In
a moment that is emblematic of the film's history and the brothers' overcome-all-odds
attitude, they sped home and spent the next four days in a fund-raising
fury, trying to raise the $50,000 it would cost to convert to film. It
seemed impossible, since to that time they had raised only $2,000 for the
project, relying heavily on credit cards and income from odd jobs. Adrian
now got out a list he'd kept of everyone they'd met in conjunction with
"Genghis Blues": sound people, lawyers, friends of friends' parents.
He began his
calls by reintroducing himself and saying, "This is the situation ..."
One New York society woman -- he can't remember how he came by her phone
number, the string of connections was so improbable -- told him that it
was much easier to raise $10,000 that $10. To his disbelief, he found her
words to be true. Some very unexpected "friends," people they hardly knew
but who were enthusiastic about the film, appeared just in time.
Following that
baptism by fire, Sundance smiled on them. When they were unable to find
a place to stay in expensive Park City, another benefactor offered them
a condo with fireplaces and Jacuzzis. Then, when festival officials slotted
Paul and Kongar-ol for a mere 20-minute concert the day before the film's
screening, Adrian found a local priest who was willing to open his chapel.
They packed in more than 100 people for each of three concerts.
Part of the
successful buzz they experienced was due to the smart-looking glossy posters
and postcards they put up around town. The materials, well beyond their
budget, had been eked out through many late nights spent endearing themselves
to copy store staffs in San Francisco.
Now, Hollywood
types asked them in all sincerity who was doing their press. "I blurted
out about how my mom and friends all over the country had pitched in,"
Adrian recalls, amused at his own naivete. "Later, someone took me aside
and counseled that in the future I should say, 'Our people are doing great
work.'" The entire week was the first sweet whiff of success.
Now, with the
Oscars fast approaching and "Buena Vista Social Club" being hailed as a
shoo-in, Adrian and Roko and "their people" are hard at it again. "We had
to fight for days to get the Academy's mailing list," Adrian says, "even
though every major studio has a copy of it." They've stayed up late every
night since returning from Mongolia, addressing postcards and making phone
calls.
"In a joyous
way," he continues, speaking to anyone who still wonders why they're putting
so much into what seems like a David and Goliath battle, "we feel a responsibility
to see how far this film can go." Partly, it's about being true to themselves
and the same level of energy that drives their travels. It's also for Paul,
who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just after celebrating his 49th
birthday at Sundance last year. The entire experience of "Genghis Blues,"
from the close bond he's made with Kongar-ol, to the acceptance he felt
by the Tuvan people, has been a complete and unanticipated pleasure for
him.
"Paul keeps
telling me that this has been the best time in his life," says Roko. "It's
really nice to be part of that."
On Sunday,
he'll have another opportunity he could never have imagined: a trip to
the Oscars along with Roko, Adrian and their mother. It will be a surreal
moment for the brothers as well, sitting under the flashing lights, surrounded
by a sea of tuxedos -- half a world away from the sea of stars they slept
under just weeks ago, as they nestled into down bags in the midst of the
Gobi.
