-dawn, my slumber as restless as a caffeinated squirrel. A full hour before my alarm was due to orchestrate its daily cacophony. My brain, ever the overachiever, was already swirling with a circus of questions. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you—just the existential dread of an impending root canal and the eternal mystery of whether my check had cleared. You know, the standard junk mail of the adult American mind, sorting itself at this ungodly hour. Attempting further sleep? Futile. I’m well-acquainted with this particular scene in the play. Might as well rev the metaphorical engine. Teeth brushed, coffee brewed, New York Times unfurled. Ah, splendid—Trump news at 4AM. Because why not? ;p
Outside, the sky was just starting to yawn and stretch, casting a hint of light in the distance like a sleepy cat waking up. I pondered the view over the water and the amount of snow that had sneakily piled up overnight, like a prankster with a penchant for winter wonderlands.
Meanwhile, at Zaria's, the family was in full prep mode, a symphony of toothbrushes and the eternal debate of how many layers could be worn without resembling a Michelin man. We piled into taxis, our chariots to the harbor, where Gabe filled me in on the town's latest scoop: the new mayor was none other than the very owner of the tour company we were about to set sail with. "Ah," I mused, playing along with a smirk, "isn't it always the cement plant owner who becomes mayor and then insists on a town-wide sidewalk upgrade? Spoiler alert: Guess who gets the contract?"
Back on the ship, we bravely set sail, or perhaps foolishly, as we started to bulldoze through the fresh layer of ice that had sneakily settled in overnight. This new development was less than comforting. As I listened to the cacophonous symphony of crunching and grinding, which had become synonymous with progress in these chilly latitudes, my mind wandered to the integrity of our hull’s armor plating. Was it measured in millimeters, or perhaps inches? Or was it in fluufernoogaats? Or simply a metaphorical suggestion of security? And what, pray tell, would it feel like if we started taking on water? Would it be an immediate revelation or more of a slow, creeping realization? The mere thought of being submerged in icy water was enough to turn my blood into a slushy. But then, as if on cue, I glanced up to see the moon, an enormous pink spectacle in the sky, like a cosmic grapefruit. That’s when Zaria, bless her soul, started serenading us with “Pink Moon” by Nick Drake, adding a soundtrack to our potential doom.
The tour felt like we were drifting through a Roger Dean album cover, a surreal two-hour journey where reality and fantasy blurred. Our pilot seemed to possess a mystical, mental map of the bay, unfazed by the daily capricious dance of icebergs and shifting ice floes, like a seasoned veteran who had memorized the choreography of a particularly icy ballet. He orchestrated the perfect sunrise view—a nuclear burst of joy climbing over the hills, scattering gold confetti across the ice. The sky transitioned from cotton candy blues and pinks to a kaleidoscope of infinity. Zaria was there, practically inhaling the scenery with her long lens, while Gabe, ever the watchful documentarian, immortalized her absorption in his camera. Somewhere on the mountain, I imagined Derek in a comical quest to locate us, probably thinking he was starring in his own episode of "Lost Without a GPS." Meanwhile, I was in my own little world, blissful in my RefrigiWear™ bib, feeling the cold air's playful fingers tickling us on the bow, like an Arctic massage therapist with a penchant for mischief.
At this particularly mind-blowing locale, Zaria decided it was incense o'clock, which meant it was time for the family’s dive into Rena’s journal. As the smoke curled up like a wisp of existential mystery, we all leaned in. Rena had scribbled about her bodily sensations, somehow connecting them to the universe’s color palette and the surreal landscapes surrounding us. The icebergs around us seemed to get progressively more intense, as if engaged in a dramatic audition for a psychedelic opera, sweating and shining with an inexplicable glisten, like they’d just run a marathon in a Salvador Dalí painting. It all got so intense that you didn’t know whether to dance or meditate, until suddenly you find yourself adrift in the cosmos, feeling your center of gravity has bizarrely relocated somewhere south of your eyeballs. And everywhere you look, there’s this celestial magnificence—an overwhelming beauty that’s like encountering an alien symphony for the first time, leaving you awestruck and slightly worried about the state of your own mind.
And then, as if the universe was reading from a script, Zaria started narrating her adventures on the Nat Geo ships, where they apparently glide right onto the ice and park like it’s the most normal thing in the world. So there we were, sliding up to the icy expanse with a dramatic flair, and the captain nonchalantly popped out, flicked a little ladder down onto what looked like a frozen version of terra firma. Everyone else bounded off the ship like penguins off a diving board, but I hesitated, rooted in a cocktail of curiosity and sheer terror. Ziggy and Zaria were already flapping around, creating abstract art in the form of snow angels. My eyes wandered to the jagged edge of the ice—was that six inches thick? Is six inches the universally accepted measure of safety when it comes to not falling into a freezing abyss? I pondered the existential implications of plunging into icy waters. A frosty end or a life-affirming experience? Choices, choices. Realizing that this was a unique opportunity—like a once-in-a-lifetime, bingo-card moment—I retracted my pole with the cautious precision of an engineer and tentatively stepped onto the ice. Arctic Achievement unlocked! I was now part of the landscape, a character in a surreal Yes album cover, standing on the frosty stage of a topographic ocean.
On the way back, we spotted Derek’s drone overhead. He captured majestic footage of Zaria at the bow, dwarfed by an iceberg shaped like some ancient temple. Inside the cabin, I chatted with the captain-mayor. In ten minutes, I learned that he owns half the town—tour agencies, cannery, winter construction. He’s building a new hotel, wants more investors, and forecasts a population boom in four years. Something akin to small-town megalomania, though undeniably effective. Coincidence?
Upon returning to solid ground, after a nap that felt more like a brief existential pause, we gathered for a surprise celebration—it was Derek's birthday! We honored our man with a candle and some Danish chocolates, because nothing says "happy birthday" quite like the juxtaposition of wax and cocoa. Derek, you champion of existence, you deserve this sweet homage.
Then, off we went to Nuka for lunch, where once again I faced the eternal dilemma: to halibut or not to halibut? I dodged the yellow curry bullet and chose fish soup instead, a decision akin to picking the wrong door in a game show. What I should have chosen was the seafood Tom yum Soup, but fate handed me a bowl that was more chowder-lite, a creamy mirage of shrimp, scallops, and halibut. It was a liquid masquerade that would have left Melville scratching his head, questioning the very fabric of chowderhood. Nevertheless, I consumed it all, even the side of thin-sliced bread, which cried out for the sturdy embrace of a crusty baguette.
Ziggy and I then embarked on a philosophical journey into the essence of "chowder," a conversation that veered into the realms of the absurd. She concluded her meal with a Lava Cake that, much like life's grand expectations, failed to erupt with delight. Ah, the bittersweet lessons of existence, wrapped in chocolate and served with a side of introspection.
Meanwhile, Gabe lunched with someone from the mayor’s HR department, who basically called her boss the Greenlandic Trump. So apparently, not everyone loves our hero-captain. Another miniature soap opera in the making. And with that, we sprinted to the helicopter field. Or rather, they sprinted. I stayed behind, courtesy of weight restrictions, rigging coms for a flight I’d never see. Such is the sonic soldier’s role: facilitate, but do not partake.
Solo adventuring, I trekked back up the mountain like an intrepid explorer searching for the elusive Holy Grail of soundscapes. The scene was a bizarre symphony of nature: beautiful, quiet, howling, and raw, like an avant-garde jazz concert held on a deserted planet. Water lapped like an enthusiastic but slightly confused dog, while actual dogs bayed in a way that made me question if they were communicating with the boats churning nearby. The wind, not to be outdone, swished around me like it was auditioning for a detergent commercial.
And then came the pièce de résistance: my right leg decided to perform a vanishing act, plunging into what I can only describe as a snow-hidden abyss between two rocks. It was like Mother Nature was playing an elaborate prank, whispering, "Surprise!" Close call, but as I pulled myself out, I thought, “Nice try, Greenland; it’ll take more than a snowy trapdoor to outwit this intrepid sound-gatherer.”
We concluded our extravagant day by clinking glasses filled with effervescent champagne, a tribute to Derek's undeniable charisma. Back at the avocado-green abode, which somehow managed to be both retro and unsettlingly reminiscent of a guacamole fever dream, the man of the hour and I embarked on a culinary adventure. We dined on Denmark’s most exquisite frozen goulash soup, artistically layered over fusilli, accompanied by a salad that had clearly pondered its own existence. It was, dare I say, the epitome of dining perfection.
Light day tomorrow! Really?
FILMS NOT MADE // PODCAST
I’m making this video podcast with Amy Hobby (co-creator) and Lisa Gray (producer) about the projects that almost happened—the ones that got close, then disappeared. Each episode is a real conversation with a filmmaker as we dig into what went right, what went wrong, and what still lingers. We bring out old scripts, lookbooks, and notes, and use generative tools to see what those films might have looked like if they’d made it through. It’s part confession, part creative autopsy, and at its core, the show lives at the intersection of tech and culture. It’s going to be entertaining, relatable, and sometimes, perhaps, strange because as I said at the top - everything is changing.
We are going to launch in February/March.
CASTING CALL - we want people for the show! Do you have a project that went through development (feature, doc, show, series - anything!) and has a good story? Do you want to dish, vent, get a hug or just see what could still be done? If so - hit me up personally or at info@filmsnotmade.com.
All good thoughts,
Avi