Tyler Rubenfeld joins Split Tooth for a career-spanning discussion and the premiere of his latest short, Another Sinking Sun
Tyler Rubenfeld says making a film effectively means becoming several different people. One filmmaker writes, a more assertive one directs, and a more reflective final filmmaker finishes the edit. His characters, however, tend to occupy in-between states. They often straddle the waking and sleeping world and Rubenfeld not only blurs the line between reality and fantasy but between dreams and memories as well.
Rubenfeld’s debut short, Where I Work (2011), predicts some of the drab dread of Joel Potrykus and the Brooklyn filmmaker’s masterpiece, Wake Me When I Leave (2015), turns the stuff of mumblecore relationship dramas into a Lynchian nightmare.
Another Sinking Sun finds Rubenfeld again placing his characters and his audience in a hypnagogic state, somewhere between the waking world and the foggier realm of dreams and memories. We watch a one-sided phone conversation in which an unnamed Narrator recalls a strangely comforting presence from her past. With a jaundiced sense of nostalgia and clear affection for the texture of cathode-ray tube images, it’s a perfect introduction to Rubenfeld’s typical preoccupations.
I recently spoke with Rubenfeld about the impressive body of work he’s built since Where I Work. Split Tooth is also excited to host the exclusive online premiere of Another Sinking Sun, Rubenfeld’s latest film. Stream it below and check out my career-spanning discussion with Rubenfeld.
Bennett Glace, Split Tooth Media: Do you consider screens a comforting presence?
Tyler Rubenfeld: Oh yeah. I remember the character [Rosa Gilmore in Another Sinking Sun] says she can’t sleep without noise and I’m the same way. There was a certain point where I had a TV in my bedroom growing up and there was comfort in knowing that if I woke up at four in the morning I could put on Tom and Jerry or something like that until I fell back asleep again. There’s comfort in life going on regardless of whether you’re asleep or not. And I’ll still drift off while watching TV. I wish I was a lot more technical minded when it comes to how cathode-ray tubes work because I’m sure I would capitalize on that. There’s obviously a nostalgic pull to a tube TV, seeing the pixels, and the smeary transitions. We shot on a Red the first day and then on the second day we exported it through a series of 17 dongles to the tube TV. To see that transition, even though it’s contemporary footage, it still goes through this stage where it’s sent back in time. It’s even in the sound design. Our sound mixer was talking about the frequency those TVs make and adding that people over a certain age can’t hear the frequency. I think that auditory pull of the TV is comforting too.
How do you characterize Another Sinking Sun’s relationship to the past and your work in general’s relationship to the past?
Nostalgia is a weird thing. It’s sort of like working with big ideas where I know I have to use a light touch. I’m not trying to make Stranger Things. That to me is the kind of nostalgia where people cling to it like a life preserver. And I fall prey to it too. When I’m watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 as I’m drifting off to sleep, I’m remembering a time when this was actually on TV. I’m as prone to nostalgia as anybody else, but I don’t think that’s quite it. What we’re seeing are memories that are affected by the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia. I think it’s just part of the aging process.
I try not to fetishize it either, but I’m also aware that the use of VHS in Innards (2017) was a big reason why it got into pretty big festivals. At that point, VHS stuff wasn’t everywhere. Now every music video from a contemporary artist looks like VHS. There’s this filter that looks awful. But I’m sure that was part of what people were responding to with Innards and it brings me comfort, seeing those images on VHS. Even though I was there when we shot it for Innards, seeing it I thought, ‘Wow, this looks like a real movie.’ I’m interested in memory. What happens to memory as it gets older and foggier and it’s affected by things that may not have happened. And we’re thinking about the early ’90s or late ’80s which is why a lot of turquoises and pinks are highlighted in the film.
Do you find that your relationship with the past has changed in the decade-plus since you started making films?
I’m not as interested in looking forward. I think I’m still focused on looking back into the past when it comes to making films. Which is not to say that I won’t make a contemporary film. It’s just not something that’s pulling me right now. And obviously there’s another 15 years of experience and memory. Because I try not to overanalyze, I’m not too focused on what has happened in those intervening years and how it affects my writing process. The writing process has remained the same. I just try to get in touch with what I’m feeling in the moment and try to get in touch with something that there are no words for and that’s become more of a driving force as I’ve gotten older. Trying to get in touch with a specific feeling when I’m writing or when I’m editing or when I’m working on a poster — something that’s hard to put your finger on. And trying to make it as objective as possible because I want the films to feel universal, but I think the only way to make universal art is to make it hyper specific.
You credit our main character as Narrator. Why that title as opposed to something like storyteller or protagonist?
It felt wrong to give her a name and it felt sort of impersonal to just call her Woman. She is telling a story and I think we are seeing her recollection of things crafted into a visual narrative. That’s part of the reason.
On a similar note, let’s talk about the title. Could you tell me more about what it means to you?
That’s a lyric from a Blaze Foley song. I’m not an expert in his music, but I have a list on my phone of potential movie titles. Another Sinking Sun was written without a title. I was going through my list and I’m very rarely able to sync up and find something that matches the thing I’ve written. But seeing those together and thinking of the TV as its own sun resonated. This obviously goes against the natural order of things. There’s only one sun and there’s nothing natural about this thing from Magnavox that’s emitting this light. But it does provide comfort. I believe it’s reflected in the dialogue, the idea that the world is still turning because this appliance is still broadcasting images. And then it breaks. We can’t depend on that world to keep going either. We can’t depend on the material world to provide us with endless comfort.
If it’s not too close to asking, ‘What does it all mean?’ who did you direct Rosa Gilmore to think was on the other side of the call?
I left that up to her, actually. She asked in our initial phone call and she gave me her interpretation of what was going on. I think we briefly suggested she might be talking to a close friend or a former significant other. I don’t know specifically who she chose. I don’t want to dictate everything as a director. I do like to leave room for actors to keep secrets from me. And if I think it’s off base I’ll just tell them to stop. She really knocked it out of the park.
Do you see the new short as a continuation or even a culmination of some techniques and ideas that have interested you so far?
I think so. When I rewatched it after watching Wake Me When I Leave (2015), it seemed like a more pared-down look into some of the same ideas. There’s a focus on the fallibility of memory and the very thin line between memory and dream. It’s not quite expressed that this is a dream she might be describing — unless it is. Also the sense of alienation. I think this really felt like a more cohesive union of a lot of themes.
In a 2022 interview you said you tend to work intuitively and try to avoid overanalyzing things that just feel right. Would you say that’s true of shooting as well as editing, or do you start to analyze more after a certain stage in the filmmaking process?
I’m still very intuitive when it comes to editing. That is when the bigger ideas really come into focus, but it’s never been as clear as watching something and thinking, ‘Oh, that’s what it’s about.’ Or, ‘It’s really more about loneliness than I thought, let me highlight this.’ I’m still kid gloves when it comes to analysis, even while I’m editing. If it comes somewhere it’s near the end, but I still try not to look directly at it.
Are you prone to much analysis after the fact? Does something like a Q&A come naturally?
I always come up with answers. I’ve never been able to write with an outline. I’ve only ever been able to just vomit out words and sort of shape it after the fact. With Q&As, I try to be charming and speak honestly. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, I’m working alone on a computer and that’s very much a safe space for me to take a risk. Of the three — writing, directing, and editing — I’m least comfortable with the directing because I’m very self-conscious. I’m most comfortable when I’m by myself and that’s when I’m most open to big ideas. It’s like that when I’m writing, it’s like that when I’m editing, and in the middle, it’s like I pass it off to another guy who is in charge of production. He has to be approachable and has to communicate ideas very clearly and it’s almost like going into a weird sense of hypersleep.
I direct maybe one or two days out of the year, so I’m not very used to it. I need to be able to answer all sorts of questions. I need to not sweat about us being behind schedule. Also, for an awkward person like me, I always cringe when it comes to imposing on people. And directing is imposing on people. You need to be selfish. You need to be in touch with whatever it is you want to communicate and it may not be the nicest thing in the world. It’s also exhilarating in a way. That’s where the analysis comes in. It comes in a little bit in the directing stage. It comes in a little bit during rewrites and maybe near the end of the edit.
Do you ever have realizations about past films while at work on a new one?
More and more. It’s rare that I look at everything I’ve made, but while I was making Another Sinking Sun, I wondered about repeating myself. When I was reading the script, I thought, ‘This follows a lot of the same beats as Innards.’ You’ve got someone talking on the phone, it’s a one-sided conversation, and you’ve got this relationship with the televisual image. I had to send it to a few people to make sure I wasn’t just ripping myself off. People were nice enough to say I should go ahead and make it. I’m aware that I follow certain themes, but I try not to think about that when I sit down to write because I will get tripped up if I think I’m copying myself.
I’m quite liberal with my definitions, but a lot of your films could be called horror films. Do you think of them that way or ever set out to play in a certain genre mode?
Only when it comes to some of my earliest short films. My earliest work is some comedy sketches I made in college that are thankfully not widely available. Then I made some short films while I was living in Kalamazoo, Michigan, with some college friends. I was 23 and I made three shorts in a year, which is ridiculous to me. Then again, the crew was just me. Sometimes we had a friend on sound. The third film I made was called Where I Work (2011), which was a straight horror film. And I had so much fun with that. That felt so much more electrifying than trying to make something that’s a little closer to mumblecore. These were necessary steps to making better stuff. It clicked for me that I could work in this genre and established a comfort zone early on. I didn’t really think of the subsequent films as horror.
Where I Work is great. It kind of predicts Joel Potrykus’ films.
Thank you for digging that back up because I’ve got a lot of affection for that film. I know it’s not perfect and I know if you don’t pay attention to any of the dialogue, it’s an even better film, but it came from a very pure place. I’d never seen white collar horror before. I was 23, I’d never had an office job so that was an abstraction, but it’s charming. He shits out neckties.
Your next film, Vlogger (2013) has one of the better depictions of a drug trip I’ve seen. Were you aiming to avoid the usual visual cliches? Those sequences can sink almost any director.
I’ve seen a few of those, but that’s another thing that was sort of an abstraction. I don’t do much in the way of drugs. I lived in that apartment that features in Vlogger and then in Wake Me When I Leave with five other guys. They’d drop acid every now and then and I would listen to their stories after the fact. I wanted to respect what they were experiencing without turning it into a joke. Back then I was sort of looking for an excuse to break the reality of the film. In Wake Me we’re dealing with dreams, in Vlogger a drug trip takes us into a subjective reality; I’ve started to wonder if I need an excuse anymore. I’m not sure what my influences were. There are so many things in the film that were happy accidents. My favorite scene is when he’s tripping and she comes into the room and you can’t hear what she’s saying, but she’s emitting a light and he’s wearing a red Communist shirt. It’s got this staged lighting and his red shirt looks really great against this wonderful blue background. And that was completely an afterthought, ‘what should my character be wearing?’ And he picked a shirt out from his drawer. I look back on the movies I made when I was younger and I love how open they were, open to collaboration and last-minute changes, and how freeing it felt.
Do you see Vlogger as a companion piece to Wake Me?
Definitely. It was because of doing Vlogger that I had the confidence to say, ‘let’s do this again, same crew, except it’ll be three times longer.’ You’re on Michael’s side a lot more in Vlogger. When I watched Wake Me yesterday I was surprised how much of an incel his character felt like. That kind of insecure male character really evolved from one movie to the next.
Related: Read Bennett Glace’s interview with Christopher Jason Bell
Are you ever thinking about the tropes of romantic dramas, maybe how they manifest in mumblecore?
There was nothing back then that was particularly interesting about romantic films. Older mumblecore films, the really good ones, hinge on the chemistry between the characters and more often than not romantic chemistry. I knew that Michael [Fentin] and Jenna [D’Angelo], while not an item in real life, had a comfortable chemistry with each other. I knew they’d be believable as two people who would be drawn to each other and have a rapport. I don’t know what was in the air when I made Wake Me, but I was really willing to alienate people. Michael is the most charming person and in both films I made him sort of inward looking. He’s got that awful goatee in Wake Me, which he kept for a year. I knew there was chemistry, but I wasn’t interested in the honeymoon period of their time together. I was more interested in filling in the blanks from a meet-cute to having gotten used to each other and I was more interested in horror than anything romantic. I embraced the lack of equilibrium.
From the cold open, you’re very disarmed and it’s tough to get a handle on things. You’ve mentioned in the past that you like to storyboard extensively. Was scripting any different for a film that’s got so much back and forth between different planes?
It was mostly scripted the way it plays out. I get tripped up easily when I write and writing out of order is tougher than it should be. The thing about Wake Me was that we shot about 95 percent of what was scripted, and we were trying to get completion funds and get everything ready when we realized that the thing was 45-50 minutes, which was a nightmare. It was like, ‘Fuck. This is the dead zone.’ So I had to go back and write additional scenes, which can seem like padding, but I think they’re really charming. They give you more time with the characters. I wouldn’t recommend doing it this way, but the weird experience of having to film another 20 minutes did wind up adding to the film.
Tell me about Television REM Cycle (2015). This short experiment is the first of several of your films to use video textures and cathode-ray tube TVs.
That came from going back to visiting my parents in Michigan and seeing that you could play a DVD and a VHS at the same time on the TV in my childhood bedroom. They would blend together in random ways and I loved how that looked and spent a lot of time watching it. There was something about taking pieces of films that have strict narratives and sending them into a place where there isn’t really a sense of control, like a random image generator. I enjoyed that after making Wake Me, and using footage from Wake Me, that there was still stuff to dwell on as you blended it and slowed it down. I found it sort of mesmerizing.
What was it like directing the same actor to play two different but identical characters in Innards?
It’s Frank Mosley, he can do it all. Directing Frank was a dream because he’s one of the sweetest people and he’s an absolutely amazing actor. He’s open to collaboration and that’s sort of the sweet spot for me. For the child actor, the one with all the dialogue, we spent a lot of time talking about what made the character tick. I remember telling him, ‘I think he really likes the song “Sister Christian.” I think he thinks that’s a really cool song.’ And then we got him a denim jacket and it all sort of came together. There was a lot of collaboration in building that character. I don’t remember as much of the conversation about the other character. I think we thankfully shot that on a different day. Frank understood that this character is more internal and I think from the moment he started reading the script he was already getting into the character and treating them as a person rather than an abstraction. It’d be easy to focus on the surface details of a character who doesn’t have any dialogue. We reshot a lot of that pretty recently because Innards is an excerpt from a script for a feature called Planets. I got to work with Frank again on these characters and it was a dream to jump right back in and try new things.
Related: Watch Frank Mosley’s teenage alien epic Invaders From Venus!
Did you follow your usual scripting and storyboarding process for Innards, the film within the film?
We had a script, we had storyboards, but we also had a lot of limitations. I had gotten a big former news camera from the early ’90s on eBay. I knew from camera tests that it worked, but the VCR we brought to set that day ate the test tape so we couldn’t actually watch the footage after we’d shot it. And because it required a lot more light and we were all in my DP’s friend’s basement in August, it was very hot and sticky. I originally imagined expressionistic light and colors, but we didn’t have time for that or the light for that. I also knew because I had watched quite a few shot-on-video horror films that a lot of these films are made from whatever happens that day. It felt like we had to embrace these sort of limitations. And, thankfully, once we were able to digitize the footage, it looked great. It was such a fun day of shooting. I can’t remember a more fun day. I never did zombie movies growing up. I never shot horror movies with fake blood and severed limbs and all that. It was a lot of fun to be on day three of a three-day shoot and have it be completely silly. And I loved the way that ended up looking.
It’s quite something to watch Ursula Promo (2018) during a headline-making natural disaster. Is there any commentary about climate change in the film?
Yeah. Probably. That’s a movie that I revisit every now and then and it stays relevant. I’m very cautious with big ideas. There’s nothing worse than really obvious satire. I tried to keep it light with that and I think something that resonates when I watch it is that no matter how dire, how apocalyptic things get, we still need to go do our job. We still have to go to the grocery store. They’re joking around at the end and there’s not much else to do. I think the way it reflects on the inevitability of the work grind even as things get worse and worse has kept it resonant.
Is Decent Living (2019) at all informed by life as a filmmaker or is its absurd scenario drawn more from just living in New York?
There’s some of that. There’s probably a lot more of that. Decent Living is a weird one because I spent a long time not particularly liking that film. I think that came from Innards having way more of a festival life than I expected and Decent Living having no festival life whatsoever. I internalized the rejection a little bit. It was the only one of my films where it seemed like it was dated by the time I finished editing it. Now when I rewatch it, however, I’m a little more warm to it ’cause it doesn’t matter that they talk about 2020. That might be the film that has the most direct manifestation of the nagging questions about the future. The film is really about the sort of aggressive type of people who aren’t afraid to be sort of careerist to get ahead and the skeezy quality of that. I was responding to that and, I’m sure, the years of Trump being President. How are we supposed to be good people when the most obviously corrupt person has risen to the highest office? It was a lot of those ideas swirling around. I look back on it as an interesting challenge. I was working with all new actors. The outdoor stuff, I don’t really shoot fly on the wall like that anymore. I look back on it warmly and I also realize festival rejections have nothing to do with quality.
Explore Tyler Rubenfeld’s films and design work
at his website and Vimeo page
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