Aboriginal playwrights test the Hollywood waters

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I have always wanted to say this, and for the first time in my life, I've got to. Awhile ago, I was asked by some friends to hang out with them at a powwow on Manitoulin Island. Unfortunately, I was unable to because - here it comes - I had to fly to Hollywood to work on a script for Robert Redford's Sundance Institute. There, I said it again. I can now die a happy man.

I thought I could hear destiny calling my name when the institute invited me to participate in the first ever Native screenwriters workshop. As one of three Canadians asked to attend, I jumped at the chance to visit the centre of the filmic universe and work on a project I had been formulating in my head. Modestly put, it's an urban Native horror comedy, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to put it in the metaphoric toaster and see what popped up.

It's no secret Redford and the institute have always been at the cutting edge of independent film development and promotion. Their film festival is legendary. And the workshop was their latest endeavor to inject a more colorful, no pun intended, slice of life into the sometimes oblique Hollywood version of reality. So, we 10 Aboriginal writers from across North America congregated at the UCLA campus, projects in hand, dreams in full force, ready to run our ideas up the, again, metaphoric flagpole and see who saluted them.

Projects and people ranged from a Yaqui-Mayan man who wants to turn his all-Native comic book into an animated movie to a dark X-Files comedy by the Cheyenne director of the recent movie Smoke Signals. One older woman had taken seven years to write a wonderfully charming script about her mother who was the first person to bring Christmas to the Navajo Reservation back in the 1950s. It was truly a meeting of minds, nations and genres.

The 10-day workshop consisted of a series of meetings with two story editors, one Native, and the other . . . sympathetic shall we say, in a constant vain attempt to write the perfect screenplay. Key phrases included "try and make the subtlety more obvious" and, my favorite, "sometimes it's possible to be a little too Indian." I may have a T-shirt printed with that on it.

We were constantly subjected to various seminars and screenings, determined to imprint upon us the value of independent film-making. Victor Nunez, Academy Award nominee writer/director for Ulee's Gold, tried to impress upon us the value of not giving into the system and achieving our goals on our terms. Upon reflection, it sounds like every Native roadblock I've ever heard about. Hmm, Ulee's Roadblock.

As for the Big Kahuna himself (Bob, as we came to call him), his loyal disciples kept a candle burning, waiting for him to bless us with his presence. Though they would never admit it, I think he was probably the reason some of our humble writers came, to gaze lovingly on the Sundance Kid, the cowboy who never killed an Indian.

But much like Samuel Becket's play Waiting for Godot, he never showed up, though the promise hovered over our heads like the final number in a bingo game.

For the real film-makers, there was another name associated with the workshop. He was on the special advisory panel and, to many of us, he was as important as Redford, if not more so. And I'd heard rumors that he was part Native, having actually lived a few years on an American reservation as a child. But as a Canadian Aboriginal, I had long since become accustomed to hearing how everybody in the States was part Cherokee or Choctaw. The novelty had long since disappeared. But evidently it is true. He is part of us.

Quentin Tarantino. The mere mention of his name was enough to make we film-maker wannabees drool with anticipation. Alas, much like Bob, he never showed either. Obviously busy in the same Becket play.

Ten days passed. And in those 10 days, much was learned and much was discussed. None of us got to do the amount of rewriting we all had anticipated. But we were in no position to be argumetative. We were in Hollywood, working with talented and successful people in a harsh and difficult industry. And we were all absolutely delighted that such a myopic industry was finally interested in hearing our stories told our way.

We were the first class. The inaugural Native screenwriters workshop. We were told great things were expected from us. But we already knew that, because we were expecting that of ourselves.

We considered ourselves contemporary storytellers. We were going from telling stories around the campfire to telling stories on the movie screen. Our vision quests will include popcorn and a drink.

They say there are no new or original ideas in Hollywood, but I don't know. I'm fairly certain I have the market cornered on urban Native horror comedies.

One odd benefit from 10 days in Los Angeles. I am now 19 per cent silicon. I'm now trying to stay out of the sun for obvious reasons.