The Intern

      It could not be more cliché. The alarm clock sounds its dreadful sound. 5:45 AM, still dark. Too early, even for the Sun; the masses still sleeping. Myself, well I am very much awake. A month ago it would have been a different story. Though told that my sleeping habits already defy the normal definition of a person my age, awaking at 7 is no longer possible. When the beeping starts, that continuous, metallic, emptying beeping begins, the dread of darkness still succeeding has a very short shelf life. Normally it would not. Normally the tone would pierce through my insides, jousting with whatever comfort garnered during the past 7 hours. But today is different. The clock has no affect because I am already awake; partly due to training, but mostly due to anticipation. It no doubt is the beginning of my daily journey. I awake, I shower, I dress, all leading up to my grand exodus. It is a 5 minute drive from my room to the train. This time of the year, when the cold seeps through every layer, the wait for the train transforms minutes into long moments of suspended time. To see the train’s approach is a welcomed relief. To board means an hour and a half of time to fill; time to sleep, to read, compute. Recollect.

      My entire life people have reacted somewhat exponentially when they hear my career aspirations. Yes when one is young the choices of one’s career is endless. Who is one to say to a child that something is unattainable? But when the boundary is crossed from child to young adult and from young adult to full adult, the attainability of one’s dreams diminish. Those who once found themselves sermonizing about astronauts and galaxies, soon find their voices uttering finance or distribution. It is not for me to say that one path is better than another; happiness can be very much present in commerce as well as aeronautics. But something happened over time. A change occurred. Maybe interests changed, or maybe dreams were lost. I do not know. I have been preaching the same sermon my whole life. I have heard all the reactions, all the detractions. I want to make films, plain and simple. I have wanted to since the earliest my mind allowed me, and with that realization comes a multitude of opinions. People react differently. There are those who say, “Wow, that’s great”, but deep down think, “Give me a break”. Then there are those who won’t even take a chance at taking you seriously. Before you can utter a word they let their feelings be known, speaking of the competition and sheer improbability of it all. Great advice coming from people whose knowledge of film transcends not even the blockbuster romance aisle. “Oh that’s a tough industry” seems to be the predominant comment. I am very much aware of that, and it only makes me want it even more.

      I see my life in cuts and pans, as poetic as that sounds it is the truth. The transitions that divide my day into acts and further into scenes, mirror those of the masters. While most kids my age worshiped the likes of Jordan and Davis, I found myself with a different class of heroes. Kubrick, Spielberg, Hitchcock, are names not usually reserved for 12 year olds. So you can say my introduction to film began on a high note, balancing masterpieces with the more popcorn fair of the time. “Jaws”, “Barry Lyndon”, and “Psycho” represent some of the earliest cinematic memories of mine, the quality of which I would fully understand later in life. People see movies, but they don’t really “see” them. They may pretend to understand the likes of Dean and Scorsese, Bogart and Bergman. They may utter names like Lang and Coppola, but what they have is an elementary understanding of the talent they represent. They might wear the definition of Orson’s deep focus on their sleeves, but a true devotee can discuss “The Magnificent Ambersons”, because they track down the only remaining reels of his forgotten masterpiece. To truly succeed in a tough business you must know the business inside and out. You need to know the players, the game, and most of all the history.

      The train finally comes to a stop. This is the worst part. The onslaught of people empty out to a stairwell well beyond its capacity. The subway ticket machine is crowded with tourists who do not know what they are doing. I stand in line for 10 minutes when it should only take 3. Finally, my ticket is in hand and the Number 1 train is just ahead. I board and head downtown, past Houston and Canal, to Franklin, better known as Tribeca. It is the home of film in New York. California has Burbank and Century City, New York has Tribeca. It’s the home of the Tribeca Film Festival, a young institution, championed by none other than DeNiro himself. As I walk down Franklin and turn right onto Greenwich, my journey is complete. I head into the large brick building past the Tribeca offices to the elevators. It stops. The doors open to a large glass wall, the name of its inhabitants in black, The Weinstein Company. Formally known as Miramax, it is the child of Bob and Harvey Weinstein; the men films live and die by, the men who discovered Tarantino, the holders of more than 70 Oscars. My title is something along the lines of the intern for the Executive Vice President of Production and Casting. I walk to my desk but before I can sit my name is called. I look up and am told “Vince, Harvey’s office needs you”. I take off my jacket and rush down the hall. Who would have a guessed? The Pinnacle. Impossible is nothing. And this is only the beginning.

Written by Vincent Iannella