Los Angeles Times

Black life matters

2 Oscar-nominated shorts spotlight meaningful L.A. stories

- By Jevon Phillips

Los Angeles natives Travon Free and Kris Bowers have more in common than their hometown. The first-time directors both received Oscar nomination­s last month for their short films, which are currently streaming and boast name-brand support from the filmmaking and Black communitie­s.

Free’s “Two Distant Strangers” (on Netflix), co-directed with Martin Desmond Roe, is a narrative short that sees its subject (played by rapper Joey Badass) being killed again and again by the same malevolent police officer in a fatalistic time loop. It’s a dramatic change of pace for the comedian and writer, a veteran of “The Daily Show” and “Full Frontal With Samantha Bee.”

Bowers co-directed, with Ben Proudfoot, “A Concerto Is a Conversati­on” (on YouTube), which sees Bowers — composer for award-winning projects including “Green Book” and “When They See Us” — reflect on his path to creating a concerto and his grandfathe­r’s journey from Florida to establish his family in Los Angeles.

Each film enjoys high-profile backing — Sean “Diddy” Combs and Kevin Durant for “Two Distant Strangers” and Ava DuVernay for “Concerto” — and the coincident­al involvemen­t of producer Gigi Pritzker, CEO of Madison Wells. She appeared with the duo and their co-directors this week at a chat sponsored by the Ghetto Film School that addressed social justice in filmmaking.

“I have always believed that the stories we tell help shape who we are as a society,” Pritzker told The

Times. “When the script for ‘Two Distant Strangers’ came to me in the summer of 2020 I knew it was a story that needed to be told and I was happy to play a supporting role. I [also] couldn’t be happier for Kris, Ben and the entire [‘Concerto’] team. These two films embody exactly why I wanted to be a filmmaker in the first place.”

We caught up with Free and Bowers — who are looking forward to meeting in person at the Academy Awards on April 25 — for a video-conference­d chat about the recognitio­n for their films and their L.A. roots.

Oscar-nominated. You can put that in front of your names forever. How has the journey been so far?

Kris Bowers:

It’s definitely been a pretty wild journey — especially for my grandfathe­r, being able to see him just receiving this public recognitio­n and seeing people react to his story. And I think that’s been a big win for me . ... Every time I call him now he’s excited to hear what new piece of informatio­n I have for him, and he’s all ready for the Oscars.

Travon Free: I haven’t really had a ton of time to even process it because it all happened while I was running a writers room for a TV show and also writing a movie for Apple, and it just kind of all collided on each other at the same time. My writers room started in February, my script was due in February, and then we were running our campaign and showing people the movie, and then the nomination happened. That day felt like one of the most amazing experience­s of just trying to really comprehend what just happened to me.

2020 must have made production exponentia­lly more difficult. How did you navigate the challenges?


We shot our movie in the middle of the pandemic in September in five days. A lot of the hurdles and barriers to getting our film made was the fact that, at the time when I had the idea and I wrote the script in July, SAG wasn’t allowing people to shoot anything in L.A. They weren’t giving permits for anything in L.A. [FilmLA] wasn’t giving permits in L.A. So, we just kind of took up the ambition of acting as if we were going to be able to make the movie — not knowing if we would ever be able to make the movie — and assuming that if we get to late August-September, and things change, we can keep the production train rolling.

While we were filming, we were still raising the money [to cover the extra costs of production during the pandemic], while also dealing with all the parameters of COVID. We lost two hours a day of filming because of COVID, we had 10-hour days instead of 12 . ... It forced us to get real direct and decisive about what we wanted to do. I think it helped us not overthink things . ...

We were fortunate enough to shoot our movie in the two-week window at the end of last summer where you were allowed to film. Right after we finished, that next week, they ended it. We barely made it.

Bowers: For us, we got really lucky with the filming aspect . ... The conversati­on was [filmed at] the end of 2019, and then the concerto premiered in February of 2020 — literally maybe three weeks or so before the lockdown. So most of the issues came up in post, and we had to figure out how to score it remotely, because we still had a live string ensemble and some other instrument­ation that we did remotely and recorded everybody separately and pieced it back together, and had to kind of figure out that process.

How did you work with your co-directors to figure out the specific tone and style to tell your stories?


The style really is a lot of Ben [Proudfoot]. His company, Breakwater, they’ve found this really signature way of filming interviews. Ben has a theory that he feels like we watch most of these things on small devices, and so he wants to fill that screen with as much informatio­n as possible.

It feels like, especially with a documentar­y, that seeing as much of the face as possible, you really get to see so much of the story and the way people feel as they’re navigating these memories or emotional conversati­ons . ... As soon as we talked about the conversati­on being between my grandfathe­r and I in that first meeting, he was like, “I’ve always wanted to try this two-interrotro­n thing. I have no idea how it’ll work or if it’ll work, but let’s just try it.” And it was much more seamless and comfortabl­e than I expected it to be.

The process is a teleprompt­er system — I’m looking at a screen [and] behind the screen is the camera, and on the screen is my grandfathe­r’s face. And so when I’m looking directly into his eyes, I’m looking into the camera. For me it feels like we’re just having a conversati­on.

It was a pretty fun thing to experiment with, and it’s been interestin­g to see the people that really react to being put in the middle of a conversati­on in that way.

Travon, “Happy Death Day” and “Edge of Tomorrow” are time-loop movies where people die and come back, but yours connects to contempora­ry issues. How did you decide to use that device?

Free: As often as the “Groundhog Day” trope is used now to tell stories, and they’ve gotten more and more creative, this was the first time that it felt like an actual metaphor for something. It’s a metaphor for what it is like to be Black in America. It is the loop.

I mean, if you put all those movies next to each other and you look at the actual purpose the time loop is serving ... we’re literally living that experience. We go through the cycle of hearing about Daunte Wright, being angry about Daunte Wright, being sad for Daunte Wright and his family, and then the hopelessne­ss you feel that this will never stop happening to us. And then getting yourself back to a place of being hopeful and resilient enough to fight, to continue to find a solution to a problem that seems unsolvable.

So the thought occurred to me last summer, when we were marching and protesting, that this cycle of internaliz­ing the emotions around these deaths feels like the worst version of “Groundhog Day.” Even in the actual movie itself, the original movie, the device only serves to stop to help a white guy understand “you just shouldn’t be an asshole to people,” for lack of a better term.

For us, it’s demonstrat­ing to people the cyclical nature of the trauma we experience just living in this country on a day-to-day basis. That to me was taking it beyond what we had seen it used for before.

What did L.A. mean to each of you in terms of your storytelli­ng?


This story in particular, it’s really layered. For my grandfathe­r to hear about this place and decide that it’s going to be possibly the safe haven for him to go to after coming from the experience­s he had in Florida . ... Like he says in the film, he got here and he was like, “In the South, they tell you. In Los Angeles, they show you.” And he’s always said that for my entire life.

Los Angeles has always had this interestin­g thing — I grew up here, my dad grew up here, my grandfathe­r has been here since the ’40s. We have easily 50 family members in this city and I have such fond memories growing up. My parents did everything they could to drive all around the city to find the best music schools for me, the best education with anything . ... It always felt to me like an opportunit­y in a really beautiful way where I just had whatever I wanted.

And I think the older I get, the more I realize [that’s] because of my parents and because of my grandparen­ts. It’s not the land of opportunit­y — it only is if you can get it. And I think that’s what the film really speaks to. My grandfathe­r found a way to get here, and realized that people weren’t going to tell him to his face that they didn’t want to help him or support him or any of that, but once he felt an inkling of that, he did everything he could to try to find a way around that system and find a way to build his own success.

Free: I grew up in Compton in the late ’80s and early ’90s, and it was at a time when it was one of the worst places to live in America in terms of its murder rate and crime. I was a basketball player all the way through college, and it was the thing that kept me from doing anything else. It was that pursuit of basketball that kept me on the straight and narrow. And I think a huge part of that was my mom, and my grandmothe­r, and my mom’s brother.

I didn’t realize till I was much older that a lot of the things that were happening in the city missed me because of my uncle, because he was, at the time, a very powerful gang member in the city. And there was a bubble of protection around me I didn’t know existed until I was old enough to talk about, or be talked to about it.

I had many friends who died over the course of my getting through high school, and it gave me so much character and resilience when it came to firsthand experience with trauma and death and how to persevere through that. I felt fortunate to get out alive, because you didn’t have to be a gang member or participat­e in any type of dangerous activity to find yourself a victim of a stray bullet or somebody’s gun or knife.

And it gave me this desire once I got out and into the world to want to do more for that community, to represent something. That people, the kids who are now coming up, could point to people like me.

A lot of what I learned growing up there is what made it easier for me to survive in this industry. Oftentimes we find ourselves the only Black person in the room, and it takes a strong mindset to not let that change you in a negative way. I think L.A. and Compton was a huge part of what made me strong enough to be a 6-foot-7-inch Black man who is also a filmmaker and writer in an industry where there ain’t very many of me.

 ?? Dania Maxwell Los Angeles Times ?? TRAVON FREE, co-director of Oscar-nominated live-action short “Two Distant Strangers,” on the Dolby Theatre steps.
Dania Maxwell Los Angeles Times TRAVON FREE, co-director of Oscar-nominated live-action short “Two Distant Strangers,” on the Dolby Theatre steps.
 ?? ShortsTV ?? JOEY BADASS, left, gets killed over and over by the same police officer (Andrew Howard) in the Oscar-nominated live-action short “Two Distant Strangers.”
ShortsTV JOEY BADASS, left, gets killed over and over by the same police officer (Andrew Howard) in the Oscar-nominated live-action short “Two Distant Strangers.”
 ?? ShortsTV ?? left, made short film “A Concerto Is a Conversati­on” in part to tell the story of his grandfathe­r, who came to L.A. from the South in the ’40s.
ShortsTV left, made short film “A Concerto Is a Conversati­on” in part to tell the story of his grandfathe­r, who came to L.A. from the South in the ’40s.
 ?? Getty Images for AMPAS ?? Lars Niki KRIS BOWERS,
Getty Images for AMPAS Lars Niki KRIS BOWERS,

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