LeSaint savagely attacks the miniature space colony, sending shards of plastic and Styrofoam flying through the studio. He strikes a light, sending it to the floor and knocking one of the cameras sideways. Pieces of metal ding, dingas they fall to the ground. Then he strikes the miniature set with the other end of the Easton like a spear.
Finally, LeSaint makes an about-face, his gray shirt smeared with blood. He walks calmly toward the camera. "Now that's how we get things done," LeSaint says matter of factly, walking off the set.
Colby Katz
Colby Katz
Liza Trainer (above left) films the destruction in the final scene of Aliens Ted-E (above right). Ken LeSaint (left) and Damian Hyde (right) sport Ted-E's freshly spilled blood.
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And that was the end of the tenth episode of Ted-E Adventures. It's exactly this type of violent but inventive film that Trainer and her group of young filmmakers hope to encourage others to make. They estimate that there are hundreds of aspiring filmmakers toying around with video-editing programs on home computers. All they need is a project, or so Trainer believes.
And that's partly why she decided to base her film series on a white bear; it's a cheap product readily available worldwide. "You could make a Ted-E Adventurefor $7 to $10," she says. "We want to create a following with Ted-E Adventures."
To submit a short film, according to the website, the rules are simple. In fact, there's only one rule: Ted-E must die. Any format, including animation, is allowed. Under the submissions section of the website, the Ted-E Adventures filmmakers have posted three easy-to-make films that they hope will serve as examples and inspirations for others. In them, Ted-E is massacred by a large chainsaw-wielding figure; the little bear is then sliced in half by an ax and shake-and-baked in a "killer drier."
The group hopes that the original films, coupled with others submitted by independent filmmakers, will catch on through word of mouth and build an online audience. Then maybe some big-name filmmaker like Gus Van Sant will notice.
"When you're working with no budget and improvising, it's all about talent," Trainer explains. "And that's the point. It makes no difference if you're making a film for $4 or $4 million. You either have talent or you don't."
As the bars along Himmarshee empty out at 3 a.m. on Saturday, January 17, one of Trainer's friends pulls up in a cab alongside Murphy's Law. It's Jimmy Warner, a 34-year-old bartender at the Factory who lives around the corner from the filmmaker. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, Warner takes a bottle of Miller Lite from Trainer and offers a mischievous smile. Like the law-evading DJ Cash, Warner has volunteered to perform crazy stunts in the name of Ted-E Adventures.
He lifts the bottle of beer to his lips, then notices a woman walking by in a tight-fitting black miniskirt. He creeps up from behind. "That's a right nice turd cutter you got yourself there, lassie," he says in a fake Irish accent. The woman turns. Warner smiles. She walks off, disgusted. Warner returns to the Crown Victoria with a look of victory in his eyes as Trainer hands him a golf club. "It's time," she says.
Tacked onto the roof of the Crown Victoria is a wooden board covered in green carpeting. Eight-inch lines of tape lead from the bumper and up over the back windshield to mark the path from the street to the driving range atop the car. Warner sets his beer on the ground and hops up. He takes a few practice swings as one of Fort Lauderdale's finest drags a man from Murphy's Law and into the back of the cruiser parked in front of the Bearmobile. Trailing behind the cop and the detainee are three scantily clad women. The one seemingly in charge motions to a Murphy's Law bouncer. "Hey!" she yells, extending her middle finger in the air. "You see this? Fuck you!"
Warner laughs and then sees a woman in white pants and a red blouse whom he recognizes from the Factory. He motions to her, and she climbs atop the car. Warner hands her the golf club and places a two-inch-tall teddy bear on the green. They face south, with Warner cradling her hips in his hands to aid her swing. "C'mon, Jimmy!" Trainer says. "Knock that shit off."
The woman tees off and misses as Trainer videotapes. Then she notices the cop standing next to the cruiser, right in the middle of their urban golf course. "Don't hit the cop!" she yells. "Don't hit the cop!"
She doesn't. But Ted-E, as always, is history.
