Fraters Libertas

American Blog

When I first saw the documentary “American Movie” a few years ago at the Lagoon, I thought it was a put on. Not all of it, but I was sure some of the scenes were scripted and that the participants were intentionally playing it over the top in their portrayals of dead end, substance ravaged, Wisconsinite thirty-somethings with big dreams and no means.

In retrospect, this impression was cemented by the overly eager sold out crowd at the ‘Goon, who seemed to be in competition among themselves to “get” the jokes before any one else. This resulted in a continuous cycle of preemptive caustic laughter and sly snickering, which bludgeoned even the poignant scenes into apparent high farce.

But upon further review (thanks to IFC, I’ve further reviewed it about a dozen times in the friendly confines of my living room), I was wrong. The entire film, directed by Chris Smith, is genuine and it’s an amazing thing to watch the main characters, Mark Borchardt and Mike Schank, face the insurmountable barriers of bad genetic luck and poor life choices, yet still succeed (if only in their own minds).

By any objective measure their lives are in shambles, their goals utterly unrealistic, and their future prospects dismal. Yet through purity of vision and their own innocent absurdity, they make it all work and you get the feeling their dingy, forgotten corner of Milwaukee might not be such a bad place to be.

If you haven’t seen the movie, I recommend it highly. And if you have seen it, I’m happy to let you know the story doesn’t end with the rolling of the final credits. It continues, in the blogosphere of all places, with Mark Borchardt’s Journal.

Although I just ran across it this week, he’s been keeping it (at least semi-regularly) since 1999. So if you weren’t aware of it before, you now have almost 5 years of material to catch up with.

As in the movie, the every day aspects of life are on full display. There’s a lot about drinking Pabst, eating Red Baron frozen pizza, and watching ‘Cops’ on TV. (Which is eerily similar to a typical Lileks Bleat, with the slight adjustments for James Page and the unnamed take out pizza with extra sauce. But for both men, ‘Cops’ is ‘Cops.’)

But there’s also the occasional personal revelation, like this:

Another bizarre misconception is that I smoke dope and listen to heavy metal. That is insane. I don't cut my hair because I don't feel like it. I was born in 1966 and in those times you just didn't cut your hair. It's never left. Sure, when I'm drunk I'll listen to Ted Nugent, Head East and Black Sabbath. My era ends there. Other than that you may as well be talking Chinese.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that piece heralds the triumphant return of Will the Thrill to blogging. But no, rest assured, it’s Mark Borchardt.

There’s also occasional updates on the strange, wonderful world of Mike Schank:

Got into San Francisco last night. This morning Mike was passively looking out the hotel window at the Golden Gate bridge and asked, “Is that supposed to be a famous bridge or something?”

And this:

Mike has arrived on the scene. At breakfast he immediately stood up, his face turned purple, his eyes bugged out and he coughed like he was going to die. Sarah stood up to prepare for the Heimlich maneuver, all the time wondering how she was going to get her arms around him because Mike is built like Santa Claus. When he finally coughed it out he got a round of applause from the other patrons. When the dust settled he claimed it was just a bad round of pineapple juice, sat back down as if nothing happened and said it’s time for a cigarette.

Mark continues to write scripts for horror movies, search for funding, and then produce and direct them. As an artist, he’s no stranger to the butcher’s bill demanded by the creative process:

A working (artist? - what other word could be used to avoid commotion and upheaval?) needs to be alone to do the work. Assosiating with people involves you in all their emotions and desires and you have to avoid that non-productive vortex. Love everyone but don't f*ck yourself over.

I don't see depression as romantic, it's just a waste of f*cking time and I don't like it. I don't like being put through it. I am happy though about my age, almost thirty-seven, I like that. Half the sh*t I want to write about gets forgotten before I get here. 'Scare Me' is reasonably good until page 51 and then it just falls apart into a vortex of cluttered nonsensical sh*t. So, I have to work on it bit by bit with no immediate answer apparent. The good part is, it will be done.

Indeed. A rather eloquent metaphor for life there, the kind that tends to slip out of the Borchart prose with some regularity. And the good part is, you need not worry about some some Uptown denizen stepping on it with a knowing cackle.