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There Goes the Hood

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Maybe a 38-year-old director should speak gingerly to a roomful of prepubescents in his charge. Or maybe not.

"You su-u-uck!" he howls at everybody and nobody in particular after a fruitless take. In his singsong Jamaican lilt, he barks at the actors to snap to attention and get this scene completed. It's an act that evokes respect from his young talent.

"He yells at us," Stringbean shrugs nonchalantly.

"I'm 14, but he treats me like a grown man on the set," Chadd offers with a confidence that betrays his years.

While newer actors might be intimidated by Silvera, the three stars know him too well to fall for his routine. They lived with the director in his Fort Lauderdale home for the summer before shooting began. He plied them with pizza and cereal while bringing in an acting coach and dragging Lunch Money to skateboard lessons. It was like a season of Making the Band.

"You had to see us onscreen and not second-guess our friendship," Lunch Money explains. "It's a comedy — but there's some heartfelt shit."

Just then, the young female assistant director yells "Lock it up!" through a bullhorn. The cameras roll.

When they finally nail the scene, Silvera's gruff face loosens into a juicy smile.

"He's a puttycat," one of the cameramen says.


Exhausted from a string of 16-hour days, Cess Silvera dirties his Barack Obama T-shirt when he flops down in the back of a U-Haul parked outside the yellow house that serves as both set and production headquarters. It's just blocks from the site of Silvera's boyhood home, which has long since been demolished. "Funny enough," he says, surveying his old stomping grounds, "it's the exact fuckin' same." Change may be better measured on Silvera's corpulent physique. He ran into some people he knew, he says, "and they told me, 'You got fatter!' " He chuckles wickedly.

Silvera says that, beginning in his childhood in Jamaica — which he hints was not necessarily rosy — he's always channeled his emotions by scribbling stories onto legal pads. "Bloody, grimy ideas," he says. "I wanted to destroy the people hurting me." One day, his dad and stepmom found a book in which he'd drawn out plans for killing his family. "My dad busted my ass. That's how I knew that writing was powerful. It could affect people."

Around age 14, he was expelled from school and shipped out to live with relatives near Sistrunk, like a rabbit tossed into a briar patch. "It was a dangerous time," Silvera says. The late '80s. "The height of the crack epidemic."

He got a job at a neighborhood institution — a little grocery store/takeout restaurant called Ivory's, where he made $80 a week. But a co-worker named Emma, he says, showed him how to clear $800 a week working there — with the help of some five-finger discounts from the cash register. "Emma taught me too well," he says cryptically. His morals slid.

In his characteristic casting style, Silvera returned to film a scene for G.E.D. at Ivory's and offer Emma a role only to find out that she had died. Ivory's owner, Lorraine Mizell, was shocked to hear that Silvera — whom she remembers as an "innocent and nice" kid — was a little thief! But she wishes him well.

Silvera claims he never held a real job after Ivory's. Around age 20, he moved to Brooklyn, where he made a living by doing "some shit I'm not proud of."

In his down time, Silvera studied his favorite directors by stealing books from the library. Come to think of it, "I owe the Brooklyn library a check," he realizes. While other young would-be directors were studying their craft at USC film school or apprenticing with established directors, Silvera read tomes about John Woo, Quentin Tarantino, Sergio Leone, John Ford. He tutored himself by watching behind-the-scenes "Making Of" videos. Through it all, he kept writing.

Skipping over the 1990s and picking up his life story "when I got out of jail" circa 2000, Silvera says he realized he needed to find a lifestyle that wouldn't kill him. He turned to his brother, Keith "Fada Screw" Deans, and asked, "Why don't we make a movie? We've got the money." How he got that kind of money, he won't elaborate (and criminal records are inconclusive), but within days, Silvera says, he had drafted a script for Shottas, a shoot-'em-up about the hard, violent lives of modern-day, drug-dealing Jamaican gangsters. His plot called for hails of bullets, dramatic deaths in slow-mo, and a tremendous body count. His characters would bang big-tittied women in hot tubs and spout classic lines like "Go suck your mother's sour pussy."

When it came to the actual filmmaking, Silvera didn't let inexperience get in his way. Leaning on his bravado, he says he simply "called up a friend who made music videos and said, 'Can you help me get a film crew?' " Simple as that.

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Deirdra Funcheon

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