Tuesday, December 29, 2009


on my 30th birthday we shot a piece for the wonderful hat shop optimo. much thanks goes out to mr. graham thompson, his family, and the talented employees of this truly unique establishment. right here, on chicago's south side, these craftsmen carry on the tradition of making the finest quality goods, by methods unchanged for hundreds of years. graham and his team don't do this to prove a point, they employee these techniques because it's how you make the finest quality hat.

check out what the folks at monocle and gq have to say about it.

final video piece to be posted here soon.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


2009 REEL OPENER from samuel j macon on Vimeo.

this is my new reel opener. executed by the talented mr. steven gray of radar studios. music by the folks at noiseola. special thanks to mr. justin thomas kay for spiritual/font guidance.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Wednesday, November 4, 2009


a handful of new projects are in the works. short documentary piece, commercial work, possible feature project, several music videos, etc. some of these are about to be shot, others are in the most infantile stages of the writing process. in the VERY near future will be the launching of my "proper" personal site here at samueljmacon.com... at which point i will finally allow this blog go spiral out of control into a messy pile of findings, observations, and the like.

Thursday, October 29, 2009


halloween is my favorite holiday. always has been. always will be. due to my travel/work schedule this october, i'm quite lacking in my usual intake of all things holiday. copied and pasted below (without any permission whatsoever) is one of my faves. enjoy.

The Tell-Tale Heart
By Edgar Allan Poe

True! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Wednesday, October 28, 2009


the shoot went wonderfully, and the final product will be posted here as soon as it is ready. i'm excited to be back and to focus on several new projects. more details on that soon. in the mean time... check here for some photos from the trip.

Monday, October 12, 2009


in three days i'm heading to moscow with my good friend and colleague jonah to shoot a commercial for beeline, russia's number two mobile phone provider. we will be blogging about it here.

Friday, September 18, 2009


TITLE CARD READS: Madison Wisconsin 1968
A large, meticulously cared for colonial sits proudly on a deep green tract of suburban land. It is a perfect summer afternoon. Sitting in the garage is a shiny new black Cadillac.
ROSALYN CHAPMAN, 42, stands looking at her reflection in the large bathroom mirror. She is wearing a conservative, elegant, navy blue dress suit. She carefully applies an even coat of lipstick, places the cap back on the lipstick, and sets it down on the marble counter top. Before leaving the bathroom she makes sure all items are in their proper place.
Rosalyn walks down the steps.
Rosalyn walks out of the garage door and looks quietly up and down the block. All is quiet. She retreats a few steps, struggles to reach the pull cord for the garage door, and pulls the door closed.
Rosalyn is sitting, staring out the broad windshield of the black Cadillac. A tennis ball tied to a sting rests softly against the hood ornament. Without hesitation she turns the key, and the car rumbles to life. For a moment her hand rests on the shifter.
A paper boy passes the house and launches the Tuesday evening edition on to the front steps.
The first time my Grandmother attempted to kill herself was in the garage of 432 Mendota Court in July of nineteen sixty-eight.
We see a mantle crowded with Chapman family photos. Holidays, vacations, the good times.
Slowly the garage begins to cloud with exhaust. Rosalyn continues to stare out the front windshield. She then rolls down the window.
We see a portrait of HENRY CHAPMAN, 47 the patriarch of the family. He is dressed in a conductor’s tuxedo.
She was having a rather difficult time dealing with the fact that her husband, my grandfather, at this point in history, and at the time indefinitely, was living with his mistress. She was a young violinist in the University Symphony Orchestra of which he was lead conductor.
To the left of Henry’s portrait is one of THOMAS CHAPMAN as a teenager. He is dressed in his school uniform.
Chances are she would of succeeded had my father, Thomas Chapman, not of been sent home early from his city landscaping job on the account of the tear gas and riot police.
We see archival footage of protesters clashing with police. Banners scream, “PEACE NOW!” “END THE WAR.”
His boss was of the mind that the grass would be there for the cutting tomorrow, hopefully free of tear gas, “those goddamn hippy dippys” as he would say, and riot police.
A young THOMAS CHAPMAN rolls up on his Schwinn cruiser and tosses it haphazardly on the front lawn. He then proceeds to the front door and enters.
Thomas enters the house, and walks from the front hall through the den on his way to the refrigerator.
Mom. Mom I’m home.
Mom! They sent me home.
Unconcerned, Thomas flings open the fridge, and pulls out a glass jug of milk. He pauses a brief moment to make sure he is alone, and then proceeds to chug straight from the bottle. Just as his stomach is about to burst he lowers the bottle, breathing deeply. The deep breathing subsides as something grabs his attention.
Thomas curiously makes his way towards the garage door. The sound of the car running is now audible as is the stench of the exhaust.
Thomas opens the door reluctantly. Through the carbon cloud we see fear come over him. He drops the milk shattering the bottle.
Rosalyn has passed out. Thomas opens the driver side door to pull her out, but soon launches into a panicked coughing fit. He then reconsiders his approach and hurls the garage door open.
A HUGE PLUME of exhaust smoke spills out staining the blue suburban sky. Thomas doubles over coughing , and then runs back into the garage.
Thomas continues to struggle with his mother’s lifeless body.
Mom! Mom wake up. Come on, we got to get you out of here.
In the struggle Thomas inadvertently knocks the gear shift into neutral, and the Cadillac begins rolling backwards. Unsure as to what’s exactly happening Thomas begins to keep pace with the car, all the while attempting to pull Rosalyn out of the vehicle.
The Cadillac comes rolling out of the garage with the driver side door open, and Thomas’ legs hanging out of it.
Unsure as to how to deal with this very fucked situation, Thomas trips over his own feet and falls face first onto the driveway losing a shoe and getting a nosebleed in the process
Thomas raises his head just in time to see the Cadillac with get sideswiped by an unsuspecting VW beetle.
Metal and glass fly everywhere as the houses on the block vomit spectators.

Friday, September 11, 2009


i recently photographed jonathan nesci at work in his studio for my good friend sam vinz's upcoming gallery project "volumes." more on that later. take a look at jonathan's work here.

Monday, August 24, 2009


interesting work from artist martin kohout.

Monday, August 17, 2009



here is my recently completed music video for florida's very own poison the well. the song exist underground is the first single off there new album the tropic rot.

Friday, August 7, 2009


always been a fan of the design, the history, and the playing. above image whipped up by the talented justin thomas kay.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009


here are a few screen captures from my recently completed music video for posion the well's first track off their new album the tropic rot. the track is entitled exist underground, and the video will be posted soon. in slightly related news, as we knock on august's door, summer seems to be here. i sweat as i type.

Thursday, July 16, 2009


though i consider myself little more than an amateur photographer, sometimes i take a picture or two worth looking at.

Friday, July 10, 2009


reference stills for upcoming video project.

Thursday, July 9, 2009


nothing negative meant by the title of this post. just a simple reference to my good friends crocodiles, and their excellent album summer of hate which i have in heavy rotation. check them out here. i'm working on a series of treatments for them in hopes of shooting later this summer... summer you sure do move fast these days.

my california trip/holiday weekend was relaxing, exciting, and inspiring.

currently putting the finishing touches on a treatment for the beautiful and talented zaza. the poison the well video is in the edit, being tightened. more on all of this as things reach completion.

Friday, June 12, 2009


people who know anything about me know that i like "haunted shit." always have. always will. despite my dislike for anything even remotely associated with "fantasy," and complete disbelief in a higher power, ghost have always gotten me going.

in only slightly related news: i am currently in pre-production for a new music video for the band poison the well. i will be directing the video for their new song, exist underground a week from sunday. much more on this later.

now... this video will not be animated. nor will it have anything to do with skeletons, or mountains, or giant devils sitting upon mountains. so how this song/piece of film has anything to do with what i'm shooting next week is unknown to me. i just like it a lot. i have no recollection of any other part of fantasia, but this segment has gotten me excited to make shit since i was about 8 years old. seems to still be working.

Friday, June 5, 2009


william friedkin's horror masterpiece, the exorcist, is one of my favorite films of all time. i will spare you the boredom of my critique/observations/rumination on the film. just enjoy the insanity of this trailer. imagine sitting in a darken movie theatre in the fall of 1973, and this happens upon the screen. epileptics be warned.

Thursday, June 4, 2009


the other day, as i was attempting to make a closet more usable i came across a box that i never lost, but had no knowledge of it's whereabouts. it this box was roughly 300 polaroids all of which where taken in a house above a subway sandwich shop in milwaukee wisconsin circa 02, and several vhs tapes. these vhs tapes contain just about everything my friends and i ever shot between the years of 1993 through 2002-ish. such hits contained within are: green piece, crossroads, the english project 1, english project 2, the spanish american war, d for dead, episodes 1-3 of the never aired penneyless productions television show, brian bell, trick or treat, and many more.

photos being scanned. tapes being digitized. to type more to come, would be a gross understatement.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Work in progress.

this is a new site showcasing/exploring/promoting various creative endeavors of both myself and assorted co-conspirators. at this point i plan for it to be heavily skewed towards my pursuits as a filmmaker... but honestly, who the fuck knows?