The passenger plane wanted to land at LAX, but its nosewheel was stuck 90 degrees to the left. This meant landing with a crooked wheel, endangering the lives of the 140 passengers and six crew members on board. This happened at the same time that my driver and I entered Bend, Oregon, for the BendFilm Festival. Born the year before, in 2004, the festival focused on independent films and was organized by a community with lots of people who worked in Hollywood. To my surprise, Bend was not just a town in the middle of Oregon, but a virtual suburb of Los Angeles.
As we entered Bend, the plane landed with a burst of flames. No one died. We met our host, a doctor. We were shown to his place. He and his wife were happy to have a filmmaker in their home. He gave me some drugs. The next day, we watched a screening of a movie I made with Rob Devor, Police Beat, joined by the citizens of Bend. And the day after that, there was a ceremony for the festival’s awards. I won something, but there was no money attached to it. Another film, however, The Puffy Chair, did win an award that came with a cash prize—$10,000. One of its makers, Jay Duplass, was there to pick up the check. He gave a speech. It was not long. People clapped. That was the moment the Duplass brothers entered my life.
