Five years after his surrealist comedy Relaxer, and over a decade since his breakout Buzzard, Joel Potrykus is back with Vulcanizadora. For those familiar with Potrykus’ work, his fifth feature continues the singular, rebellious style he and his film band Sob Noisse established since his feature debut Ape. Shot on a low budget, the film stars frequent collaborator Joshua Burge and Potrykus himself as two friends venturing into the woods after an incident has one of them on the run. They have a destination in mind, and over time it’s revealed that they have a disturbing plan involving a homemade contraption that could easily fit in a Saw film. Once they arrive at their endpoint, their plan goes sideways, and the film deals with the fallout of their actions once they return home.
For some time, Vulcanizadora operates in a mode Potrykus excels at: an abrasive, divisive, and comedic look at juvenile men at their worst, to the point where some might see it as either an endurance test or flat-out hilarious. But his unflinching look at these two characters forces viewers to sit with them until they’re seen as human beings instead of dismissable trolls. Adding to the complexity is the reveal that the film is a sequel to Buzzard, with Burge and Potrykus reprising their roles as Marty and Derek, and Potrykus weaving in elements from his own life: Derek has a son played by Potrykus’ own six-year-old child (it’s worth reading his article on becoming a father and its recent follow-up). By invoking questions about the ultimate end point of the lives Marty and Derek lead, Vulcanizadora winds up in a more pensive, existential place than its provocative opening act, which introduces a vulnerability from Potrykus not seen in his prior films.
Before the film’s international premiere at the Fantasia Film Festival, I sat down with Joel Potrykus to discuss Vulcanizadora, as well as his feelings on remaining a truly independent filmmaker over the years.
Before Vulcanizadora premiered, you said you had a lot of dark thoughts you put into these characters, and you weren’t even sure if you’re ready to talk about it yet. Now you’re talking about it.
Joel Potrykus: [Laughs] I have to!
What has that process been like since the film’s premiere?
Before anybody saw it I was like, “Oh, this is really deep and dark for people. They’re not going to handle it.” It’s fine. Everybody responds well to it. Nobody’s been freaked out by it. I think I very much [overestimated] people’s ability to process dark shit. There are certain lines in there that I was really afraid of. Because I say “Oh, it’s honest, I’m a dad now,” and I’m putting lines in there that my character says about my actual son in the movie, like “I spanked him when he was six months old.” That freaks me out because I’ve never spanked my son. So at Q&As I’m like, “By the way, guys, I’ve never spanked my son.”
When I say this is honest, and comes from personal experience, that’s not one of them. It’s figuring out what’s coming from me and what’s not, so that stuff still does freak me out. But overall, the big moment in the movie, people haven’t thought it was irresponsible or anything. That was my fear: that people thought it was in bad taste or something that, in today’s climate, was not a good thing to do. But I haven’t gotten that yet.
Is that a new feeling for you?
It’s a new feeling. I’ve never had that fear before releasing something. But I have played festivals where certain people thought that. For instance, with Buzzard, somebody saw that at a premiere overseas. She was like, “This is why Americans like this. You’re promoting violence.” And I was like, “Whoa, this is so weird.” But I very rarely get that. I thought maybe there might be some of that with this one, like on Letterboxd or something. That has not happened.
This film is more vulnerable for you. Was it vital for you to get these feelings out through filmmaking?
No, but once I put myself in the movie all of that came out naturally. Then it was awesome. There are so many, especially dads that I’ve run into who have seen it like, “Yeah, man, I have all these bad thoughts and things.” That has been awesome, just connecting with people who can relate to the darkness of parenthood. Before I had my son, all I heard about was how beautiful it was going to be and change your life. It definitely changed my life, and it was kind of beautiful, but it also kind of sucked a lot. I wanted to talk about that, and it’s been really cool to have that conversation with people.
You also said that you wanted to hit this very specific tone of sad, funny, and scary.
It kind of always is the tone for everything: sad, funny, scary. Usually it takes me a long time to write a script. Not all of it works, and this one just came out really easy. I liked how clean and simple it was, and I thought that it could hit all of those marks naturally without forcing anything in it. The situation felt sad, funny, and scary all at the same time. I think it just worked for me. I love the idea that I can see this whole thing, and I can see people hating it and I can see people loving it. And that’s what I’m going for: you’re gonna love it or hate it.
Joel Potrykus. Photo by Vincent Courtois.
Was there a specific image or concept that you wanted to work off of as a starting point?
I saw Gerry by Gus Van Sant and I misread that movie. I thought that they had a plan the whole time. I was like, “Oh, this is going somewhere, they’re on a mission here.” And I was like, “Oh, they’re just lost. That’s… I don’t love this movie as much.” They should have had plans. And when it ends, what happens to the Matt Damon character when he goes back into society and explains himself? It didn’t go where I wanted it to go. I took all of that and I said I’m gonna make my own version of it. The device [in Vulcanizadora] didn’t come until way later. They were just gonna have guns, and that’s lame. But for a long time it was guns, and then we started to think more about it.
So at what point did you come up with the device?
The group of filmmakers I work with, we talk about everything we make once or twice a week. We were talking about all the crazy and different ways you could do that to yourself. And our production designer said that. I was like, “That’s too much, man.” And then a couple days later I went, “No, that’s great. That’s freaky. That’s like the stuff that mom and dad warned you about as a kid to not play with fireworks.”
What made you want to revisit these characters from Buzzard?
It wasn’t [originally planned]. I pitched it to a super-famous actor and he was thinking about it. But then I always have Josh Burge in my movies, and I don’t know if I can cast both of these guys. Every movie I make, there’s a straight man and there’s the comedic foil, and Josh is a great straight man. I’ve never seen this other actor be funny. I didn’t know if this movie would work with two guys who are both stoic. There’s no balance there. So then I started thinking, “Who can be funny?” I don’t have a list. I have very few actors that I know, so what if I did it? I’ve already been in a movie with Josh. And what if we bring back these characters? I didn’t want to meet different characters. It would have felt artificial to try to create two different characters played by the same guys. So I let it be the same 10 years later. Once I had that figured out it was easy to write.
How do you feel about Buzzard now?
Every time I make a new movie I forget the last one. I’m like, “Oh, it sucks,” which is a good feeling. I feel bummed when some filmmakers are disappointed with their new work. I’ve never had that, luckily. So I don’t think about Buzzard that much. I’ll occasionally check reviews or somebody will write to me saying they saw it, which is cool. That was a little movie we made with a DSLR camera with six people for $10,000, and it was awesome. Filmmaking was different back then. When I think about Buzzard, I think about how we made it and how different it is now, working with unions and things like that. So Vulcanizadora feels almost weirdly disconnected, because it’s shot on film and it’s just such a different process to make it. It’s hard for me to look at anything I’ve made without just seeing the behind-the-scenes.
I noticed with your films that you have characters who are either in isolation or going into hiding. I was wondering what drew you to that.
I’m just somebody who loves to be alone. [Laughs] I can go years without talking to a single person and be so content. It’s not something I think about. I assume everybody wants to be alone and left by themselves, so that’s what my characters do. Oh, wouldn’t it be great if you’re out in the woods? Wouldn’t it be great to live in a basement or your apartment by yourself? It just comes out.
What’s your working relationship like with Joshua Burge, now that you’ve worked with him on five features?
There has never been a second of friction between us. [I say] “Okay, so this scene, you’re gonna…” and he’s like, “Yeah, I got it.” We don’t even have to communicate about what’s going to happen in the story or the scene. I don’t really give him any direction. Usually, the direction is, “Go from here to there.” I have that relationship with everybody [in the crew] because we’ve all been making these movies for so long that we’re all on the same page. It’s so easy. Conflict is good to, you know, butt heads and get things out, but we’re all making the same thing. And it’s so cool and so simple. When I had that big, famous actor on the line, I was like, “This isn’t what I want to do, man.” What am I doing this for? I wonder that about [other filmmakers]. What do you make movies for? Is it to hang out with your friends and do something cool, or is it to have a career? To me it’s still making movies with my best friends. That hasn’t changed.
I assume it’s the same kind of relationship with your cinematographer Adam J. Minnick, who you’ve worked with even more.
Yeah. I’ve known Adam since high school. And it’s like, “So here we’re gonna do, you know, like what Kelly Reichardt…” “Oh, yeah, we’ll do a Kelly Reichardt thing here.” We just know it; we’re immediately on the same page. I don’t have to talk about how it moves or anything. We both get it. And when somebody comes up with an idea we both really love it––like the long scene in Vulcanizadora in the middle where it’s just close-ups. I said, “Let’s just do this thing, faces just filling the frame” and [he says] “Awesome.”
This is more to confirm my own suspicion, but with the soundtrack you’re using classical pieces by Ligety and Dvorak, and then you use a song by Nailbomb.
That’s the same song from To Die For by Gus Van Sant, when Nicole Kidman is walking in slow-motion and Joaquin Phoenix and Casey Affleck fall in love with her. I show that scene to my students. I’m like, “Go against what you know the obvious is gonna be.” So that’s a little homage.
I haven’t seen To Die For, but the reference I was thinking about was the most obvious one, which is Funny Games.
Oh yeah! Dude, I had never seen Funny Games, the original. I had never seen any Michael Haneke films. I was a critic and I was assigned to watch Funny Games. And it was one that I went to a screening. It was actually playing in my theater somehow. When that intro came on I was like, “This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.” There were only, like, eight people there; by the end of the screening I was the only one there. Everybody walked out. And then, when that music came in at the end, I stood up and I was just like, [raises fist] “Yes!” I drove to a party after and told everybody.
You’ve been teaching for some time, and now you’re making short films with your students. With that and being a father now, has being in more of a mentor-type role influenced the way you’re making your films now?
No. I think that the short films I make with students are a little… it’s not the right word, but maybe a little tamer. Vulcanizadora is something I actually wanted to make with students, and when I told the faculty they were like, “We don’t think that’s a very responsible idea in today’s culture.” And I got that. My features have not changed one bit. But teaching this class to make short films with the students really forces me to think about the movie through their eyes and make something that they would be invested in, rather than something like a couple of middle-aged guys out in the woods. Getting their feedback, what they’re into, and what they want to see in movies has been really cool. But I wouldn’t say it’s affected my features so much.
I think you’re one of the few American filmmakers working today that’s carved out their own distinctive, independent path. Because so much has changed in the industry in the last decade alone, have you noticed a shift in terms of being able to continue down this path of making films on your own terms?
Yeah. I don’t think I’d be able to get started today. Well, I don’t know. Buzzard and Ape, my first two features, were made by scraping together a few bucks. Those were just like “we’re doing it,” and we still have that idea. We’re just doing it. We’re not waiting for permission or anything. And I’m grateful that I don’t have to put up my own money now. But man, it is way different, even in terms of film festivals and what they’re looking for. I think it is much more difficult to get out there now. But at the same time, I get it if certain festivals don’t want to program my stuff. I totally understand and that’s fine.
But I don’t know what most directors are looking for. Is it this, like, career? And what does that mean? Because I know dudes that made movies for A24. They made a really cool little indie themselves and then A24 was interested. And A24 gives you a list of cinematographers to choose from. You can’t use your people anymore. That’s cool that you get to make your movie with a lot of money and actors, but I don’t… why are you doing it at that point?
It’s very house style, from what I’ve seen.
Yeah.
That’s the frustration. At least for me, it’s frustrating.
Yeah. I like A24 movies, and they’re great.
Of course.
But they definitely are a brand, too. They want them to look like [A24]. But I think with Funny Pages, if you’ve seen that, it’s different.
Yeah, but that’s from Elara Pictures, which the Safdies co-founded. I think that took several years to make.
And that’s another thing. I can’t wait. I’m like, “Hey, guys: August 1 we’re shooting this fucking movie.” And I don’t care where the money is coming from––we’re gonna make it this way and we’re not going to wait. Forget about development or, you know, going through any of that. That’s why it drives me nuts. That’s what I don’t understand about other filmmakers. Why would you wait? Why would you go through all these hoops? It’s like being in a band, and then all of a sudden a record label goes, “Okay, we’re gonna bring in this bass player.” And it’s like––no, this is the band! This is what we’ve been doing. I still don’t understand what’s in it [for them] other than the ability to get paid to make movies and get a big budget so you can get more resources. But at the end of the day, these companies dictate how the final cut is going to be. So it’s like a record label saying, “Okay, we’re gonna take out this guitar solo and we’re gonna replace these backing vocals.” I can’t even think that way.
And the issue is also that they brand themselves as independent.
That’s a whole other conversation. [Laughs] I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean anymore. I think there are a lot of independent filmmakers today that are truly independent, but it is much harder when companies like A24 have slots in advance at Sundance to fill. Like [they’re] gonna give six slots to A24. How are you supposed to compete against that? That doesn’t make any sense. It’s really hard to rise above all the noise and the brands out there now.
Vulcanizadora screened at Fantasia International Film Festival.
The post Joel Potrykus on Vulcanizadora, the Darkness of Parenthood, and True Independent Filmmaking first appeared on The Film Stage.
