the Buckley Bulletin

DREAMSCAPES...

2011-11-27T16:28:00.001-08:00

"Everything we see hides another thing. We always want to see what is hidden bywhat we see." --Rene Magritte

"Like all revolutions, the surrealist revolutionwas a reversion, a restitution, an expression of vital and indispensablespiritual needs." --Eugene Ionesco

Walter Murch wrote about film editing: “When you put two shots together, it's the viewer who makesthe connection. The result of this connection may be a completely new idea thatwasn't in either of the two shots to begin with. When you multiply this bydozens, or hundreds, or thousands of edits, you get a fantastic interactionbetween what's happening on screen and what's in the minds of theaudience. The mind seemspredisposed to do this. My hunch is that it comes from the language of dreams.If you're lucky enough to wake up in the morning and really remember a dream insome detail, and go over it, you'll find it has a cinematic quality. Forinstance, "I was in a supermarket, and then suddenly I was in an orangegrove picking oranges." Those sudden transitions are cuts. If we assumepeople's dreams were cinematic before the invention of the motion picture, thenwhat cinema has done is to take the language of dreams and bring it under ourcontrol.”

These stills from THE TREE OF LIFE remind me of surrealist paintings.

Infact, it occurs to me that Ionesco’s quote about surrealism also applies tofilms. Cinema is an attempt tomake the spiritual experience concrete—it is “a restitution, an expression ofvital and indispensable spiritual needs.”

I recentlyvisited the Vancouver Art Gallery, looking at a remarkable exhibit called “TheColor of My Dreams: The SurrealistRevolution in Art”. Itincluded, among others, the work of Joan Miró, René Magritte, Salvador Dalí,Max Ernst, and Man Ray (Joan Miró’s work has particular resonance as a print ofone of his paintings hangs in my bedroom at home—it’s often the last thing Isee at night and the first thing I see when I wake up). When we were in Madrid two years ago, ahighlight of the trip was the time we spent at the Reina Sofia Museum, where wesaw the work of many of these artists. Many of the paintings of the surrealists offer a sense of recognition,something stirring from the collective unconscious. It’s as though I’ve seen these things before, in my owndreams, my own unconscious. Among the works at the Reina Sofia,many of them were collage, similar to editing, in that they’re about makingassociations.

The Whole Dali in a Face by Salvador Dali

Landscape with a Girl Skipping by Salvador Dali

Surrealism is defined as a 20th-century avant-garde movement inart and literature that sought to release the creative potential of theunconscious mind by the irrationaljuxtaposition of images. Rene Magritte said, “To be a surrealist means barring from yourmind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout forwhat has never been.” Andre Breton wrote, “Surrealism is based onthe belief in the superior reality of certain forms of previously neglectedassociations, in the omnipotence of dream, in the disinterested play ofthought. It tends to ruin once andfor all other psychic mechanisms and to substitute itself for them in solvingall the principle problems of life.”

A Chemist Lifting with Extreme Precaution the Cuticle of a Grand Piano by Salvador Dali

Iread that statement and it occurs to me that the editing process in cinema canbe described, at its best, as a similar experience, or at least there arecertain things that can only be discovered by allowing oneself to have “thedisinterested play of thought.” For me, great editors are those who encouragethe director to get out of the intellect, to discover what it is in thematerial that wants to come out, separate from conscious intent. There are those directors and editorswho dig deeper, that intuit the unexpected, and it is those films that have themost resonance for me, and who separate themselves from the mundane.

Landscape with Butterflies by Salvador Dali

I believein the “omnipotence of dreams”—it explains why I think cinema and televisionhave such great power on our psyches. The movies that linger in the collective imagination--the films thatI’ve written about on this blog, the ones that tend to show up over and over infilm books, on websites, in retrospectives, in conversations—capture somethingof the essence of dreams. Thenarratives are oftentimes of little or no consequence, except inasmuch as theydirect the emotions (that is why exposition scenes are almost always so deadly). But the design elements, the colors orlack thereof, the emotional contexts, the graphic elements—these all stir upthe unconscious, and therefore these are the aspects one looks for inrepeated viewings.

From THE THIN RED LINE.

Istarted thinking about the films that I’ve responded to, on a visceral level,and about how they often capture the nature of dreams for me. The films of Terrence Malick affect me,not because of their narratives, but because of the way in which they discover“previously neglected associations.” When I first saw THE THIN RED LINE, one of the things that moved me mostwas the shifting focus, from the brutality of the fighting to the indifferenceof the natural environment around the soldiers. All of Malick’s films are filled with allusions to theaspect of consciousness that is beyond the duality of good and bad. His movies are often about violence,and then the movement away from violence towards some greater understanding ofthe world around us. The movementssometimes seem arbitrary and yet they’re not. They’re intuitive, a thought leading to anotherthought, both illuminated by their juxtaposition.

From THE TREE OF LIFE.

Monthsafter seeing it, I’m still thinking about THE TREE OF LIFE, his latestexploration of the nature of being. It’s the kind of film that speaks to the deepest part of me, because itreminds me so much of my own childhood, and my own yearning for a return to theway I felt then—curious, open, hopeful. The much-debated final sequence has much in commonwith some of the paintings I saw at the Reina Sofia—e.g. the play onperspective and the radical dislocations of a Dali painting, or the mystery ofMagritte.

From DAYS OF HEAVEN

And yearsafter seeing Malick’s DAYS OF HEAVEN, I still think of that film too and itsdoomed love story in a vast, flat landscape. The horizon line itself makes me feel something—thesuggestion of other places that one might escape to, both unnerving and hopeful.Malick’s movies are compelling experiences for me because they speak to my feeling,more than to my intellect—the story in DAYS OF HEAVEN is simple anddirect. But the images turn meinside out. They remind me of howsmall a part we play in the flow of nature, and of how little consequence humanlove affairs actually count.

In heressay about DAYS OF HEAVEN, Adrian Martin writes about the stream ofconsciousness narration: “In this voice we hear language itself in the process of strugglingtoward sense, meaning, insight—just as, elsewhere, we see the diverse elementsof nature swirling together to perpetually make and unmake what we think of asa landscape, and human figures finding and losing themselves, over and over, asthey desperately try to cement their individual identities or ‘characters’.”

There is asense in these films that nothing endures, that we are simply at the effect ofnature’s constant process of destruction and regeneration. There is a repeating motif in most ofMalick’s films of old photographs, suggesting people and relationships that nolonger exist, and yet there is this concrete image from the past.

Similarly we paint, we write, we make films, in order to create something we might hold onto, making solid ourdreams and fantasies. Many of theactors and directors of films I truly loved, from other generations, no longerexist and yet we continue to see what they saw. Their films “hide anotherthing” and we continue to hope to see beyond the veil.

RecentlyI found a short student film I made over Christmas in 1978. I was unhappy with the film at the timebut, looking back on it, it seems my unconscious was trying to work outsomething about the nature of dreams. I look at the film now and it makes sense to me in a way that it didn’tthen. I was experimenting with theideas of time and dislocation, and I was trying to see something beyond whatwas there.

It’sbeen 33 years since I made this film. There’s something dreamlike about the experience of trying toremember what I felt then.

CONSIDERING THE IDEAL...

2011-03-19T17:43:00.000-07:00

On our recent trip to Rome we went to the Trevi Fountain. Unlike the evocative scene in Fellini’s LA DOLCE VITA, the fountain was not deserted and mysterious. It was instead surrounded by hundreds of tourists, as well as kiosks hawking plastic, miniature versions of Bernini’s sculptures. There was something disorienting about it, and I barely remember taking in the experience of the fountain itself. But it was nevertheless its own kind of wonderful: a crowd of people, teeming with life, energy, and happiness.

And anyway, there’s always the movie—the dreamlike image of Anita Ekberg walking in the fountain wearing a black dress, with the water cascading over her.

In the film, the protagonist Marcello follows the character of Sylvia into the fountain, desiring her. But they never even kiss—they come close, but they don’t connect, the water stops and they venture out into the dawn without understanding what their experience has been about--the same way we often wake up from a dream that feels unfinished. We’re left wondering what it was which seemed so potent even moments before.

LA DOLCE VITA is broken up into seven episodes which take place over seven nights: each episode ends in the early morning, with an unsuccessful attempt to make sense of the night before. One could say that the film is essentially seven dreams that are to be interpreted by the viewer.

Jaded aristocrats return to a villa in the early morning after a night of debauchery in LA DOLCE VITA. What seemed exciting to the characters a few hours before suddenly feels wearisome.

Fellini’s films often evoke the unconscious—dreamlike images that resonate with the power of archetypes. (He himself spent years in Jungian analysis, and his dream journals are remarkable—you can check them out at this link.)

The opening dream from 8 1/2 symbolizes the protagonist's sense of being stuck in his creative process.

Giulietta Masina in JULIET OF THE SPIRITS experiences visions that help her process her unhappiness.

I have always loved Fellini, who said about his films: “My work can’t be anything other than a testimony of what I am looking for in life. It is a mirror of my searching…. In this respect, I think, there is no cleavage or difference of content or style in all my films. From first to last, I have struggled to free myself—always from the past, from the education laid upon me as a child. That is what I’m seeking, though through different characters and with changing tempo and images.”

The manner in which Giulietta is framed against the red wall expresses her emotion in a visual way.

His films offer a real sense of this search, and the heart behind it. His images evoke the emotions of longing and introspection and his movies draw no distinction between high and low culture. His characters often are those that we judge, ignore or discard. He examines the pursuit of love, and also the search for meaning. Watching his films provides a sense of catharsis--I feel more human and more attuned to the world around me after one of his movies.

If one watches LA DOLCE VITA, 8 ½, and JULIET OF THE SPIRITS in succession, one can see his “searching” very clearly—characters look for an answer, and the answer is finally to accept the variety of life without resisting its difficulty. Instead they move forward, embracing the totality of experience.

Fellini said, “We must cease projecting ourselves into the future as though it were plannable, foreseeable, tangible, controllable—it’s not; or as though it were a dimension existing outside and beyond ourselves. We must learn to deal with matters as they are, not as we hope or fear they may eventuate. We must cope with them as they exist now, today, at this moment. We must awaken to the fact that the future is already HERE, to be lived in the present. In short, wake up and live!”

The final shot in JULIET OF THE SPIRITS is a visual example of Fellini's idea of creating a "virginal availability, an innocence from childhood". It is a very hopeful shot and has stayed in my memory since I first saw the film in college.

But his films are also about looking back; the puzzling through of the factors that have led to our present conditioning, our inability to take in the present. Elsewhere he said, “In three or four of my films, what is constantly repeated is the attempt to suggest to man the process of individual liberation—that is, to trace one’s steps to see where certain dents, certain illnesses started, where the psychological cancers were formed. In going back personally, individually, as a most private artist reflecting on my walk of life, I seem to recognize a certain conditioning of a pedagogical nature of an education that made me suffer, which obstructed me, made me stop. My presumptuous nature leads me to think that it would be worthwhile and just to try to do in my films—as an artist does in his books or another artist in the form of expression more congenial to him—to try to identify what this educational conditioning was, in order to attempt to conquer it, to make it harmless so that the error may not be repeated. I want to suggest to modern man a road of inner liberation, to accept and love life the way it is without idealizing it, without creating concepts about it, without projecting oneself into idealized images on a moral or ethical plane. I want to try to give back to man a virginal availability, his innocence as he had in childhood….

Here then—8 ½, JULIET OF THE SPIRITS, and even LA DOLCE VITA tried to propose this backward walk, tried to identify the pathologic conditioning. What are the myths that must be destroyed? Well, the ideals, the ideals in general. I think that “the ideal”, the idealized life, the idealized concepts can be extremely dangerous for our mental health, and it is what I try to express in my films.”

In other words, our major obstacle to living in the present is some “ideal” that has been suggested to us as to where we should be as opposed to where we are. It is an insidious enemy—this thought that where we are presently is not good enough.

Robert Johnson and Jerry M. Ruhl write in their book CONTENTMENT: “Our society teaches us that the only reality is the one we can hold onto. It values outer experiences and material possessions. Accordingly, we look for contentment ‘out there’ and live with a ‘just as soon as’ mentality. ‘Just as soon as I get my work done, I can relax.’ ‘Just as soon as I get married, I will be content’ or conversely, ‘Just as soon as my divorce comes through, I will be content.’ (etc.) …And so our contentment slips through our fingers like quicksilver—another time, a different place, a better circumstance.”

The Trevi Fountain scene from LA DOLCE VITA has frequently been the inspiration for advertising campaigns. Like the character of Marcello, we're encouraged to want to climb in to the fountain with the model.

They go on to write: “Madison Avenue understands our hunger for contentment and uses it as the basis for modern advertising. Soup, automobiles, life insurance—any and all things are sold with a promise either of the satisfaction they will bring or the discomfort they will help us avoid. Advertising infiltrates nearly every corner of modern life, from television and radio commercials to newspapers, magazines, bumper stickers, billboards, park benches, T-shirts, the Internet—even our telephones. All these messages are designed to manipulate us into craving some product or service. We are pulled by desires and pushed by fears. Madison Avenue and the mass media are powerful purveyors of discontent.”

But it need not be this way. In any moment, we have the choice to embrace what is happening to us right now as an avenue to a deeper self-awareness.

The many dreamlike images from Fellini's films have inspired me in my own work. His movies create no distinction between reality and dreams, between high and low, between the beautiful and the ugly, the pious and profane.

Fellini’s films appeal to me partly because of the way they turn the mundane into poetry. They capture the fine line between joy and despair. He never judges his characters for the decisions they make, nor does he try to suggest that their problems are resolved. Instead his movies portray the inner images that are inspired by their conflicts and the dilemmas of the external world. He looks at reality, even its ugly parts, but then creates beauty in fantasy and imagination. His characters are presented with a choice of how to view their circumstances and a choice of how to continue. As one character says to Guido in 8 1/2: "…You're free but you must learn to choose. You don't have much time. And you have to hurry."

The final sequence of LA DOLCE VITA presents Marcello in a state of ennui, but in 8 1/2 (below) the character Guido celebrates his life by dancing. Ultimately we each decide the response to our fate.

The end of 8½ is appropriately a dance—in the face of life’s contradictions, what else is there to do? Every time I see it I also want to dance.

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH, MY ADVICE...

2011-01-30T15:21:00.000-08:00

A friend used to say to me--free advice is worth exactly what you pay for it, which is nothing. However, that doesn't seem to stop people from asking and I find that I say the same things over and over. So here goes: my advice here on my blog, where I can direct people to read it when they come knocking...

These are some random thoughts--some specific, some more general--but hopefully some of you will find it some of it helpful.

I think the most important advice I can give is this: be clear about what you want to achieve, ask yourself who has achieved THAT, then look for opportunities to politely approach that person or persons (in the proper context-- AND IT'S NOT TWITTER), tell them your goal, and ask him or her to point you in a direction. I always tell my students--people are busy, so you want to make your request brief and something the person can accomplish for you immediately and with little effort. Therefore, in my mind, the best request is to ask for the name of one or two other people who you might talk to--most everybody can deliver on that request (and if they can't or won't, then you don't want to be talking to them anyway). Next, follow up with the two people suggested to you and ask the same thing--before you know it you will have a large network of people. Somewhere along the way there will be someone who will know somebody who is looking for a person just like you, or they'll be interested in you themselves. (This assumes, of course, that you have the proper training for whatever job you're pursuing. Don't waste someone's time if you are not prepared for the job you're looking for. Use the internet to look for educational opportunities. Any good university these days offers extension classes for any number of types of training.)

I cannot answer all requests on Twitter and Facebook--but I'm a big believer in the social media and I like the way it democratizes access. But don't abuse the access and have respect for the context. If you are asking for information from people you don't know, then ask for information that is appropriate, and in such a way that might benefit others in the social network. For instance, this would be a good question: "Can you recommend a good website for someone who wants to get into acting?" But this question is not: "Can you get me a part on your show?" (By the way, my typical response to this latter request is to gently point out that casting directors are listed each week in Daily Variety. There is a process in the business--learn the process and respect it. Stop looking for shortcuts. Also, a good website to check out for those interested in learning about acting, both actors and directors: http://judithweston.com. She's a wonderful acting teacher and writer of books that are helpful. Start there.)

I receive a lot of calls and requests from people who are very vague about their goal. Specificity is the most important thing. And secondarily, brevity. I think it is very important to be clear about what you want to achieve--for instance, if you were to say you want to work in TV or movies--that's great, but doing what? Are you saying you're willing to assist someone or do you only want to be a star? Do you want to start at the bottom, or do you expect to begin at the top? It's an important distinction, because if you're not willing to start at the bottom, then don't bother calling people. You should just wait for lightning to strike. Certainly, there are situations where people move up quickly, but I'm a big believer in the tortoise approach (it worked for me). Proceed step by step, without discouragement or judgement of your current position. Play full-out where you are.

Also, I have never appreciated when someone pursues one type of job, actually hoping for a stepping-stone to another type of job. If you want to be an actor, then pursue that, and jobs that support that, and will allow you off for auditions and such. For instance, there is no shame in waiting tables--it's a good, honorable job that allows a would-be actor the time he needs to effectively pursue that goal. Or a part-time job with flexible hours would be good as well.

But there are other jobs that are perhaps not as conducive to that pursuit. I remember hiring an intern when I was an editor (and we quickly put him on full-time payroll), only to find that his goal had nothing to do with learning editorial and everything to do with pursuing an acting career. While I do believe there is much to learn about acting from studying editing, that did not seem to be what he had in mind--he wanted access that the job didn't appropriately provide. The job would have been better offered to someone who had a desire to pursue an editing career.

As far as how I built my own career, I moved slowly and I always did the best job I could, wherever I was. I was, and am, forthright about my own talents. I make it a point to never be self-deprecating, but I also avoid over-selling myself. I remain confident as to my ability to do the work as well as anyone else, if i'm indeed prepared, and I don't apologize for what I DON'T know--I just admit to it, without self-judgement. I never try to bluff people or act like i know more than I do (though that's not entirely true--I did tell a post supervisor, back in the day, that I'd done a film on the AVID in order to get my first AVID job as an editor. But you'd better be able to back up the lie or you'll be shooting yourself in the foot--I had TRAINED on the AVID, so at least I was ready.)

Elsewhere on this blog, I have suggested several books that are excellent resources about directing, and some of them are also about developing an aesthetic. As a director, I have a strong aesthetic point of view, and I make clear to my collaborators what I believe, but I'm also willing to change my mind if someone has a better idea. I WANT and DESIRE that my collaborators tell me honestly what they think. But the worst kind of feedback is when someone says, "it's not working for me," without being able to articulate why. So I encourage everyone to hone their own personal aesthetic and be able to explain it--if something is not working for you and you don't know why, then best keep it to yourself. I think it is very important to have a point of view, whatever your job. Sometimes that point of view will be welcomed, and sometimes it won't--it's important to learn to read a room, and know when to speak and when not to. When asked, be honest as to your opinions--but also be kind. Everyone is doing the best they can with the material they have. Never dismiss another's point of view in a rude manner, in order to prove yourself. (In my younger days I wasn't always kind. Those moments, when I wasn't, haunt me.)

Never condescend or be dismissive of anything that you are working on. I always tell my assistants to find what they love about a job and focus on that. Being dismissive of the material, or the talent, is unacceptable. Negativity breeds inferior work. Every endeavor has its value.

I think it's important to always look for opportunities to learn more. Read a variety of books, go to museums, watch foreign films, see theatre, listen to music, watch everything and most of all, watch people. Be more interested in being the thing that watches and not that which is watched. Ask people what they do and what they love about their job. Be willing to learn more about that thing that doesn't interest you--just a little more anyway. If it's interesting to somebody, it's worth learning about.

I try to keep my focus always on the work, the task at hand, and never on my own position or ego. I take all criticism as constructive--but if the criticism doesn't resonate within my own soul, then I ignore it--within myself, if not in the actual workplace. Sometimes, in this business, EVERYONE has to do what they're told. When I am working for others, and they make a demand, I gracefully (hopefully) give way to their demand, in as much as it's necessary. But it's important to hold to one's own ideas of what's right, to continue to develop one's own artistic point of view. If you're asked to do something you think is completely unacceptable, then you should be willing to leave the job.

My partner Davyd likes to say--everything is a yes/no proposition. Ask the question and don't be disappointed if the answer isn't always yes, just go to the next thing. But participate in life by asking the questions.

The final most important thing to say is this: don't get discouraged and don't give up. People admire persistence and courage--they can't help but pick up on energy that is positive. And if a dream is worth having, it's worth pursuing in the face of rejection and opposition. There are many great people who are willing to encourage you along the way. Look for those people and surround yourself with them.

I sincerely hope this helps those of you who are looking for it. And remember this quote:

Unless you have prepared yourself to profit by your chance, the opportunity will only make you ridiculous. A great occasion is valuable to you just in proportion as you have educated yourself to make use of it. -- Orison Swett Marden

I welcome comments from others who might have advice to share on looking for work, or websites and educational opportunities that might be useful for people to check out.

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF PLACE

2010-11-12T21:56:00.000-08:00

"And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything." --Shakespeare

There’s an idea that’s been kicking around in my head for some time, ever since my last post about the Edward Hopper paintings. It’s hard to articulate, but it’s about the importance of place in our psychology, and the degree to which it defines us and gives context to our actions.

My father Ernest Buckley has been gone for over twenty years. I still dream about him though, and I often dream of the house where I grew up—a house he designed. My dad liked to build things—he was an architect and engineer (he worked in the Civilian Conservation Corp out of high school—there’s a terrific documentary about the CCCs at this link). Our backyard had a series of rock walls that my dad built. Trellises ran along the top of the walls, covered with ivy. On many summer days and evenings, throughout my childhood, I’d lie in a hammock strung between two of these large rock walls, or I’d play in a large stone sandbox that he built for me. Our backyard was the place I felt most myself—the arena of my playing and dreaming.

Now many years later, I frequently find my thoughts going back to my house and my backyard—it lingers in my memory with more specific definition than places I saw just last week. My childhood home defines an ineffable aspect of me that gives meaning to much of my present work (though the house, as we knew it, burned after we moved away. Someone rebuilt it, but it’s no longer the same house—the last time I drove by it I didn’t even recognize it. That thing that defines me no longer exists except in my memory. I have no idea if the rock walls in the backyard are even still standing.)

In his book THE ARCHITECTURE OF HAPPINESS, Alain de Botton writes “There is nothing preternaturally sweet or homespun about the moods embodied in domestic spaces. These spaces can speak to us of the somber as readily as they can of the gentle. There is no necessary connection between the concepts of home and of prettiness; what we call a home is merely any place that succeeds in making more consistently available to us the important truths which the wider world ignores, or which our distracted and irresolute selves have trouble holding on to. As we write, so we build: to keep a record of what matters to us.”

Likewise we create films, to keep a record of what matters to us. And films often create psychological states through the use of place. When I think about any specific film that’s had meaning for me, it’s almost always an image that comes to mind--no matter how clever the dialogue, it is the images that linger, that shape my feelings--and oftentimes it’s the place that the characters inhabit that shape that image, and my psychological response to it.

When Michael Powell’s BLACK NARCISSUS crosses my mind, it’s the image of a nun--dressed in white, standing on the edge of a cliff--that emerges from my memory. It’s an image both pleasing and vertiginous. It evokes for me the themes of the movie—commitment to spiritual principles as a balancing act—the hard rock of principle against the green valley of desire, the struggle of spirit and the flesh, the high and the low. The movie is full of images that make me feel that struggle—tracking shots of a nun moving through a room against a mural of lovers and nude women; the small figures of human beings against the enormity of the mountains around them; dissolves and cuts that capture the nature of memory and loss—a woman, thinking of her youth, in a place she loved, then fighting the memory and the loss it represents.

This is one of the great dissolves in film, concluding Sister Clodagh's memory of her youth.

The film is a remarkable achievement and it’s the architecture of the film that defines the experience for me. There is symmetry to the compositions, and a density of detail, that reinforce the ideas on a visceral level.

David Kehr wrote beautifully about the film: “Powell builds BLACK NARCISSUS as a series of moods created through space and color. He contrasts the boxy interiors and blank walls of the British colonial offices with the curved, multi-leveled, spatially indefinite chambers of the old palace. British certainty and sterility cedes more and more to Eastern mysticism and sensuality; the sister in charge of the vegetable garden can’t help but plant a crop of flowers instead, their exploding primary colors providing a dizzying contrast with the black and white habits of the nuns. Gentle, green hillsides—reminiscent of the Scottish landscapes we see in Sister Clodagh’s flashbacks—suddenly turn into vertiginous canyons when viewed from another angle. The ground literally opens beneath the feet of the characters, inviting them to take the plunge—to abandon their twin faiths, in God and the British Empire, and turn themselves over to more ancient and dangerous powers.”

Likewise REAR WINDOW, probably my favorite Hitchcock film, presents me with a visual template that illustrates its themes: a man peers into his neighbors’ apartments, but what he’s really looking at are components of his own consciousness. The hero’s journey is one of introspection: by studying his neighbors, he learns more about himself—his fear of commitment and his frustration with stasis. The suspense story is almost beside the point—it is just the vehicle to present the character’s psychological development.

Each apartment in REAR WINDOW represents some type of relationship, or the lack thereof: newlyweds; an unhappy couple; a woman hotly pursued by many men; a lonely woman who fantasizes about meeting anyone at all; and assorted others. The film is only a murder mystery on the surface. It is actually about the fear of commitment.

The movie has long been a favorite because it captures my own desire to understand what is going on in the external world, and how that reflects back upon my own experience. The courtyard in REAR WINDOW becomes the container for that exploration, the compartmentalizing of my own thoughts about relationships.

Ingmar Bergman’s FANNY AND ALEXANDER similarly affects me by its visual style: Alexander, hiding under a table, imagines that statues move. This reminds me of my own childhood and evokes those feelings—the mystery of hiding in the backyard, or a closet, waiting for the world to reveal itself.

The film explores Alexander’s consciousness with many dreamlike images that show his shifting frame of mind—his and his sister’s sense of desolation in a white room; the feeling of richness, complication, and mystery in a red one. The production design itself creates the meaning, more than the performances, more than the plot.

The images in FANNY AND ALEXANDER alternate between stark monotones and vibrant color. Through large sections of the film, Alexander and his sister Fanny are imprisoned in a bleak room, terrorized by their pastor step-father, but there is finally relief in the warm embrace of his grandmother and her extended family.

In Irving Singer’s book INGMAR BERGMAN, CINEMATIC PHILOSOPHER, Bergman is quoted as saying he wanted the film “to move in complete freedom between magic and oatmeal porridge, between boundless terror and a joy that threatens to burst within you.” Singer writes about the film: “The entire plot of FANNY AND ALEXANDER is enclosed within the two ebullient occasions at the outset and the end: one being the Christmas party with its long conga dance of life in which everyone participates, holding on to whoever happens to be in front; the other being the celebration of the birth of two children that includes a dinner served at a huge circular table that looks from above like an enormous halo or festive wreath.”

This image encapsulates FANNY AND ALEXANDER's theme—life as a banquet of experience, both good and bad.

As I grow older, the films by Yasujiro Ozu have particular resonance for me (there’s too many to name that are among my favorites but here’s a start for the novice: TOKYO STORY, LATE SPRING, EARLY SUMMER, EQUINOX FLOWER).

The eloquent final image of AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON--a parent alone, resigned to the inevitable progression of life.

His analysis of family dynamics is unparalleled—he makes the ordinary extraordinary. And he uses places to indicate states of mind: a series of establishing shots will indicate a specific mood; a train shot will indicate transition; a bar will indicate collegiality or loneliness; the home represents comfort and intimacy, and then perhaps isolation.

Bars frequently appear in Ozu's films, as a place where people commiserate or contemplate. At the end of AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON, a widower stops by for a drink after his daughter's wedding. The barmaid observes that he's glum and asks if he's been to a funeral. He answers, "Something like that."

I have drawn a great deal of inspiration from Ozu’s work and particularly his use of negative space.

These two images are from the beginning and the end of LATE SPRING. In the first, the man's daughter greets him as he arrives home. In the second he returns to an empty house after she has married.

There are scenes which are incredibly moving simply by what is not there—a widowed father returns to his home, after he has married off his only daughter, and the house is empty; an empty kitchen door exists where once two sisters-in-law laughed and talked; a man sits at an empty bar where previously he sat with his friends; a man sits at a concert, the seat beside him empty, while the woman he had hoped would join him walks home on an empty street, deep in thought about their missed connection.

In this sequence of shots, a man sits alone at a concert after he has been refused by a young woman. He is juxtaposed with shots of her walking home, wondering perhaps if she's made the right decision. The fact that the street is empty is significant—it makes the viewer feel something specific about her isolation. Had there been other pedestrians, the character’s inner life would not have come into such stark relief.

Ozu is famous for his establishing shots--shots which capture a mood and suggest an idea. The first of these three is but one of a number of train shots in his many films--it suggests transition, inexorable movement into an uncertain future. The second suggests sadness--a dark, empty house after a daughter has married. The third prominently displays a Coca-Cola sign, suggesting the westernization of the Japanese way of life.

Michael Atkinson wrote about Ozu: “…Ozu’s methodology in LATE SPRING, which became an almost ritualized discipline in his subsequent films, expresses so much more than mere character and narrative: the famous still-life cutaways (themselves a codex of Zen commentaries and signifiers) and tatami-mat-high point of view; the compressed depth of the family’s rooms (Noriko and company pass in and out of sight through doorways we cannot see, suggesting haunting layers of quotidian complexity); the fastidious commemoration of the uniquely careful Japanese living spaces (that no culture has thought as much about the composition and physical meaning of their own homes is not a point lost on Ozu); the vivid manner in which the architectural precision expresses the controlled tone of relationships. There’s an acute sense of home here, happily inhabited, that is unaccented and yet fuels Noriko’s tragedy.”

As I continue to work as a director I find that my focus has shifted more and more to the spaces that the characters inhabit. One could say that it is the actor’s job to exist in the character, and it is the writer’s job to create the story and to give the actors the words to speak, and it is primarily the director’s job to position the characters and story in a space that creates the emotional effect. How does one determine the audience’s point of view and where? Does one use a medium or wide shot, a tracking shot, or a close shot; a horizon line, the sky, a simple room, color or not, or a high-angle looking down upon a character standing on a ledge ringing a bell, like the nun in BLACK NARCISSUS? What story is being told and what are the different effects that the story allows one to find in its environment? As the director Robert M. Young, one of my mentors, used to say to me—“Where’s the story? Put the camera there.” This is my maxim when I direct.

On PRETTY LITTLE LIARS I look for the opportunities to capture the mystery of adolescence.

On GOSSIP GIRL I look for opportunities to emphasize the architecture and romance of New York City.

As much as possible, every image should tell a story. If there are people in the frame, their relative positioning tells a story—are they facing each other or away from one another, separated by distance or touching each other? If there are no people, their absence tells another story.

This is a picture I took of the backyard of my childhood home in 1981, the weekend before we moved, after living there for 23 years. The yard was overgrown and the walls were completely covered with ivy. The house itself was falling apart--the balcony had rotten boards and the roof sagged. But it was such a wonderful place and I still miss it.

If I were to make a film of my own life, the story would start with me sitting next to the rock walls of my backyard—they represent the foundations of my imagination, ideas one upon the next, similar to the construction of the wall, stone by stone.

This is one of my favorite pictures of my dad, standing before the walls he built, next to rose bushes he planted, with one of our dogs and one of our cats. The picture tells a story—the story of a guy who loved to build, who loved to plant, who loved animals. He built spaces that inspired the imagination of his family, particularly this son, and those spaces still exist in my inner world, as vital as many of the films that I love.

HOPPER AND TEEN NOIR...

2010-07-05T18:52:00.000-07:00

"Hopper has been a huge influence on me. His work is grounded in an American sensibility that deals with ideas of beauty, theatricality, sadness, rootlessness and desire. I think it is now virtually impossible to read American, visually, without referring back to the archive of visual images created by artists who found inspiration in Hopper's paintings. His art has shaped the essential themes and interests in the work of so many contemporary painters, writers, and, above all, photographers and filmmakers." --Gregory Crewdson

This last April, I directed two episodes of the new television series PRETTY LITTLE LIARS (executive produced by I. Marlene King and Oliver Goldstick). It's always stimulating to work on a new show--the tone is still being determined, the style is evolving, and there's the opportunity to try things that later might feel out of sorts.

In this case, when I arrived at the production offices, I noticed photos of Edward Hopper’s work everywhere—in the production designer’s office and all of the writers’ rooms. I was excited by the idea of using Hopper explicitly as a reference. As evidenced elsewhere on this blog, I am a huge fan of Hopper. I have been looking for a long time to draw upon his work to enhance my own.

TOP: ROOM IN NEW YORK by Edward Hoper, courtesy of The Art Institutre of Chicago. BOTTOM: From PRETTY LITTLE LIARS, a frame based on Hopper's ROOM IN NEW YORK--Aria (Lucy Hale) visits Ezra's apartment.

Hopper and an ABC Family show, aimed at a young teenage girl demographic, may seem incongruous at first, but only at first. PRETTY LITTLE LIARS is a smart, clever show and, like Hopper’s art, examines private moments, and the mystery that exists within the commonplace. The show revolves around the differences between the public and the private—each of the girls has an inner life that is somewhat at odds with her persona, and there is a voyeuristic quality to its narrative. We watch people in the same way that Hopper seems to catch them, unaware that they are being observed.

TOP: HOTEL ROOM by Edward Hopper, © Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. BOTTOM: A frame from PLL--of Troian Bellasario playing Spencer-- meant to evoke the same sense of solitude.

Like GOSSIP GIRL, the show is driven by its style—the girls are beautiful and the clothes are fabulous. But whereas GOSSIP GIRL focuses on romantic melodrama in the big city, PRETTY LITTLE LIARS is more concerned with the secrets of a small town. The girls are all somewhat troubled—one has issues around food and body-image, AND she shoplifts; another is essentially OCD and cheats to get ahead; a third is confused about her sexual identity; and the fourth becomes involved with her English teacher. The parents are dysfunctional as well and have secrets of their own. The drama unfurls at warp speed: the pilot episode includes murder, infidelity, teacher-student romance, alcohol and drug use, shoplifting, lesbianism, sibling rivalry, anonymous texts, mysterious blind girls, and a cop extorting sex from one of the girls’ mothers. In many ways it’s reminiscent of PEYTON PLACE (but on the other hand it references TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD--the latter is frequently mentioned in the first few episodes, specifically in relation to the loss of innocence.) The show is also incredibly funny—it frequently employs dark humor, playing off of our paranoia and suspicion, making the viewer laugh in surprise and delight. Everyone seems to be lying to everybody else.

The visual template of PRETTY LITTLE LIARS emphasizes many of these themes. Rachel Kamerman’s wonderful production design and Dana Gonzales’ beautiful photography combine to create a world that is both familiar and mysterious. I’m struck by how Dana's lighting evokes the photographs of Gregory Crewdson, an artist who inspires me in the same way as Hopper. A 2006 NPR profile said about Crewdson: “It’s the moment between then and now that interests Crewdson—he likes that photography limits him to choose only one moment to convey a narrative arc. Each photo is polished and technically perfect, but still somewhat undone. The viewer must imagine what comes before and after. Crewdson says his pictures must first be beautiful, but that beauty is not enough. He strives to convey an underlying edge of anxiety, of isolation, of fear.”

TOP: A frame from PRETTY LITTLE LIARS, Emily (Shay Mitchell) feels conflicting emotions about the approach of Toby (Keegan Allen). Is he a friend or a threat? MIDDLE: An evocative photograph by Gregory Crewdson, from his book BENEATH THE ROSES. BOTTOM: SUMMER EVENING by Edward Hopper, collection of Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert H. Kinney.

That last sentence could sum up the world of adolescence—a six to eight year period with “an underlying edge of anxiety, of isolation, of fear.” And many of the frames in PRETTY LITTLE LIARS capture that sense of in-between: adulthood looms ahead and anything might happen. (In my first episode, one of the girls describes walking with her absent father around an amusement park—she wants to remain his little girl, to reclaim her childhood, but she's about to be cruelly disabused of this notion. It seems somehow appropriate to put her in a frame that evokes “Nighthawks”, with its sense of sleeplessness. Perhaps it’s time for her to wake up to adulthood and all of its anxieties.)

TOP: Hannah, played by Ashley Benson, sits cozily with her dad, played by Roark Critchlow, at the counter in a diner, but adulthood looms in the dark outside. MIDDLE: The most famous of Edward Hopper's paintings: NIGHTHAWKS. BOTTOM: AUTOMAT by Edward Hopper. A warm cup of coffee holds off the encroaching dark.

As soon as I started reading my first PLL script, the opportunities to play with some of Hopper’s compositions leapt off the page (Joe Dougherty’s terrific writing is very visual.) Hopper’s paintings are filled with evocative female figures—they often seem deep in thought, considering their next course of action. And Crewdson's pictures as well capture this kind of visualization of a character's inner life.

TOP: Laura Leighton, playing Hannah's mother Ashley, has a reflective moment. MIDDLE: MORNING SUN by Edward Hopper, Columbus Museum of Art. BOTTOM: Another of Gregory Crewdson's evocative images, from his book BENEATH THE ROSES.

The town of Rosewood doesn't feel so much like a real town as a state of mind. Since PRETTY LITTLE LIARS is shot almost completely on the Warner Brothers lot, there is a dream-like quality to some of the compositions that feels melancholy and mysterious, very Hopper-esque.

TOP: A wide shot of the backlot town of Rosewood, the locale of PRETTY LITTLE LIARS. MIDDLE TOP: DRUG STORE by Edward Hopper, feels also like it could be on a back lot. MIDDLE BOTTOM: SUNDAY by Edward Hopper. BOTTOM: Emily, played by Shay Mitchell, and Maya, played by Bianca Lawso, on a Rosewood street, which could be out of a Hopper painting.

Alain de Botton, one of my favorite writers, writes about Hopper: "The figures in Hopper’s art are not opponents of home per se; it is simply that, in a variety of undefined ways, home appears to have betrayed them, forcing them out into the night or on to the road. The 24-hour diner, the station waiting room or motel are sanctuaries for those who have, for noble reasons, failed to find a place of their own in the ordinary world. A side-effect of coming into contact with any great artist is that through their work we start to notice things we can understand, but previously hadn’t thought worthy of consideration. We become sensitized to what one might call the Hopperesque, a quality now found not only in Hopper’s North American locales, but anywhere in the developed world where there are motels and service stations, roadside diners and airports, bus stations and all-night supermarkets. Hopper is the father of a whole school of art that takes as its subject matter threshold spaces, buildings that lie outside homes and offices, places of transit where we are aware of a particular kind of alienated poetry....

It’s a curious feature of Hopper’s work that although it seems concerned to show us places that are transient and un-homely, we may, in contact with it, feel as if we have been carried back to some important place in ourselves, a place of stillness and sadness, of seriousness and authenticity: it can help us to remember ourselves....This visual dynamic has a psychological equivalent within our own minds: we are made aware of constellations of ideas and moods distinct enough to feel like different personalities – an inner fluidity which can on occasion lead us to declare, without any allusion to the supernatural, that we are not feeling as if we are ourselves. On looking at a picture, we may recognize it as important to us, but out of our ordinary reach. By buying a postcard reproduction and hanging it prominently above the desk (as I have done with a number of Hopper’s works), we may be trying to have it as an omnipresent, solid token of the emotional texture of the person we want to be and feel we are deep down. By seeing the picture every day, the hope is that a little of its qualities will rub off on us. What we may welcome isn’t so much the subject matter as the tone; it is the record of an emotional attitude conveyed through color and form. We know we will of course drift far from it – that it won’t be possible or even practical to hold on to the picture’s mood forever, and we will have to be many different people (with bold opinions and a sense of certainty, with casual wit and parental authority) – but it is a reminder and an anchor that will tug us back to the qualities within it."

TOP: An office building on the Warners backlot is transformed, by Rachel Kamerman and her wonderful staff, into a small town motel in PRETTY LITTLE LIARS. MIDDLE: A photograph by Gregory Crewdson, of a motel scene at night. BOTTOM: WESTERN MOTEL by Edward Hopper.

Gregory Crewdson writes: “Hopper depicts a world that is at the same time beautiful and sad, familiar and strange, inviting yet ultimately inaccessible. I think these polarities are at the center of his work and may indicate why so many artists, including myself, are drawn to it, again and again.”

That says it better than I can.

For more on Crewdson's thoughts about Hopper, check out the Tate, Etc. article:

http://www.tate.org.uk/tateetc/issue1/article10.htm

For more on Alain de Botton's thoughts about Hopper, check out: http://www.tate.org.uk/tateetc/issue1/article1.htm

For the NPR story on Gregory Crewdson, check out this link: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5157819

ON VARIOUS BOOKS ABOUT DIRECTING...

2010-06-13T14:48:00.000-07:00

Hitchcock directing NORTH BY NORTHWEST.

I'm frequently asked for suggestions of books about directing--by students, and others who want to direct. Here are some excellent books, which hopefully provide a good place to start:

HITCHCOCK/TRUFFAUT by Francois Truffaut.

Francois Truffaut: "In your opinion, should a film suggest painting, literature, or music?"

Alfred Hitchcock: "The main objective is to arouse the audience's emotion, and that emotion arises from the way in which the story unfolds, from the way in which sequences are juxtaposed. At times, I have the feeling I'm an orchestra conductor, a trumpet sound corresponding to a close shot and a distant shot suggesting an entire orchestra performing a muted accompaniment. At other times, by using colors and lights in front of beautiful landscapes, I feel I am a painter. On the other hand, I'm wary of literature: A good book does not necessarily make a good film."

From TO CATCH A THIEF. Here's a wide shot, which indeed plays a soft accompaniment to the body of the scene.

This is the definitive text on filmmaking, as far as I'm concerned. I first discovered it when I was twelve in a bookstore in downtown Fort Worth. When it was first published, I think the book cost $10, which was an enormous amount of money for a twelve-year-old boy. I asked my parents if I could buy it, and my dad answered I could do whatever I wanted with my own money, BUT he recommended not buying the book. He walked me all the way to the cash register, encouraging me NOT to buy the book, saying I would never look at it again after I'd read it once. It was the first time I think I actively ignored my father's advice. He was furiously silent as we drove home. My mother, trying to lighten the mood, said something to the effect, "Who knows? Maybe Norman will grow up and work in the movie business."

With all due respect to my late father, I have never regretted spending that ten dollars. It absolutely changed my life. I've had a lifelong affection for Hitchcock, as well as Truffaut, and the lessons I learned from this book have stayed with me through my entire editing and directing careers.

From THE ENGLISH PATIENT. Murch's use of sound in this film is as specific as his choice of when to cut.

THE CONVERSATIONS Walter Murch and Michael Ondaatje.

Walter Murch: "I become tuned to see things in a certain way when I'm working on a film. One of your obligations as an editor is to drench yourself in the sensibility of the film, to the point where you're alive to the smallest details and also the most important themes....In the end, the editor of a film must try to take advantage of all the material that is given to him, and reveal it in a way that feels like a natural but exciting unfolding of the ideas of the film. It's really a question of orchestration: organizing the images and sounds in a way that is interesting, and digestible by the audience. Mysterious when it needs to be mysterious, and understandable when it needs to be understandable."

I think it is impossible to be a successful director without a fundamental understanding of editing, and I don't think there is a finer book about editing than this one. The book is similar in form to the Hitchcock/Truffaut book, in that it is an extended interview. Michael Ondaatje, the author of the novel THE ENGLISH PATIENT, was fascinated by the editorial process during the filming of his novel and approached the great editor Walter Murch about doing this series of "conversations" about the filmmaking process, and particularly how the filmmaking process ultimately boils down to what happens in post-production. His questions about editing, and Walter Murch's responses about this fine art, provide an unequaled resource. This book was required reading in the classes I taught at UCLA. The editor is a prime component of the success or failure of any particular film project, but unfortunately the craft is undervalued by many producers and studio executives--they frequently act as though this is an easily replaceable position, and that one editor is as good as another--as though the editor just puts the film together in the same way one might assemble a piece of furniture from IKEA (I even had one producer tell me he was going to buy Final Cut Pro and just start editing films himself. My response: Just because you can type doesn't mean you can write a book.) I think this book exposes the shallowness of that type of thinking. It should be required reading for every producer, studio executive, writer, or director.

DIRECTING ACTORS and THE FILM DIRECTOR'S INTUITION: SCRIPT ANALYSIS AND REHEARSAL TECHNIQUES, both by Judith Weston

JUDITH WESTON: "The director's main responsibility--and perogative--is telling the story. This means finding a structure to the script and setting up events so that they are at once surprising and inevitable. You give the actor direction in order that the actor's actions and interactions illuminate and create those events. The actor has a responsibility--and perogative--to create truthful behavior while following direction and fulfilling the requirements of the script. Actor and director must respect each other's creative territory."

At the point that I was making the jump from editing to directing, I was lucky enough to study with Judith Weston. Judy teaches a class called "Acting for Directors" for which her book DIRECTING ACTORS is the primary text. Her common-sense, but very intuitive, approach to working with actors was revolutionary for me. She taught me to think very specifically about the behavior of actors and characters, and her books are invaluable. I highly recommend her as a teacher to both actors and directors. I owe a great deal of my ongoing success to her, and the tools that she taught me.

From A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE.

KAZAN ON DIRECTING by Elia Kazan.

Elia Kazan: "It is essential, be it a play or a film, to quickly create among your collaborators an atmosphere of pleasure in work as well as openness and comradeship, a sense of common purpose to be enjoyed by people of equal talent. You are not to behave as a 'boss', even though you chose them all and can replace them. It is your obligation, and your privilege, to establish the goals of the work and to help the others achieve these goals in collaboration with you."

From A FACE IN THE CROWD. I'm mesmerized by how beautifully Kazan poses actors in a frame.

From EAST OF EDEN. The men are all looking away from the women in these frames, which creates a very specfic emotional effect.

I've just recently come across this very excellent book by Kazan. He directed many films that made a huge impression on me in my youth, including: A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE, ON THE WATERFRONT, EAST OF EDEN, A FACE IN THE CROWD, and SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS. All of these films are masterpieces, and each can be studied individually for what they have to teach about film as art.

THE VISUAL STORY by Bruce Block

Bruce Block: "The basic visual components are space, line, shape, tone, color, movement, and rhythm. These visual components are found in every moving or still picture we see. Actors, locations, props, costumes, and scenery are made of these visual components. A visual component communicates moods, emotions, ideas, and most importantly, gives visual structure to the pictures."

Block's book is a wonderful primer in how to break down a visual image, to understand its component parts and how it affects one's experience of a film. I find this book highly useful in the prep on any of my projects.

From SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS. Mackendrick packs the frame with information, and it's as good a film as there is about New York.

ON FILM-MAKING by Alexander Mackendrick

Alexander Mackendrick: "A director contributes not by instructing the actor but by inspiring him. A performance is wholly the creation of the actor's imagination, of the control he has over his expressive instrument (voice, body) and even more significantly of his emotions, sensory feelings, intuitions and mental attitudes. (This is why they say once a role has been properly cast, the director has done ninety per cent of his work.) So listen. Listen hard. Observe the actor minutely. Watch closely for his body language, those subtle qualities of personality that belong utterly to this particular individual. Imagine how they might be absorbed into the role. Where there are qualities that do not seem right to you, be patient. Remember these may, in fact, be due to your own inability to see beyond your preconceptions. Remember that, in any event, to call attention to what is wrong may inhibit the actor. Where he or she has mannerisms you are anxious to eliminate, other tactics may be necessary."

Alexander Mackendrick directed SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS and THE LADYKILLERS, then retired to teach at CalArts. His book is enormously accessible, and uses examples from his own films as well as other classic films. I particularly like its conversational style.

FILM DIRECTING FUNDAMENTALS by Nicholas Proferes

Nicholas Proferes: "A key ingredient in learning hot to draw is to study drawings done by master artists. It is not only inspirational, but if we look closely we can see what aspects of craft the artist has used to create her effect. The same process is necessary in becoming an accomplished film director. We must study films, and we must study them closely. We must study them until we understand precisely how the various parts fit together, how each discrete element adds to the cumulative effect of the whole."

I came across this book--which is essentially a textbook--in a bookstore one day. I've yet to find a better, overall analysis of the various aspects of the filmmaking process, explained in an accessible and thorough approach. His explanation of the 180-degree rule, the use of objective and subjective camera, and many other topics is clear and concise.

This is an ongoing list of resources for the aspiring filmmaker. Obviously it is by no means exhaustive and I welcome other suggestions to add to the list.

PARALLAX VIEWS...

2010-04-26T00:38:00.000-07:00

parallax |ˈparəˌlaks|

noun

the effect whereby the position or direction of an object appears to differ when viewed from different positions, e.g., through the viewfinder and the lens of a camera.

Recently I bought a blu-ray player that streams movies from Netflix. As soon as I hooked it up I got sucked into a multi-part documentary called THE MEN WHO KILLED KENNEDY. I sat riveted, wondering if we’ll ever discover anything more concrete about the Kennedy assassination during my lifetime.

(I am one of those people who can clearly remember where he was when he found out that Kennedy had been shot. The president spent his last night in Fort Worth, Texas, my hometown, flying from Carswell Air Force Base to Dallas on the morning of November 22, 1963. Later that day, just after our afternoon recess, my second grade teacher came into the classroom with a pained look on her face, telling us that we were all being sent home early. I walked the few blocks to my house and the neighbor kids met me on the street to tell me the president had been killed.)

I don’t think I know anyone who believes that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, and I often wonder if Oswald even knew what was going down. Was his involvement peripheral, or could he have been set up to take the fall? I guess we’ll never know, will we?

But does anyone really believe the Warren Report? Even Gerald Ford later admitted the CIA destroyed or kept from investigators critical secrets connected to the assassination of the president. He said the Warren commission's probe put "certain classified and potentially damaging operations in danger of being exposed." The CIA's reaction, he added, "was to hide or destroy some information, which can easily be misinterpreted as collusion in JFK's assassination." Yes, I guess it could—the fact that the CIA had dealings with certain known mobsters, for example?

We most probably will never know the truth in this matter, but one can say, with certainty, decisions are often made within our government that are secret, that obfuscate, that withhold the complete picture—an “end justifying the means” mentality, designed to “protect” us, the citizens, from the truth.

So we’re left to work it out in our art.

There was an article about conspiracy movies in the New York Times a few weeks back. It was somewhat dismissive of the latest films that challenge the “official story” and suggested that “…this is not to say the conspiratorial narrative is exhausted as a form, only that its subjects have changed, for this is a moment when the likeliest source of threats are to be found not within the government but among those who seem to be nursing a deep-seated hatred of it — whether they are protesters vandalizing the offices of elected officials or the militia members indicted last week in Michigan on sedition and weapons charges.”

I think this article misses the point. It’s not an either/or proposition. Government is not a monolith, all good or all bad. Similarly, the tea-party movement or militia movements are not organized along any guiding principles, which all participants subscribe to. Within these--or any group, organization, institution, or bureaucracy--there is an innate tendency toward corruption and manipulation—misinformation designed to protect power and position--and any cursory glance at human history reveals that the movement of it is most often dictated from behind the scenes.

People respond to conspiracy movies precisely because there is no way to really discern what’s happening in the present—we only ever receive partial information, filtered through the perspective of whoever is imparting it.

And trying to make sense of the past is no easier. When one goes back to try to puzzle through the reality of a situation, it is almost always speculation and guesswork. There is an unknowability factor at work in so much of the historical record (this is even true among families—each person remembers the family history in a way that serves their own internal narrative). It seems to me that a psychological purpose of conspiracy films is to encourage skepticism and critical thought. Therefore, the subject matter is almost beside the point—the real lesson seems to be: don’t automatically trust what you’re told or even what you see. Perception is a matter of position.

Among recent films, I particularly enjoyed THE GHOST WRITER, directed by Roman Polanski. It’s an object lesson in how to make a film—a narrative that is clearly and methodically constructed, a visual style that precisely supports the narrative, and performances that allude to more than is made explicit. The story revolves around an unnamed writer who takes the job of continuing the autobiography of a former British prime minister after the first writer is found drowned. This occupation itself reinforces the theme of nothing being as it appears—the writer is constructing a story that serves to enhance the P.M.’s public image, but the actual events he writes about may or may not have anything to do with the truth.

The entire film is shrouded in cloudy skies and rain—there’s no bright sunlight in any of the scenes, emphasizing the idea that the real story is clouded, hidden from the light. There is a wonderful image of a gardener trying to rake up leaves, putting them in a wheelbarrow, but the wind continues to blow them away. At the end of the movie there is a callback to this image of futility, where the truth literally blows away in the wind.

To correctly discern the truth becomes a Sisyphean task, particularly in a world where facts seem to be fluid and words are increasingly used to mean their opposite, i.e. the realm of politics and the people who cover it.

Polanski has often examined the machinations of power in his work. CHINATOWN was one of the films that changed my perceptions. When I first saw the film in 1974, the year I graduated from high school, I was disturbed by the perversity of it, its melancholy and cynicism, and its lack of resolution (its ending is brutal). But I also felt enlightened—as though I’d been shaken awake out of my naïve stupor (or at least it was the beginning of a broader awareness—it took me a few years to get out from under the incongruities of my conservative upbringing). The film made me realize that business and politics are a nasty mix—unfettered capitalism is all about survival of the fittest at its most demented. Human beings are often considered expendable in the process. How ironic that most of the religious right are die-hard proponents of capitalism, but furious opponents of evolution! (I had a wonderful professor in college who used to say that an honest politician is like a virgin in a whorehouse—sooner or later you have to jump out a window or join in with the rest.)

Polanski is a filmmaker who is frequently called pessimistic. His response: “I think that’s a very superficial analysis of what I do and who I am. The fact that you don’t end a film with a forced happy ending doesn’t mean that you’re not an optimist. If you show tragic events, you have to have a tragic ending. That’s the definition of drama: it has to end in tragedy in order to have an impact on the viewer. If you show a bunch of people who do evil, and at the end they’re all wonderfully punished, it leads you to believe there’s nothing to be done anymore, because someone is taking care of it for you. I prefer to leave the responsibility with the viewer.”

I recently re-watched THE PARALLAX VIEW, another wonderful conspiracy film from 1974, which deftly mocks the Warren Commission in its somber opening credits. The movie holds up very well, not so much because of its plot, but because of its mood, philosophy, and overall sense of skepticism. The sequence where Warren Beatty’s character watches the Parallax Organization’s indoctrination film is still thrilling and disconcerting. It is a clear demonstration of the power of editing and eerily prescient about the brainwashing propaganda of organizations like Fox News. Alan Pakula’s direction is precise and unsentimental, and Gordon Willis’ photography allows the frame to fall off into blackness, accentuating the feeling of paranoia and suspicion.

The movie asks questions it never answers and ultimately feels more powerful than Pakula’s other classic 1976 film about government conspiracy: ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MEN. Even though the latter is also a great film, it proves Polanski’s point about happy endings. The satisfaction of seeing Nixon brought down by Woodward and Bernstein lets the audience off the hook, as it also seems to have done with the entire mainstream media (the idea of a couple of newsmen bringing down an entrenched power structure in the present day seems far-fetched—who, and what newspaper, would have the courage?) ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MEN creates a wonderful sense of modern noir—the garage scenes between Robert Redford and Hal Holbrook are chilling, in that they’re counter-intuitive--men meet in the dark to do the right thing.

The idea that power or long-held presuppositions can be challenged by art remains for me a very powerful idea. The same professor, who I quoted above, also said—people’s minds are not changed by politics, but rather people’s minds are changed by popular culture, which is then reflected in our politics.

Therefore, a show like “24” begins to make people comfortable with the immorality of torture. And a show like WILL AND GRACE or a film like BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN makes people start to rethink their ridiculous assumptions and prejudices about gay people. To that end, I think it’s important to examine how narrative storytelling is used to question or support the power structures that dictate our culture and society, whether these narratives be short news pieces, reality shows, or feature films. We are influenced by what we watch, and we adjust our worldview accordingly.

It’s not simply enough to say, “I liked it” or “I didn’t care for it.” But to ask oneself deeper questions, about the specifics of one’s response—e.g. “why does this scene make me feel so uncomfortable?” Or “why do I get such enormous satisfaction out of seeing this villain punished in a particularly gruesome way?” Or “why does this sentimental scene make me cry but that similar scene in another movie make me scoff?” What does my response to any event that I watch, in television or on film, say about my own evolving psychology? I believe there is something about the visual image that takes us deeper, closer to our dream state, than do the images we conjure up from the written word in newspapers, magazines, or novels. And additionally, the experience that we bring to bear upon a visual work, based upon our previous associations with the actors, the director, the newscaster, et al, can have enormous implications.

Stanley Kubrick was a master at using film to make us dig deeper into the realm of the collective unconscious, and to question our most basic belief systems. His films stay with me, and continue to change me over time as I think about them more and more. When I first saw EYES WIDE SHUT my initial response was that I didn’t care for it. However, I felt drawn to watch it again…and then yet again…and yet again. I was perplexed as to what kept drawing me back to the film—I found Tom Cruise to be insipid, and it didn’t make sense to me. But like any worthy work of art, the more one looks at it, the more there is to contemplate. And perhaps Kubrick knew exactly what he was doing by using Tom Cruise in the role, drawing upon our collective impressions of the actor himself.

Tim Kreider has written a remarkable essay about EYES WIDE SHUT, available at this link. READ THIS ESSAY--it’s that good! It will make you want to go back and watch the film again. It challenges the conventional wisdom that Kubrick missed the mark with his final film, and answers the critics who suggested that Kubrick was out of touch with modern sexuality. He castigates the reviewers who focused on the sexual aspect of the film, ignoring its more profound implications.

His thesis resonates with me: "The real pornography in this film is in its lingering depiction of the shameless, naked wealth of millennial Manhattan, and of its obscene effect on society and the human soul. National reviewers' myopic focus on sex, and the shallow psychologies of the film's central couple, the Harfords, at the expense of every other element of the film--the trappings of stupendous wealth, its references to fin-de-siecle Europe and other imperial periods, its Christmastime setting, even the sum Dr. Harford spends on a single night out--says more about the blindness of the elites to their own surroundings than it does about Kubrick's inadequacies as a pornographer."

He furthermore states: "Kubrick's films are never only about individuals (sometimes, as in the case of 2001, they hardly contain any); they are always about Man, about civilization and history."

And then this wonderful quote: "…Evil among our elites is more often a matter of willful ignorance and passivity--of blindness--than of any deliberate cruelty. And Kubrick emphasizes that culture and erudition have nothing to do with goodness or depth of character; in this film they have more to do with the exhibitionistic display of imperial wealth."

In many ways, EYES WIDE SHUT has become my favorite conspiracy movie, because it boils everything down to the most essential elements of conspiracy—power, sex, and money—presented in a dream world that evokes, as Kreider points out, our deepest fears and desires, and our collective memory of other times and places as well as our own. This removes the ideas from the realm of contemporary (and passing) politics, or the superficial arguments over American exceptionalism, and puts them squarely into the realm of psychological inquiry. Because ultimately, what is the point in trying to figure out what’s really happening unless the pursuit of that question gives us some greater understanding of ourselves?

ADAPTATIONS AND INSPIRATIONS...

2010-03-14T16:33:00.000-07:00

This past week I shot a series of fragrance commercials, three for women and one for men. They’re brief and, since the viewer is not able to smell anything, each spot must suggest the “idea” of fragrance through the use of light, design, and texture—and the placement of the actors in the frame. Hopefully, they’ll also succeed in capturing a few moments in time, and will evoke an emotional response in the viewer; make one wish to be next to this man or this woman, and ponder--what comes next?

Somewhat like I feel when I look at this photo:

The photo expresses a sense of mystery and romance. What are the man and woman saying to one another? What comes immediately after this moment caught by the camera? Do they really care for each other? Is each genuinely interested in the other, or is each playing out some scene from his or her interior life?

The photo is by the French photographer Brassai, about whom Erika Billeter wrote, “Always astonishing in Brassai’s work is the strong presence of people. They fill every setting with their physical volume and reveal the photographer’s genuine involvement. No photograph was taken just for its own sake. Despite all his transformation of life into a photographic image, Brassai’s pictures were always a confession of humanity….Brassai transposed the everyday elements of human existence into pictures that are full of aesthetic value but also human warmth.” (This particular photo has been my inspiration for this current endeavor--it represents a mood and alludes to more beyond the frame.)

I’m always looking for ideas that inspire me—paintings, photographs, books, architecture, movies, theatre, television shows, music videos, songs, dreams, essays about any and all of the above--anything that makes me feel something, or takes me deeper into my own creative experience. During our trip to Europe this last December, and during our last six weeks in New York, we walked miles through museums, saw films and plays, and spent hours talking about how we were affected by what we’d seen.

In Madrid, we saw LAS MENINAS, a 1656 painting by Diego Velazquez, at the Prado. One could stare at it for hours, contemplating its parts. Wikipedia has a long, wonderful entry about it, well worth reading. Among many other points, it says, “The work's complex and enigmatic composition raises questions about reality and illusion, and creates an uncertain relationship between the viewer and the figures depicted. Because of these complexities, LAS MENINAS has been one of the most widely analyzed works in western painting.” The experience of looking at it is similar to the experience of watching a film. The painting inspires, because of its precision and density—it suggests imaginary spaces, conversations, and incidents to the viewer, but all of those imaginary events come from within the viewer’s imagination. What is the lady in waiting saying to the young princess? What is the princess thinking? Is the man in the door entering or leaving? I have my own ideas and the person standing next to me will have theirs.

The viewer’s eye is drawn to a mirror on the back wall—and within it there is a reflection of the royals. The king and queen are apparently sitting for a painting by Velazquez (who stands by the easel on the left). They remain a primary point of focus—and yet the painting suggests that the painting is their point of view. Therefore the viewer is allowed to put themselves in the place of the royals—the painting provides an opportunity to feel what they’re feeling as they observe this moment in time. It’s a very cinematic concept, 250 years before the advent of cinema, in that it takes you from an experience of the objective to the subjective by directing your attention to specific elements.

(Also, check this out: 89 SECONDS AT ALCAZAR, a high-definition video by Eve Sussman, inspired by LAS MENINAS. It presents a recreation of the moments leading up to and directly following the moment captured in the painting, when the royal family and their courtiers would have come together in the exact configuration of Velázquez's painting.)

Picasso seems to have been inspired by this painting as well. Between August and December of 1957, he painted a series of 58 interpretations of LAS MENINAS, which we were also able to see in December at the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. These paintings had a powerful effect on me, in that each represents a different emotional response Picasso had to the original painting. One is able to assess Picasso’s particular focus in each painting by considering which element is allowed to dominate. And the Picasso paintings then create specific responses that allow one to reconsider the original painting.

The green in the Picasso painting on the upper right makes me more aware of the shades of green in the original painting. The focal point of the painting above directs my attention to the courtier entering the room. Or is he leaving?

This is an idea that has always fascinated me—how can one adapt a specific work to emphasize a certain element that is important to the new artist? I frequently study films adapted from books to consider the elements that are illuminated by the filmmaker.

For instance, there is a passage in PRIDE AND PREJUDICE by Jane Austen, describing Elizabeth's journey through Derbyshire: “Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased…Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!”

This paragraph is interpreted in similar, yet very different ways, in the 1995 BBC version and the 2005 feature version of Austen’s novel. Both filmmakers found the passage important enough to include in their adaptation, and both frame the actress playing Elizabeth (Jennifer Ehle and Kiera Knightley, respectively) against a beautiful view. But the similarities end there. In the former version she turns to her fellow travelers, thus pulling us out of her subjective experience of what she sees. The reverse shot includes the others, and includes them in her thought process as she speaks to them and they to her about the view. The music throughout this scene is unremarkable, continuing a theme that has been playing throughout the entire film without any elaboration, or change in tempo.

This shot from the 1995 BBC version of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE is beautiful, but Elizabeth is turned away from the view. Therefore the viewer is more focused on Elizabeth, objectively, than on the view itself.

In contrast, the 2005 version, directed by the extraordinary Joe Wright, captures the written passage, but then takes it to another level altogether. The wide shot lingers for a very long time, as it tracks to the left, giving us a vast sense of the space, as an analog for deep emotion. At the same time, the score swells, with a dynamic orchestration of a very specific musical theme that has been related to Elizabeth’s inner thoughts. From this wide shot, Wright cuts in close to Elizabeth, from a low angle, with her face against the blue sky, emphasizing a feeling of being on top of the world. No other people are present, no dialogue is necessary to let us know what she is feeling, and the emotional effect is far greater.

I have argued the relative merits of the two versions of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE with many of my friends and students. Many feel that the BBC version is superior for various reasons, but for me Wright’s film sets the bar, not just for this novel but any adaptation of Austen. He has a great visual sense, and it serves the subtext of the storytelling in a more profound way.

Another wonderful example is a sequence adapted from this passage of the novel, after Elizabeth’s friend Charlotte has told her that she is marrying Mr. Collins: “…Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match.” In the BBC version, the confrontation with Charlotte is staged very conventionally--the two women face each other and are equal in the frame and the subsequent coverage. Elizabeth’s “reflection” takes the form of a quick conversation with her sister in the following scene, where she paces and articulates her disappointment with her friend. Her sister gently chides her, suggesting that maybe there is another way to look at it. The sequence ends with Elizabeth sitting and exhaling with frustration.

In Wright’s version, Charlotte is divided from Elizabeth in the frame by the line of the rope which bisects the frame. The scene is weighted towards Elizabeth, who is presented center frame, in contrast to the over-the-shoulder angle on Charlotte. Charlotte then walks away from Elizabeth, who is left sitting on the swing as she looks after her. Elizabeth spins on the swing as her perspective shifts, and we see the passing of time indicated by the change in light and weather. Rain starts to fall, and in the corner of one POV shot, we see a woman helping a man into the house, out of the rain—a lovely evocation of the helpmeet nature of marriage. Elizabeth continues to spin, a very specific visual representation of someone considering all points of view. Elizabeth’s expression is neutral and meditative, allowing the viewer to project onto the film one's own emotional reaction. It’s a lovely sequence.

I think Joe Wright’s adaptation of ATONEMENT is equally compelling, and exceedingly skillful in capturing the spirit of the novel.

To me, the best adaptations are those that magnify a work—one artist has an idea, and that idea spurs another artist to amplify, to enhance, to bring something original to an existing concept. Take for example, a woman sitting before a glass of absinthe--Degas inspires Picasso, who in turn inspires some advertising executive:

Or consider these wonderful examples of Hitchcock's inspiration from the work of Edward Hopper (thanks to Joel Gunz for the references):

Expert novel-to-film examples that readily spring to mind for me are THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING (a perfect example of how to film a book of ideas, which many said couldn't be filmed), HOWARD’S END, the two very different but equally compelling versions of THE TALENTED MR. RIPLEY (PURPLE NOON was the first, directed by Rene Clement in 1960), THE AGE OF INNOCENCE (flawed but reaching for something that takes one deeper into the novel.)

And beyond adaptations, there are the ideas and inspirations that one finds throughout our cultural landscape: on television, MAD MEN includes overt references to films like THE APARTMENT and THE MAN IN THE GREY FLANNEL SUIT.

Closer to home for me, the pilot episode of THE OC echoes themes and relationships similar to REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE. It is, of course, not a literal retelling, but there is a mirroring of ideas, reinvented to reflect something new for a new generation. The primary relationship between the male and female protagonist in THE OC is set up in a very similar manner—and the experience of the original is then brought to bear upon one’s perception of the new work.

There are, of course, countless other examples. I could go on and on, but the purpose of this post is to encourage your own investigations. To see the similarities--in works of art, in music, in films, and literature—allows one to contemplate the thread of things, to understand that there are ideas that are percolating in the collective unconscious that want to be expressed again and again, for our consideration. Like repeating dreams, the concepts reemerge, to allow one to consider what value and meaning the ideas provide for an evolving consciousness.

Reflections on a Year of Good Work...

2010-01-10T14:00:00.000-08:00

"It is only when I am doing my work that I feel truly alive." --Federico Fellini

Year-end reflections give dimension and meaning to experience. It seems like every paper, blog, or magazine is full of ten-best or worst lists, ten photos that define the year, ten this or that.

As the new year begins I like to look back over the previous year, thinking about my own personal ten—ten events that mattered, ten trips I took, ten decisions that made a difference. It’s a way of solidifying the experiences and acknowledging their value. Why ten? Just seems to be the number that’s popular, I guess.

On the professional side, this is an easy task—I directed ten shows in 2009. The volume of work, and the variety of it, was enormously satisfying. I felt joyful in the doing of it—connected to the process, and to the people with whom I was working, in a way that I’ve never felt.

The year began with a GOSSIP GIRL episode: “The Age of Dissonance”. It had particular meaning for me in that it referenced the Edith Wharton novel The Age of Innocence, one of my favorite books. I have long said that GOSSIP GIRL, at its best, is updated Edith Wharton. The themes of class, romantic intrigue, and dramatic irony are the primary ingredients of the show. What’s between the lines is the most important—the unspoken carries the most weight.

We spent two days shooting in a theater, where the characters were putting on a play of “The Age of Innocence”. On the second day, we were running two hours behind schedule and I had two scenes left to shoot—a scene from the play on the stage, and then an argument that was to take place offstage in the wings. It suddenly occurred to me that I could combine the two—have the argument take place onstage as the actors were performing the scene—and get us back on schedule.

I called Stephanie Savage, asked her permission to restructure the scenes. She agreed and I then went to my actors, Penn Badgley and Leighton Meester. I asked them to relearn their dialogue, on the fly, integrating the argument into the scene on the stage. What resulted was one of the most satisfying scenes in the show--or for that matter, in any of my shows. It was a tribute to these wonderful actors that they were able to pull it off with aplomb. (At the top of the gag reel from season two, Leighton Meester looks into the camera and says, “This is going to be so fun, you guys.” This was just as we began shooting this particular scene.)

Charles Isherwood, a drama critic at the New York Times, did a small cameo in this episode. He wrote a hilarious article about his experience (which is in no way exaggerated). It was a pleasure to have worked with him and I thank him for the shout-out.

I don’t know that I’m ever happier than when I’m working on GOSSIP GIRL. The show is joy to do. The crew feels like family to me, and the cast continually inspires me with their skill and commitment. My relationship with Stephanie Savage and Josh Schwartz has been one of the great things to happen to me in this life, in that they treat me as a true and trusted collaborator. Throughout my time on THE OC and GOSSIP GIRL we’ve developed a shorthand style of working that has served me on every other show that I’ve done.

Also, what I love about the show is that, even though it is about young people, they could really be any age. It is a show about emotion and how it drives action. Whether you’re 15 or 45 it’s relatable.

In February I worked on another Josh Schwartz show, my second episode of CHUCK: “Chuck vs. The First Kill” (I also edited the pilot and first episode in 2007.) This was my opportunity to do my most overt Hitchcock reference, in that I staged the climactic scene where Chuck clings to a villain on the edge of a building, shot for shot, like the Statue of Liberty scene from SABOTEUR.

But alas, again like SABOTEUR, the weakness of the scene is that the villain, for whom we care nothing, is the one at risk and therefore the audience investment is minimal. It goes to show that no matter how complicated the sequence, the emotion of the audience must be primary or it will be for naught.

Much more satisfying for me, in this particular episode, is the last act, beautifully cut by one of my protégés Jeff Granzow, which moves forward and backward in time, building up suspense as to whether Sarah will betray Chuck. For me, this sequence encapsulates the themes and motifs of the show, and it is one of the sequences of which I’m most proud.

(For trivia buffs: The house where Jill’s family resides in the episode is the same house that was used in RISKY BUSINESS.)

In March, I shot the second season finale of GOSSIP GIRL “The Goodbye Gossip Girl”. The particular challenge of this episode was that it was being shot in the last throes of winter, and yet it was supposed to be taking place in June. The selection of locations depended upon being able to shoot in enough directions without emphasizing that the trees were still bare, and that people in the streets were still bundled up in their winter clothes (in the photo above you can see green leaves on the trees, courtesy of the art department).

Among other great locations, the climactic scene was shot in front of the Plaza hotel, an iconic film location if there ever was one, and we also shot in the Oak Bar (I love the idea of a high school student buying her friends a round of drinks here without anyone batting an eye.)

Here I am at the Oak Bar, in the booth where Cary Grant sat just before he was kidnapped in NORTH BY NORTHWEST. I love shooting in New York.

The show was also a challenge in that so many of the scenes included most, if not all, of the principal cast members. The hardest thing about working in television is the adherence to the schedule, striving to shoot six to eight pages a day, and to feel like you’ve done justice to the material and to your own internal vision of what a scene can be. The more people there are in a scene, the more set-ups there are that need to take place in order to cover the scene appropriately. In one party scene, where all of the principals are in a circle confronting each other, I simply asked the actors to rotate 180 degrees and shot all of the coverage in the same direction. However, I am confident that when a viewer watches the scene, one doesn’t know the difference.

In April and May I began work on a new show for ABC Family called MAKE IT OR BREAK IT. The episode was titled "Sunday, Bloody Sasha, Sunday". The show follows the training and personal relationships of four teenage girls who are competing in gymnastics. It’s wonderfully crafted--great writing, great cast, and a great crew. Even though the show is aimed at a young demographic, it appeals to my sensibilities because the show is very psychological at its core. The four girls are amazingly well delineated as characters, each representing a different female archetype, or a different psychological type. (You can even break them down along Jung’s idea of personality types—thinking, feeling, sensation-oriented, or intuitive.)

There is something about the number four that presents a challenge dramatically--keeping the audience equally invested in four stories—but a television show is a particularly wonderful vehicle for this kind of exploration and I think Holly Sorenson and her writing staff have created something very special.

On a visual level, it gave me the opportunity to play with these ideas in the framing. I was constantly looking for ways to frame the girls to indicate their shifting allegiances, and power dynamics—three against one, two versus two, all four together. The four young actresses couldn’t be better or easier to work with (not to mention their stunt doubles, one of whom was a former student of mine at UCLA)--it made me happy to go to work each day to see them. The other characters (the coach and the adults) that round out the cast also give dimension to the story, reflecting complicated family and professional patterns that feel extraordinarily real. I can’t recommend this show highly enough—I know adults who are hooked, as well as kids, and my 84-year-old mother loves it and she’s my best barometer of what’s working. My partner Davyd can’t wait for each new episode. Do yourself a favor and set your DVR.

I returned to New York at the end of June to do the second episode of GOSSIP GIRL’s new season—an episode called “The Freshmen” (about some of the characters starting college…obviously). This episode was fun--a great script with terrific locations. As I was preparing to leave for New York I heard a song called “Embers” by Just Jack. The song inspired me and influenced the way I prepared for the show. (I had no idea if it would ultimately work in the show itself, but I frequently listen to music to inspire my own ideas of what I’m trying to achieve.) The song has a longing about it, and an adventuresome quality to it as well—it captures the idea of leaving something behind and simultaneously searching for something new. I sent the song to my editor Tim Good. Elsewhere on this blog I’ve written about how he listened to the song, acquired the instrumental tracks, then did a masterful job of weaving it throughout the episode. I couldn’t have been happier with how it ultimately turned out.

The episode also again gave me the chance to play with the frame as a way of accentuating psychological states. Blair is frequently framed in wide shots that reflect her isolation from those around her. She doesn’t fit in and feels somewhat lost.

As you are prepping a show, there are a thousand thoughts and ideas that a you might have about the material—you hope that a fraction of them make it to the screen, and that a fraction of those might make their way through to some receptive member of the audience. One of the most gratifying aspects of working on this particular episode was reading an online essay about it, written by Jacob Clifton. He got so many of the references and suggested some of his own that I hadn’t even thought of. He saw why the “Embers” song was meaningful for me and how it related to the whole. He drew comparisons between Blair and Emma Bovary, which were smart and accurate. GOSSIP GIRL has always been a far smarter show than it’s ever given credit for being. If you’re not already hooked, then you don’t know what you’re missing.

I returned to LA to work on MELROSE PLACE—an episode called “Canon” (each episode is named after a particular LA street, where some part of the action takes place). I was most intrigued with the idea of the noirish aspect of the show—the set itself reminds me of the Nicolas Ray film IN A LONELY PLACE. The first twelve episodes of the series tracked the mystery of who killed Sydney Andrews, played by Laura Leighton, and the flashback scenes were great fun to shoot. Memory is fragmented and impressionistic, and I think the flashback scenes on this show capture that quality.

The challenge of a show like MELROSE PLACE is the huge size of the ensemble cast. In this case, you are tracking seven stories. So again, the use of the frame becomes a tool in terms of tracking the emotional line of the various characters. Who is standing next to whom? The composition of the shots in my episode frequently positions one against six, three against four, two against three—not only because it’s an efficient way to shoot, but because something subliminal is communicated to the audience about the psychological dynamics between the characters. It’s a shorthand way of delivering subjective content.

My favorite scene in this episode was the striptease by the character Lauren (played beautifully by Stephanie Jacobsen), who is a prostitute by night and a medical student by day. I liked this scene because--not only did it allow me to shoot something outside of my usual comfort zone--it was complicated on an emotional level. It was important to me that it not feel simply salacious, but emotionally true. I think Stephanie managed to achieve a great vulnerability, never allowing us to lose sympathy for what the character is going through as she dances for her john. The scene must have worked because it has shown up in every recap before each of the subsequent episodes.

Again, I was lucky to work with wonderful writers and a wonderful cast. I’d worked before with both Michael Rady (on GREEK) and Jessica Lucas (on 90210) so we fell into a natural rhythm that made my time on MELROSE PLACE a great pleasure.

(By the way, this episode airs again on Tuesday night, January 12. If you missed it the first time SET YOUR DVR. Here’s a link to the trailer.)

At the end of August I headed back to New York to direct an episode of a new show called THE BEAUTIFUL LIFE, for my friend Mike Kelley. This show had a brief run and an unhappy early cancellation (which I’ve written about on this blog previously). The great news is that executive producer Ashton Kutcher worked to give the unaired episodes a second life on youtube. You can find them at this link. I directed the fifth and last completed episode “The Beautiful Campaign”.

This job was a very happy one for me during production. It was an opportunity to work again with Mischa Barton, for whom I have great affection having begun my directing career with her on THE OC, and it gave me the chance to bond with some new actors that I look forward to working with again. I’ve already been fortunate enough to work with Nico Tortorella again on MAKE IT OR BREAK IT. (My earlier blog on this episode was pretty extensive, so I won’t repeat myself here.)

I was very happy with the show and encourage you to check it out on youtube, as well as this excellent story about it on CNN. As a series, it was beginning to explore some very interesting issues about the modeling world, and there are some wonderful performances in all of the episodes.

(As research for this job I watched the documentary THE SEPTEMBER ISSUE, which I cannot recommend highly enough. It made me race out, buy Vogue magazine, which I’ve been doing ever since, just for the purpose of studying the photo layouts and why they work.)

I returned to LA and began work on the first episode of the new cycle of MAKE IT OR BREAK IT "The Eleventh Hour" in October (this episode just aired last week, and airs again on Monday night, January 11). It was a joy to return to this show, and again I was given a script that had great psychological density.

One of my favorite things about this episode is how difficult it is for the characters to look at one another throughout, because the emotions are so complicated. When Peri Gilpin, who plays one of the mothers, grabs her daughter at a certain point in the story, and forces her to make eye contact, it had real emotional punch for me because up until that moment no one is looking at anyone else. Just great, great work from cast and crew—and my thanks go to all of them.

In November I returned to 90210, for which I’d done an episode in the previous season. The episode is called “What’s Past is Prologue”. I had a great time but can’t say too much about the show since it hasn’t aired yet—it’s presently scheduled to run on March 24.

There’s something wonderful about returning to a show much later, after your initial visit, because a settling has taken place. The actors know their characters—they’ve become comfortable in their characters’ skins, and this was certainly the case on 90210. Again, I was given a great script—the character dilemmas were real and relatable, and the action arises from an intelligent and understandable character development. Again, thanks to a great cast and crew. (More to come on this blog once the show airs in March.)

Finally, I finished the year with a return trip to MELROSE PLACE, an episode called "Sepulveda". This show also does not air until April 6, so I can say little about it at this point, except that it was a blast and again a wonderful script.

One of the primary joys of directing this particular episode was that it presented me with my first opportunity to direct my sister Betty Buckley. Executive producer Todd Slavkin turned to me in the concept meeting on the first day of prep and asked, “I know it’s only a small cameo, but do you think there’s any chance your sister would be interested in playing this character?” I said that I could ask, and she graciously agreed to come from her ranch in Texas to play the part. (Again, more to come on this blog once the show airs in April.)

I'm extremely fortunate to get to do what I do. When I direct, I strive to give my entire self to the process, because there’s always something in it for me to discover on a personal level as well as professional. I learn more about my own psychological development by studying others.

I was truly blessed in 2009 to work with tremendous casts and crews, great writers, great producers, great editors, DPs, production and costume designers, set decorators--such that this particular blog post is starting to sound repetitive. How many times can you say--it was a great cast and crew? But it was really the truth. I learned from each and every person I worked with, and I can honestly say that I have so much respect for what these people do day in and day out. Working on a television show is relentless and hard. There’s no time to waste, there’s not a moment that cannot be used to make the process a richer experience, and the level of concentration that's required is very intense. It is living at the cutting edge of creative experience and it forces me to be aware and awake.

To create stories for people to watch, to hopefully inspire the imagination of others, is a noble quest and I am honored to have traveled alongside all of the various people who have worked with me on these shows this year. I have been the beneficiary. They carry me forward.

"Still Here with Me..."

2009-11-29T18:43:00.000-08:00

“Okay… let me say this…if I lost my wife and the next day a little bird landed on my window sill, looked me right in the eye, and in plain English said, “Sean, it’s me, Anna, I’m back”…Well, what could I say? I guess I’d believe her. Or I’d want to. But I’d be stuck with a bird. But other than that, no--I’m a man of science. I just don’t believe that mumbo-jumbo. Now, that’s going to have to be the last question. I need to go running before I head home…”

My recent post about the greatest films of all time generated a lot of comment. I wasn’t trying to suggest that there haven’t been wonderful films in the last thirty years—only that the context has changed. I am a huge admirer of, among others, Terrence Malick, Pedro Almodovar, the Coen brothers, Danny Boyle, Patrice Leconte, Stephen Frears, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Jacques Audiard, Baz Luhrman, Ang Lee, Guillermo del Toro, Peter Yates, and Alfonso Cuaron.

And I have my own thoughts as to more recent films that I think will endure the test of time. One of these is BIRTH, a 2004 film by Jonathan Glazer, the director of SEXY BEAST. Like VERTIGO, BIRTH was a failure when it was released, panned by critics and seemingly inaccessible to audiences. Like VERTIGO, it is a film about obsession, about repetition, about projection, about grief. Like VERTIGO, I predict that it will continue to gain in stature as the years pass and as more and more people discover it.

I first saw this film on DVD, late one night, not expecting to like it much since the critical and public reception had been so poor. But from its very beginning it hooked me in a way that few films have—a combination of literate screenplay, wonderful acting, exquisite direction, and a glorious score by Alexandre Desplat.

The movie begins with the quote above, a man’s voice speaking over black, seemingly the end of a lecture. The man describes his love for his wife as that thing which would make him doubt even his scientific principles, the power of love being strong enough to push beyond our logical reasoning.

This is followed by one of the most mesmerizing tracking shots I’ve ever seen—a three minute run through Central Park in the snow. The music that accompanies this shot is stunning, and amounts to what could be considered an overture, setting musical themes and motifs that will continue to build throughout the film.

I asked my friend, and wonderful composer, Tim Jones to dissect this overture for me: "It starts out with a trio of flutes playing the pattern that continues through the piece. The triangle comes in next followed by the celeste. The low, river-like figure is contra bass clarinet and possibly contra bassoon with cellos and basses. The figure is usually punctuated by hits from the gran casa (bass drum). There is a secondary rhythmic figure played by the horns and harp (possibly with higher woodwinds in the background, it's hard to hear). We then get tutti strings (full-section) playing a sort of halting, interrupted melody. Finally, the violins come in as a section and give us a nice, flowing statement. The horns come in triads, playing a sort of hunting call. The phrase culminates with low brass punctuation (trombones, tuba). Underneath the horn figures are pizzicato strings plucking arpeggios. The trumpets make their first appearance with a very chromatic, sinewy line that plays in and out of the harmony. I notice the timpani has actually been hiding out behind the gran casa. It swells with rolls on the crescendos. The timpani then really comes to the forefront. This section is basses, gran casa and timpani in a complex, rhythmic interplay. The pizz strings start a figure in the violins. All of this is very indicative of the beginnings of a life, the start of the heartbeat. Harp and piano appear for the first time. We're back to the simplicity of the beginning orchestration, but this time with piano added to the color. Then there is a synth sine wave. This is a very interesting choice, because this is the simplest, most pure form of sound that we hear. If you were to think of the 'birth' of sound, the sine wave is a 'single cell' organism. It is a simple, building block upon which much sound is constructed (in nature and electronics)."

This prologue, or overture, is in many ways analogous to the life of a man—the music starts out with a very simple, childlike pattern, which becomes increasingly complex, even as the shot itself remains constant: we remain at the same distance from the man, as he continues to run. One could think of the music as the way our thoughts build upon one another in complexity, and yet, like the faceless figure in the snow, we’re all headed towards the same place—certain death. The first cut comes, and we see the man from a distance, descending towards us, down a path in Central Park, as the camera tracks backwards away from him.

He comes to a halt, in a dark underpass, and then collapses, dead of a heart attack.

This is followed by a shot of a baby being born underwater, and emerging to take his first breath.

The narrative then moves ahead ten years. The plot of the movie proceeds as follows: Anna, played by Nicole Kidman, still grieves the loss of her husband Sean, but finally agrees to marry another man, Joseph. Shortly after their engagement party, a ten-year-old boy shows up and claims to be her dead husband. She gradually comes to believe that the boy is indeed her husband Sean’s reincarnation. That’s really all the plot one needs to know, because the plot is not what’s relevant about the movie. It is instead about the symbols of love, the symbols of loss, and the nature of projection. It uses images to suggest ideas, and it doesn’t try to tie up its loose ends. Is the boy really inhabited by the soul of her dead husband, or is he simply responding to the emotional confusion of Anna? Does it matter? In any case, Anna has a choice to make about the future, and her refusal to let go of the past causes her great suffering.

Dennis Cozzalio wrote the following about BIRTH on his blog: “The movie gains strength with each sequence, lending power and emotion to scenes that are staged with absolute clarity of purpose and none of the grandstanding sentimentality that might turn it into, as one writer thoughtlessly claimed, Ghost with pretensions to art and intellect. It’s much easier to write off a movie like Birth with glib, snarky pronouncements like that than it is to engage with the movie on its level and explore some of the questions it asks: What constitutes identity? Is it something innate in us, or is it something projected onto us by others to which we acclimate ourselves, becoming versions of a vision others have of us?”

I am struck by two very powerful sequences in BIRTH, that I always show to my students when I’m teaching. In the first, Joseph and the boy’s father insist to the boy that he promise not to see or bother Anna again. The boy adamantly refuses. Anna also then tells him, quite forcefully, that she doesn’t want him to bother her again. As she starts to walk away from him, she looks back and sees the boy collapse. This unnerves her, as it is reminiscent of her husband’s collapse in the park.

This is followed by a four-minute shot of Anna arriving at the opera and falling deep into her thoughts about what she has just witnessed. It’s as though we can witness her every changing thought—Nicole Kidman is just wonderful in this sequence.

Her look back over her shoulder to the boy evokes the Orpheus myth. The music that plays is Wagner, and as Robert Cumbow points out in his essay on BIRTH: “In that marvelous long take of Anna’s face, we hear almost the entire Prologue to Act I of Die Walküre. If it went on much longer, we would have heard the singing begin, as the exhausted Siegmund stumbles into the forest home of Hunding. This is important for two reasons: Siegmund’s arrival at Hunding’s home ends up breaking up the marriage of Hunding and his wife Sieglinde, as the boy Sean almost does with Anna and Joseph’s engagement. Second, Siegmund not only steals Sieglinde from Hunding, but beds her, even though she is his long lost sister—thus consummating a “forbidden” love, like Anna’s love for the 10-year-old boy who might be her long-lost husband.”

The second sequence that has great meaning for me takes place shortly after. The boy calls and leaves a message for Anna on an answering machine in the family apartment, telling Anna to meet him in the park, that she’ll know where. The camera slowly dollies into Anna’s mother Eleanor, played by Lauren Bacall, as she listens to the message.

This cuts to a locked-off shot of Anna and Eleanor eating lunch, the sound of their silverware clanking against the plates, as the mother relays the message. The shot is perfectly still, but the music is building in intensity, reflecting Anna’s emotional response to the boy’s message, though she betrays no sense of this emotion in her demeanor.

This cuts to a shot of her running down the sidewalk of a Manhattan street, as the music opens up in a romantic and dramatic reprise of the theme established in the overture.

Then we cut to Anna standing immobile at the edge of the park, as the childlike quality of the initial musical theme recurs—suggesting her thought process--perhaps she’s thinking, “…but he’s just a child.”

Then the power of the lower chords starts to emerge again, as she slowly moves forward, with determination and hope, retracing her dead husband’s run down the Central Park path. She approaches the underpass where he died, and the boy emerges from the shadows to meet her.

It is a wrenching and moving sequence. The music is used beautifully to illustrate the expanse of Anna’s emotions. It tracks the psychological line of the story as well as any film score I’ve ever heard.

The slow dolly into Eleanor, as she listens to the phone message, reflects her fear and puzzlement. This shot also moves me because, every time Eleanor appears, there is the implication that her own death is on her mind. There was a wonderful exchange between the mother and the boy in the shooting script, which was ultimately cut out of the film, but which nevertheless informs Lauren Bacall’s performance:

ELEANOR: What’s it like to be dead? (pause) There’s just that little thing in the back of my head that’s just a little bit worried. And it says I hope I’m ready for this. I hope I’m prepared. So if there is something I should know then I want you to tell me right now. Anything. Doesn’t matter. Or is there nothing to worry about?

SEAN: I’m a liar.

ELEANOR: Pretend.

SEAN: Once I died, I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t feel anything. And that was it. It was over.

ELEANOR: Then how did you end up here again?

SEAN: I don’t know. I just did.

Richard Armstrong, in another excellent article about BIRTH, writes, “Charting the emotional consequences of a widow’s adjustment to loss and a new life with a new husband, it is rare for a mainstream film to be about grief, rather than to act as a palliative for it. It is customary for a Hollywood film to revolve around romantic love, but rare for one to be so analytical about what love is, or can be, about the relationship between identity and desire.” Among many other interesting references and comparisons, Armstrong’s commentary points out how the feeling of the film is more important than the specifics of the plot. He suggests some of the early images in BIRTH are reminiscent of a séance.

Jonathan Glazer himself has suggested that its mystical aura has all the makings of a fairy tale. Central Park feels like an enchanted wood; Clara (played by Anne Heche, in a terrific performance) seems almost like a wicked step-sister (her hands are dirty; and she and her husband are distinctly working-class, contrasted with the elite world of Anna’s family and friends); at the climax of the film the boy retreats into a tree, often a symbol of transformation in mythology and fairy tales. When he comes down out of the tree, the spell seems to be broken.

Cumbow describes the influences of Kubrick on the film, “In BIRTH Glazer has given us not only a deeply affecting and astonishingly original film in its own right, but also a virtual rhapsody on Kubrick themes, with direct references to THE SHINING, EYES WIDE SHUT, A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, BARRY LYNDON, LOLITA … and to one more Kubrick film I have not yet mentioned. Think of the final image of 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY—the fetal, pre-born Star Child floating placidly in the liquidity of space and the dawn of an utterly changed, utterly new universe.”

Alternatively, Jim Emerson compares BIRTH to Bunuel, and particularly to UN CHIEN ANDALOU. His analysis is very insightful and he positions BIRTH firmly in the surrealist tradition. He also summarizes the film very elegantly: “So, what is BIRTH about? Is it really about a boy who believes he's the reincarnation of a woman's dead husband, or a woman who shares that same fantasy? Not so much. I think it's pretty much about what Sean says before the first shot of the movie: Love (a brain chemical reaction as powerful as heroin) is so far beyond the rational that we can rationalize almost anything about the one we love, and we have no control over who that may be. Further, we don't even really know the person with whom we fall in love, because the essence of another person is something elusive and indefinable (and probably largely a product of our own will and imagination). I think BIRTH is about the essential unknowability of human beings, including those who are closest to us -- and even ourselves to ourselves. It's a film about existential aloneness, and our yearning to overcome it, even though the object of our desire will always remain somewhat obscure.”

Perhaps this film affects me so much because it feels so personal to me. In 1988 my first significant other died, when he and I were both 32. It was a shattering loss for me and completely upended my sense of reality. For a very long time, my grief enveloped everything and colored the way I looked at the world. Years passed before the wound could heal--grief takes a long time to transform, to give birth to something else.

The wonder of BIRTH is that it so vividly captures that experience, from its wintry landscapes to its subtle use of sound (e.g. the quiet laughter one hears as Joseph watches a graveside service from a distance; the distant drones of city life giving way to utter silence and then to one specific sound, which evokes a specific memory—a passing jogger, the sound of the footsteps exaggerated; and the echoes of the large rooms in which so much of the action plays out).

The final scene, where Anna cries at the edge of the ocean in her wedding dress, is powerful because it is as though she stands at the edge of consciousness, looking out at where she cannot go—her first husband is finally, completely lost to her. Her only choice is to return to life, regardless of how difficult that might be. She and her new husband walk away from the ocean and the viewer is left to ponder what will become of them.

The film ultimately reminds me of Rilke’s poem “Requiem for a Friend”, which meant a great deal to me during my own grieving process:

I have my dead and I have let them go and was amazed to see them so contented, so at home in being dead, so cheerful, so unlike their reputation.

Only you return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock against something, so that the sound reveals your presence. Oh don’t take from me what I am slowly learning…

If you are still here with me, if in this darkness there is still some place where your spirit resonates on the shallow sound waves stirred up by my voice: hear me: help me. We can so easily slip back from what we have struggled to attain, abruptly, into a life we never wanted; can find that we are trapped, as in a dream, and die there, without ever waking up.

This can occur. Anyone who has lifted his blood into a years-long work may find that he can’t sustain it, the force of gravity is irresistible, and it falls back, worthless. For somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work.

Help me, in saying it, to understand it.

Do not return. If you can bear to, stay dead with the dead. The dead have their own tasks.

But help me, if you can without distraction, as what is farthest sometimes helps: in me.

Hitchcock's Mid-Century American Man

2009-11-15T20:07:00.000-08:00

Joel Gunz’s excellent posts on his blog about Alfred Hitchcock, and the artistic works from which he drew inspiration, have made me ponder my own influences. As I’ve said before, Hitchcock’s films have been fundamental touchstones for my creative development--particularly the way in which he uses his films to explore modern man’s psyche in the mid-twentieth century (I was born in 1955 at the height of his power as a filmmaker).

From my viewpoint, Hitchcock was always a little disingenuous in letting people believe that he was just an entertainer. From early in his career he was using film to examine human behavior in a way that was as sophisticated as any psychologist. Some of the themes are explicit (SPELLBOUND, UNDER CAPRICON, VERTIGO, MARNIE). Others are more disguised, hidden under the surface of the mystery and the entertainment values.

Andrew Sarris wrote in his review of PSYCHO, “Hitchcock is the most daring avant-garde filmmaker in America today. Besides making previous horror films look like variations of ‘Pollyanna,’ ‘Psycho’ is overlaid with a richly symbolic commentary on the modern world as a public swamp in which human feelings and passions are flushed down the drain.”

Even Hitchcock films that are considered lighter entertainment—like NORTH BY NORTHWEST—can be analyzed for their insightful examination of human behavior. After all, what is the journey of Roger Thornhill (played by Cary Grant), if not the journey of a man towards self-realization? In his essay on NORTH BY NORTHWEST, Steven Patterson writes, “In the opening moments of the film, to his secretary, we see Thornhill dictate an insincere note to what is obviously a girlfriend. He also ‘steals’ a cab on the false premise that his secretary, Maggie, is sick. His line to Maggie in the cab after she protests about his taking it with a lie sums up his character nicely: ‘In the world of advertising there is no such thing as a lie, Maggie. There is only the expedient exaggeration.' All of this marks Thornhill as a relatively shallow and self-interested man—a far cry from the sort of man who fakes his own death and races across Mount Rushmore to save the woman he loves.”

I’ve long been drawn to Carl Jung’s ideas about psychic development. Jung writes, “One could say, with a little exaggeration, that the persona is that which in reality one is not, but which oneself as well as others think one is.” Hitchcock’s films are peopled with those who pretend to be one thing and yet, thru the crucible of experience, are shown to be something else. I’m particularly struck by the multiple ways in which Hitchcock visually explains this to us.

Thornhill is shown at the beginning of the film in an elegant business suit, in a position of authority, surrounded by people, as he exits a building on Madison Avenue. Compare this with the shots of him standing in the open on the mid-western plains, without the trappings of success and autonomy (he has no mode of transport once he gets off the bus.) Who exactly is he at this point? Does it matter in the slightest that he’s a successful Madison Avenue executive? That fact is meaningless--it won’t save him. It is only his primitive desire to survive, and his own internal resources--his willingness to be courageous in the face of attack--that is his salvation.

He is furthermore literally stripped, throughout the film, of his clothes as the events unfold. To my mind, this is a visual way of indicating how he’s stripped down to an essence that is without definition, and then a new awareness is able to arise within him. This awareness transforms his personality. NORTH BY NORTHWEST is essentially the hero’s journey.

The climactic chase on Mount Rushmore becomes a heroic statement of a new, more authentic identity--contextualized by the faces of American men with big ideas.

THE BIRDS is another film that strikes me as worthy of contemplation on a psychological level. Its metaphors are very powerful. As far as I’m aware, Hitchcock never explained the movie, but it was made at the height of the cold war and I think that this fact informs its themes (I remember that when the movie came out my dad was talking about building a bomb shelter in our backyard). Among other ideas, the bird attacks can be seen as a metaphor for nuclear war, for that for which we are unprepared, and for that which is beyond our ability to comprehend.

To be sure, the movie is remembered for the dramatic bird attacks, but it also is full of images, without the birds, that suggest the character of the American psyche at a particular point in time—one of paranoia and suspicion (that, quite frankly, persists to this day). It suggests a society that is frightened, and one that lets its fear run it.

The diner scene is one of my favorite scenes in the film, because it dissects the typical American suspicion of the other. Each of the characters in the diner represent various archetypes, and the scene is reminiscent of those diner interviews that one sees on cable news channels, where people seem convinced that Iraq is behind 9/11.

One of the reasons the film still resonates is that it is as topical today as it was then. Just substitute terrorism for bird attacks, and then take a look at the shots throughout the film of people reacting.

On a more specific level, there is also the theme of an arrested adolescence. Mitch Brenner (played by Rod Taylor) is a man who still lives with his mother, unable to commit to a relationship. Again, the challenge of the experience forces him to come out from under the shadow of his father and to separate himself from the mother so that he might be able to be a man in his own right.

The way that Hitchcock positions his actors in the frame is no mistake. Mitch Brenner is framed under his father's portrait, and his mother is frequently framed between him and Melanie Daniels. As he rises to the occasion of fending off the birds--by implication, becoming his own man--the positioning changes. Melanie stands between him and his mother, and the mother becomes smaller in the frame.

If one thinks about the film from this point of view, there is something very courageous and hopeful about the final shot of the movie—we see a group of people, finally united, in a positive way, and moving into the unknown, into the very middle of that which scares them. They're scared but they're brave and willing to face what comes. The sun is even breaking through the clouds in the distance. As a metaphor for psychological processes, it is very dynamic—it is only by facing our fears that we overcome them. I always thought that it was indicative of one’s own state of mind as to whether one found this final shot hopeful or despairing. I’m in the hopeful camp.

Cinema In Search of a Soul

2009-11-09T15:52:00.000-08:00

I just finished watching the season finale of MAD MEN. It was an enormously satisfying episode of television because the patient, deliberate development of the story, throughout the season, paid off in wonderful ways.

Why aren’t movies this good anymore?

Every ten years since 1952 Sight and Sound magazine has compiled a list from various film critics and directors, voting on the best films of all time. In 2002 the critics voted for CITIZEN KANE, VERTIGO, RULES OF THE GAME, THE GODFATHER AND THE GODFATHER PART II, TOKYO STORY, 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN, SUNRISE, 8 ½, and SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN. The directors’ list had some overlap: CITIZEN KANE, THE GODFATHER AND THE GODFATHER PART II, 8 ½, LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, DR. STRANGELOVE, BICYCLE THIEVES, RAGING BULL, VERTIGO, RASHOMON, RULES OF THE GAME, and SEVEN SAMURAI.

Citizen Kane is frequently cited as the greatest film of all time. Among its many virtues, it uses the power of light and perspective to suggest psychological states in its story of power and wealth and loneliness. What various characters think of Charles Foster Kane is always reflected by his size and positioning in the frame. He is frequently seen receding into the vanishing point, reinforcing the idea that no one in the film can really get a handle on who he was or what he was about.

While I’m not one who subscribes to the idea of “top ten” lists, nor do I care much what various critics think when it comes to this type of over-simplification (I think lists tend to be subjective and arbitrary), there’s something that jumps out at me: the most recent film to make either of these lists is RAGING BULL, which was released in 1980. What does that say about the current state of the cinema?

While I certainly think there are some interesting films in any given year, I bring this up when I talk to my students, asking them to reflect on the absence of any recent film on this Sight and Sound list, and question why this might be so. Are films of the last thirty years less well-made on some level (not technically necessarily, but well-crafted as a whole?), redundant, lacking in cohesion, playing to the lowest common denominator, afraid to tackle ideas? I’m not sure, but I know the days of feeling that I might see a masterpiece when I go to the movie theater are few and far between. Even when I think there might be a great film looming, I’m usually disappointed.

I find very often that even films that seem to be wrestling with something important often seem vague, unclear about what they’re truly trying to “get at”. Some of this can no doubt be attributed to the enormous number of people who are required to sign off on any studio venture, where risk is avoided at all costs, but what about the smaller films, the independent films, the foreign films? I watch a lot of “smaller” movies on the Independent Movie Channel or Sundance, and I frequently find myself thinking, “Well, that was almost great.” But I certainly don’t feel the need to go back and watch anything again and again, as I do with the films of Hitchcock, Fellini, Kurosawa, Bergman, Antonioni, Kubrick, David Lean, Billy Wilder, George Stevens, Jean Renoir, et al. There is a reason these filmmakers have endured and I’m curious as to how to distill the essence of that ability to speak to so many people over the decades.

Ozu most often used what was called a "tatami-mat shot", in which the camera height is low and almost never moves. It creates an intimate feeling that is almost poetic in its simplicity, mirroring Ozu's themes of all that is quiet and unspoken in family relationships.

It occurs to me that cinema has developed concurrently with developments in psychology; that indeed cinema is a way of making psychological processes understandable and accessible to people across language barriers, across class distinctions, across religious differences, and across nationalities. When one looks at a film like CITIZEN KANE, VERTIGO, TOKYO STORY or LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, what one believes intellectually, politically, or spiritually falls away to make room for something more primary—recognition of our common emotional values. Everyone knows what it means to care passionately, to lose, to love, to fight. In the films that stand the test of the time, the stories that are told endure because they appeal to something fundamental in the collective unconscious. Ozu's TOKYO STORY is without a doubt one of my favorite films. It was made less than ten years after we had called the Japanese our enemies, and yet the film transcends any cultural divide. The meaning behind the story, of aging parents and children who take them for granted, is powerful and universal, particularly now that I’m older.

Which films speak today to our commonality in such a profound way? Which films will we still be talking about thirty, forty years from now?

I know this: we’ll still be talking about MAD MEN and BREAKING BAD, which plumb the depths of modern man’s search for a soul. For me, the former examines personal relationships in such a way that illuminates how we, as a people, careened into the narcissistic, consumer culture of the last fifty years; and the latter elucidates the effects of a society that has thus lost its bearings, driving people to behavior that runs counter to their better selves.

I wonder if the fact that both of these shows are on AMC is significant—a channel dedicated to celebrating a particular kind of filmmaking that is concerned with more than an opening weekend’s boxoffice receipts.

This incredible shot from the MAD MEN finale brings many of the significant characters that we have been tracking in single shots all season into one beautiful, bustling frame that feels hopeful and almost party-like in its composition.

PS--Again, I recommend reading Slate's TV Club roundtable discussion of MAD MEN, as well as the Salon review. Great stuff and grist for the mill.

A PLACE IN THE SUN Addendum...

2009-11-04T18:47:00.000-08:00

After writing my post last week, I came across some interesting quotes from George Stevens about A PLACE IN THE SUN.

In an interview with the AFI, Stevens says, “In A PLACE IN THE SUN I was interested in the mood and emotional effect of the story. I wanted to relate the audience to a character whose behavior it might not subscribe to. To bring that about, one must let the audience see his desire. They have to know his need for the thing that—even accidentally—traps him. So how do you do those things? …When I cut the film I became more and more conscious of the value of one scene against another, and how this spelled something out. I wanted to edit the film together in a way that meant more than the addition of one scene to another. I wanted a kind of energy to flow through. What really interested me was the relationship of images, from this one to that. Shelley Winters busting at the seams with sloppy melted ice cream in a brass bed, as against Elizabeth Taylor in a white gown with blue balloons floating from the sky. Automatically that’s an imbalance, and by imbalance you create drama. I’m interested in knowing—as visually as it can be stated—what’s on the boy’s mind.” One could make a list of the counterpoints throughout the film that demonstrate this flow of energy that he talks about—an orchestra playing at the huge party as George and Angela dance, but a scratchy radio playing in Alice Tripp’s small room; a motorboat with water skiers versus the rowboat; the prison contrasted with the empty, abandoned vacation home.

Stevens is quoted in an interview with Robert Hughes, “I always had a strange feeling about that story, about the character of this young chap and the circumstances he became involved in, and that it wasn’t so much him on trial, as us—the society. I think that’s one of the reasons for audience involvement being very strong in the story.” It’s such an interesting idea to me, to set out to create a narrative that makes us sympathize with someone who could easily be dismissed, as a way of making us think about the values that we as a society hold important. Is a rich, beautiful girl more valuable than a poor, less beautiful one? Is wealth a barometer of happiness? Is thinking about something the same as doing it? Does ambition corrupt?

In discussing the Alice Tripp character, Stevens says, “I wanted her to appear to be the kind of girl a man could be all mixed up with in the dark, but come morning wonder how the hell he got into this.” As I previously pointed out, Stevens’ idea is borne out in the visual design of the film, shooting Shelley Winters in shadows and oftentimes not even seeing her face at very emotional moments. By these cinematic choices, the nature of the relationship is shifted to a instinctual, primitive context. It reinforces the idea of determinism, which was one of Dreiser's themes in his novel.

One of the most brilliant aspects of the film, and one that I didn’t address in my previous post, was the use of sound. Stevens says, “We used natural sounds for orchestration in the film, the conventional things of our world. When George is leaving the scene of his great misfortune, we hear a group of sirens in the distance far away. They are moving, and there’s a question of whether it is in his mind that he hears these things. Then we see that he hears them with an actuality, the feeling of impending doom that is gathering around him—the sirens and the dogs and the railroad…. I also had in mind certain tricks, for example the sound of the motorboat. There is an aura of mischief and violence about it. I took the motorboat engine sound out and put in one from a Nazi Spitzinbomber, the ones that used to dive on the people on the road when they were trying to get out of France. So the audience is somewhat misled, because when that motorboat pulls away, they are hearing a vicious sound that they might associate with other things…” The idea of using metaphoric sound is such an intrinsic part of the film-making process, but oftentimes is only thought about and examined in post-production. There is something to be said for striving to be aware and awake to the sounds that exist around us, in the moment, and to ask oneself when shooting, what are the sounds that are happening now that might provide aural texture for the content of this scene? What am I not noticing right now that might be worth accentuating to a dramatic effect?

Finally, to wrap up my thoughts on A PLACE IN THE SUN: This is one of the first films I bring up when I’m teaching because of its beautiful, but simple and accessible, elucidation of its themes in a visual manner. It is also, on the tail of the second world war, a compassionate observance of the elusive nature of happiness and the enormous sadness that is an inescapable part of the human condition, regardless one’s social position. It examines our capitalist system, but without judgment or condescension.

On another note, here’s a link to a wonderful discussion of the latest MAD MEN episode. I didn’t care for this episode that much--it felt stilted to me--but the analysis is first-rate. And Patrick Radden Keefe writes insightfully about the nature of screen chemistry which, returning to the topic at hand, is certainly one of the defining characteristics of A PLACE IN THE SUN. The chemistry between Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor crackles, even overriding the actor’s homosexuality.

To Want and Not to Have

2009-10-29T23:49:00.000-07:00

“Indeed her effect on him was electric—thrilling—arousing in him a curiously stinging sense of what it was to want and not to have—to wish to win and yet to feel, almost agonizingly that he was destined not even to win a glance from her.” --Theodore Dreiser

Even though many Americans would deny it, class distinction is an issue that continues to define us. It is the underlying theme in much of our drama (certainly it is a running theme in many of the shows I work on, from THE O.C. to GOSSIP GIRL to MAKE IT OR BREAK IT). And it is the framework that shapes the debate of much of our national politics (I continue to be amazed that so many of the lower and middle-class continue to vote against their own economic interests).

We like to think that we’re an egalitarian people; that we believe in democracy and fairness; that everyone has equal opportunity; that all are entitled to and able to achieve the same things. But I don’t believe it. There is a divide between the rich and the poor—and it is difficult to cross. We live in a plutocracy--the haves will always have it easier and will continue to exploit the have-nots to their own advantage, and few will lose sleep over those they pass on the way up the ladder. Capitalism is worshipped as a religion and the bottom line rules. Circumstances dictate behavior, status and power are goals that are celebrated, and people often succumb to their worst impulses in order to be perceived as winners.

George Stevens’ A PLACE IN THE SUN tackles these issues and the film continues to resonate for me, 60 years after it was filmed. It's one of my favorite films and I never tire of watching it, because it makes me understand these ideas on a visceral level. It feels as topical today as it did when it was released.

Stevens captures the moral and psychological ambiguities that define ambition, and the pain of longing for that which is beyond our grasp. Based on Theodore Dreiser’s naturalistic novel An American Tragedy, the film visually examines the thought processes that drive a young man to contemplate murder, and it actually makes us sympathize with him, to understand the shadow impulses that sometimes overwhelm us. How it manages to do this is a lesson in how to compose a powerfully effective shot.

The title of the film evokes the myth of Icarus, and the danger of flying too close to the sun. Its visual template relies upon the contrast between light and dark; between fluid tracking shots and locked-off tableaus that indicate stasis.

The opening shot introduces George Eastman (played by Montgomery Clift). He is presented in bright sunlight and his face looks initially heroic and hopeful. Fleeing his lower-class roots, and his upbringing by a mother mired in religious fanaticism, the story follows George as he gets a job in his wealthy uncle’s factory. Against the warning of his uncle, he becomes involved with a factory girl, Alice Tripp (played by Shelley Winters), and ends up impregnating her. When he falls in love with another girl, the wealthy Angela Vickers (played by Elizabeth Taylor at her most beautiful), he begins to consider murdering Alice to protect his new relationship and newfound social standing.

Reinforcing the themes with much description and multiple points-of-view, Dreiser’s novel dissects the fundamentalism and social forces that run beneath the story of this ill-fated triangle. The book is dense and sometimes pedantic. The film is anything but. The ideas are presented allusively, suggested rather than stated--through the production design and costumes, the composition and image size, and the way in which the actors move through the frame. It is social commentary disguised as melodrama, with a metaphoric component that makes almost every shot worth contemplating. What are the forces that drive us, the values that we're taught to embrace, and in what circumstances might we bend the rules without consequence?

Elizabeth Taylor’s entrance into the film, and into the protagonist’s consciousness, is a stunning wide-angle shot that I’ve been looking to rip off for years. George sits in the foreground, talking to his uncle’s family, as Angela enters in the background. As she moves toward him, we know before he does that she will alter his life, as though his doom is preordained.

Her character’s name was changed from Sondra in the novel to Angela in the film, evoking the idea of a heavenly creature, which again suggests the Icarus myth. George’s name was also changed from the novel, from Clyde. George means earth-worker, so the names themselves reflect their inhabiting separate worlds.

George’s outsider status is reinforced as he enters a party at his uncle’s home. The camera glides behind him as he moves through the room—the house feels huge, and everyone faces away from him. The camera moves alongside him so that we can see his face, looking uncomfortable, wanting to be a part of things but unable to find a way to connect. The other people at the party move away from him, and at the same time the camera retreats in the opposite direction making him smaller in the frame. I can think of no other film that so captures the sense of feeling out-of-place at a party.

Angela is the one who initiates the relationship with George, approaching him with the confidence that wealth brings. She’s always pulling George through the frame and the large, luxurious spaces--coaxing him, teasing him, tempting him, as the camera elegantly sails around them.

She dominates him, even mothers him, and in one extraordinary sequence, pulls him onto the dance floor, as an incredibly long dissolve of his missionary mother is superimposed over their dancing figures. This shot gives way to a gorgeous shot of Taylor, emphasizing the surrendering of the mother’s moral hold over her son to the intoxicating power of Angela's beauty. It is a perfect metaphor for the weak power of religion in the face of the promise of wealth, beauty, and position.

The scene where George and Angela confess their love to one another is one of the most famous scenes in cinema. The images are so large and romantic that one cannot help but give into the idea of their love affair as an inevitability, even though it runs counter to our moral sense of what’s appropriate--and thus it stirs our compassion for his moral weakness.

In the following shots, George lies with his head in her lap, like a child. In the second shot, she hovers over him, looking out at the lake where Alice will drown—her physicality again overpowering him and, by implication, his thoughts. She’s always idealized, representing everything that he wants and can’t have, particularly since he knows by this point in the story that Alice is pregnant.

By contrast, the character of Alice initially behaves timidly with George—she moves awkwardly and is shy with him, in the same way he is with Angela. Alice is shot in static shots, which suggest subliminally that the relationship is stalled, going nowhere. In the shot below, he moves away from her to the right, revealing Angela between them, the man crossing the frame bringing our attention to her instead.

Alice is frequently shot in shadow, in the dark—exactly where George wants to keep their relationship. He seduces her without looking at her, and the scenes with her frequently end in blackness.

The scene where Alice tells George she’s pregnant is particularly interesting. The shot is locked off and Alice sits across from George, with her back to the camera. Most directors would shoot this kind of scene with large close shots, playing the pathos of Alice’s pregnancy, but Stevens holds the wide shot and doesn’t even show us Alice’s face as she gives George the news. George crosses to her and the bed dominates the image. The room feels claustrophobic, like a prison cell. This tendency to visually de-emphasize Alice makes us feel as George does about her, that she is a burden and not worth caring about.

George begins to contemplate Alice’s murder and he is lit in such a way that suggests the darkness of the thoughts that are occurring to him.

As he begins to feel Alice’s threat to his new relationship, Angela also begins to fall into shadow.

When Alice is finally presented to us in large close shots, similar in size to earlier ones of Angela, it is in the rowboat, just moments before she drowns. She looks distorted and the compensating close shot of George emphasizes his anxiety and revulsion. But the size of the shots also makes us suddenly aware of Alice’s humanity and the horror of what he is about to do. The restraint that has been shown before, in terms of image size, makes this scene all the more powerful in its presentation of the choice facing George.

Finally, George is brought down by his abandonment of his moral sense, and he loses everything, convicted of murder and sentenced to the electric chair. The film ends with George’s face in shadow, as he walks to his execution, a direct counterpoint to the film’s initial image of him, and then briefly the superimposition of Angela’s face evaporates over his despairing face.

Pieces of Information

2009-10-25T22:49:00.000-07:00

My primary approach to the filmmaking process is to think of it as creating pieces of information that, when cut together, create a psychological effect. Therefore, the psychological effect that I want to create must be determined beforehand or I will not know whether I’m getting the necessary pieces. This, for me, is the hard work of prep.

I am always asking myself—what are the psychological components of the scene? And then--what are the visual opportunities that might make the audience understand that? What pieces might the editor need in order to make us understand the scene?

The use of negative space in this shot from ROCKVILLE, CA was intended to make one feel the character's loneliness.

Truffaut says, “The art of film-making is an especially difficult one to master, inasmuch as it calls for multiple and often contradictory talents. The reason why so many brilliant or very talented men have failed in their attempts at directing is that only a mind in which the analytic and synthetic are simultaneously at work can make its way out of the maze of snares inherent in the fragmentation of the shooting, the cutting, and the montage of a film. To a director, the greatest danger of all is that in the course of making his film he may lose control of it…. Each cut of a picture, lasting from three to ten seconds, is information that is given to the viewer. This information is all too often obscure or downright incomprehensible, either because the director’s intentions were vague to begin with or he lacked the competence to convey them clearly.”

There are many who might shoot a scene in a thorough and exhaustive manner, master, medium-overs, close shots, inserts—a vast amount of material that then allows the director or someone else to create the effect of the scene after the fact, in post-production.

But, without some degree of consideration and contemplation, this can still ultimately end with a vague product. It is essential to have a point of view that will determine the way in which the editor should put the scene together and the way in which a scene will be perceived.

I certainly cover myself when shooting--allowing for options, surprises, revisions--but I approach a scene with a definite perspective about what I’m seeking to accomplish. I expect the department heads around me—the director of photography, the production designer, the costume designer, the editor--to do the same, to ask themselves, what are we trying to achieve here? I will frequently ask one of my collaborators—in what way does this make us feel more or less about what is happening in the story?

I’m frequently asked--as a visiting director on a television series, do you really have any impact on the style of an episode? My answer is absolutely, yes. The camera placement, in any given scene, will determine how that scene is perceived. A well-placed wide shot, a two-shot, an insert, a subjective point-of-view shot, an objective shot—each of these provide a different feeling. It is the director’s job to know what pieces he needs to provide to the editor, in order to achieve the maximum effect. It is the editor’s job to assemble these shots in such a manner as to track a psychological line.

I like Hitchcock’s quote: “The main objective is to arouse the audience’s emotion, and that emotion arises from the way in which the story unfolds, from the way in which sequences are juxtaposed. At times, I have the feeling that I’m an orchestra conductor, a trumpet sound corresponding to a close shot and a distant shot suggesting an entire orchestra performing a muted accompaniment.”

I was inspired by Hitchcock's SABOTEUR for these shots in CHUCK: "Chuck vs the First Kill".

The rhythm of any particular scene can be very much like music, and often as each scene comes together, the editing process becomes a musical process—a natural rise and fall, a repeating of patterns. One is often seeking, in a scene, the same type of emotional resonance that is expressed by a beautiful song. (It’s a hard process to articulate but, as anyone who has edited can attest, one knows it when one feels it.)

Essentially, a director determines the visual components while on the set—the decision to include wide shots or close shots, the decision to track or remain stationary. But, while I walk on the set with a strong sense of the elements I need, I almost never try to determine the pace of a scene until I’m in the editing room. It is then that I determine where the pace should pick up or slow down, where the pregnant pauses should land, where the subtext should come shining through (unless you're a fan of long, unbroken tracking shots, in which pacing then must be precise). My actors are frequently asking me, “Shouldn’t I speed it up?” And my answer to that is, “Only if you are feeling what you’re saying. Take the time to let me see the decision-making happen behind your eyes. Don't just say the words; decide what you're going to say next.”

The Russian filmmaker Vsevolod Pudovkin said the following: “The film director (as opposed to the theater director)…has as his material the finished, recorded celluloid. This material, from which his final work is composed, consists not of living men or real landscapes, not of real, actual stage-sets, but only of their images, recorded separately such that they can be shortened, altered, and assembled according to the director’s will. The elements of reality are fixed on these pieces: by combining them in his selected sequence, shortening or lengthening them to his desire, the director builds up his own ‘filmic’ time and ‘filmic’ space. He does not adapt reality, but uses it for creation of a new reality, and the most characteristic and important aspect of this process is that, in it, laws of space and time-- invariable and inescapable in work with the actual--become tractable and obedient. The film assembles from them a new reality proper only to itself.”

This new reality can best be described as a psychological state made concrete.

Watch episodes of ROCKVILLE, CA at thewb.com

The Shiny Surfaces of Tiffany's

2009-10-18T16:09:00.000-07:00

“I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods…”

The quote above is the first line of Truman Capote’s novella BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S. It’s a wonderful opening line--evocative, I think, because so many people are drawn back to places where they’ve lived; back to books, music, and movies they have loved; back to relationships that remain mysteriously unfinished; back to their past to make sense of their present.

When I was six I went with my sister and some of her high school friends to see BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S. The film had a huge impact on me. It was the first time I became aware of adult sexuality, and the movie became emblematic for me of a world beyond my own provincial life in Texas. The fact that Holly Golightly was a call girl escaped me, because at six I didn’t even know the definition. It was only later that I realized the film was a romance between a call girl and a gigolo (for years I thought Patricia Neal’s character really was Paul’s decorator.) As a film, BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S has had enormous staying power (in spite of the portrayal of the Japanese photographer by Micky Rooney, an offensive Asian stereotype). Walk in any bookstore and one is likely to come across Audrey Hepburn’s face staring out from a coffee-table book, with her sunglasses and black dress. The film continues to inspire fashion, design, and the imagination, and it seems as though every new young actress does an Audrey Hepburn layout at some point in her career.

It’s one of the primary references for GOSSIP GIRL and, whenever I’m roaming the streets of New York on location scouts, I’m always looking for shots that inspire the same kind of romance. The movie has played a big part in my personal creative development, and it has odd parallels to my life.

The novella’s narrator describes the primary relationship thusly: “I have a memory of spending many hither and yonning days with Holly; and it’s true, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, the memory is false….” Indeed, as memory often is! Who hasn't romanticized one's own partying and romances, conveniently forgetting the hangovers and unhappiness.

But the memory of this film remains remarkably potent, and the images hold up well, capturing a place and time, and a way of being—rebellious, insouciant, cynical, ambivalent—in a seductive way. I certainly think it is Blake Edwards’ best film and reflects his wit and humor. Many would even describe it as one of the great romantic comedies. But that’s an inaccurate description—unless you’re talking tragically comic.

It’s essentially an unhappy story (in fact, it’s interesting to me that so many of the great screen romances are essentially stories of flawed and unhappy people.) Holly Golightly is a petulant fantasist, and Paul (as he’s called in the film—he has no name in the book) is an opportunist. Neither is presented as possessing discipline or self-sacrifice, and both seem lonely and somewhat directionless.

And though one is roped in by the alluring images and shiny surfaces, I think the power of the film is not its celebration of the high life, but in how it accurately it presents that high life and its counterpoint—in other words, mania-depression. As opposed to these characters’ story being a model for a relationship, it instead presents us with the sadness that lies behind the glamour and the pursuit of unrealistic romantic ideals. There is a melancholy undertow to the way in which the two relate to each other—many of the most memorable moments are sad and full of longing—not unlike the images from another film from the same period: LA DOLCE VITA (e.g. compare the shots of Marcello Mastroianni and George Peppard observing the women in their lives, compare the party scenes, etc.)

The moral of the story seems to be about striving to find personal balance in the company of another, by means of embracing human frailty, in the other and oneself.

The movie is sweet and tender and powerful because it recognizes that life is full of struggle and sadness. But that need not necessarily be a bad thing—the transformation of one’s psyche can come from embracing the difficulty, and maturity comes from growing up to meet life’s challenges and not pursuing some ineffable Moon River.

The novella and the film are more similar than I remembered. A lot of the dialogue is word for word, but the central relationship in the book is much more oblique. There is even the implication that the narrator of the book is gay, as Capote was himself—and there is an argument to be made that the story is, probably more accurately, about the friendship of a gay man and the charismatic woman with whom he becomes fascinated. No wonder then that the movie version is a favorite gay touchstone.

The narrative is thematically similar to Christopher Isherwood’s BERLIN STORIES, the source material for CABARET. The fascination with Holly, mirroring the fascination with Sally Bowles, mirroring the fascination with so many other madcap screen heroines, suggests Jung’s idea of the anima, or soul-image (i.e. an internal image experienced as something mysterious and numinous, possessing great power.) According to Jung, “Every man carries within him the eternal image of the woman, not the image of this or that woman, but a definite feminine image. This image is fundamentally unconscious, a hereditary factor of primordial origin…” It makes sense that, for many gay men, this unconscious image is sometimes as rebellious, entertaining, and unconventional as Holly Golightly, crossing Moon River "...in style someday".

Henry Mancini’s music, which was so much a part of my childhood, was clearly inspired by Capote’s prose: “Also, she had a cat and she played the guitar. On days when the sun was strong, she would wash her hair, and together with the cat, a red tiger-striped tom, sit out on the fire escape thumbing a guitar while her hair dried. Whenever I heard the music, I would go stand quietly by my window. She played very well, and sometimes sang too. Sang in the hoarse, breaking tones of a boy’s adolescent voice…. There were moments when she played songs that made you wonder where she learned them, where indeed she came from. Harsh-tender wandering tunes with words that smacked of pineywoods or prairie.”

The party scene is so well-described in the book that it should have been directly transplanted into the script: “Except for a lack of youth, the guests had no common theme, they seemed strangers among strangers; indeed, each face, on entering, had struggled to conceal dismay at seeing others there. It was as if the hostess had distributed her invitations while zig-zagging through various bars; which was probably the case.”

It’s arguable that Audrey Hepburn was never better. In my mind, she and George Peppard both peaked in this film—I don’t think either did any film work afterwards that equaled the indelible impression that each creates in this movie. As one watches them, there is something heartbreaking in that fact. Indeed the final moments of the film, and their performances therein, are as emotionally electrifying as anything that has been done in the cinema.

The movie, unlike the book, ends with the couple kissing in the rain, but it is raining, after all—and in spite of the power of Paul’s final impassioned plea to Holly to recognize their belonging to each other, it’s unlikely that this couple is destined for happily-ever-after. Neither of these characters feels suited to a real, committed relationship—both of them are too intrigued by la dolce vita and the shiny surfaces of Tiffany’s. This classic romantic scene feels like it might just be an interlude before one gets to the finale of the book, where the Paul character, 15 years after the fact, hopes that Holly, wherever she is, has found peace and happiness.

Hitchcock and the patterns of Vertigo

2009-10-13T21:31:00.000-07:00

I frequently tell my students that one can learn a great deal about filmmaking from watching the films of Alfred Hitchcock. Even a bad Hitchcock film has a lot to recommend it. My own personal favorite is REAR WINDOW. However, VERTIGO seems to be the one that inspires the most commentary.

Today on the nytimes.com , I saw a short video by A.O. Scott about the enduring appeal of VERTIGO. It’s amazing that a film that was routinely panned (when it was released a little over 50 years ago) is now regarded as one of the great films of all time by a majority of critics. It’s also amazing that Hitchcock inspires such strong feelings, both good and bad, even now, almost thirty years after his death.

Whenever I teach, I talk a lot about VERTIGO—particularly Hitchcock’s use of design and color elements; the repetitive patterns, in its blocking, in its framing, and its score; and the use of the intrinsic physicality of his two leads, James Stewart and Kim Novak.

Hitchcock said, "The actor must be an element [of composition] because film is montage. But I do explain the cutting to him so he knows why I've asked him to cooperate."

To me, this is one of the most important aspects of directing actors, yet as far as I can tell, one of the most under-utilized. Though one wants an actor to feel at ease and unselfconscious in a scene, I find that it’s helpful if he or she understands what I’m trying to accomplish in terms of the pieces of the scene. (I should add here that there are many directors, actors, and acting teachers who would disagree with me about this approach. But I find that a lot of young actors grasp the value of it very quickly. Perhaps it’s because they are part of a generation that has been raised on computers, and therefore they get onboard with the idea of thinking in a non-linear manner.)

Hitchcock also said, "You can do anything you want with montage. Cinema is simply pieces of film put together in a manner that creates ideas and emotions." VERTIGO is an amazing piece of work in terms of how little the dialogue matters to one’s experience of the film. Actually much of the dialogue feels dated, and more than a little ham-fisted (on the most superficial level, the plot is somewhat ridiculous), but the impact of the film’s visuals doesn’t feel dated at all. The power of seeing Kim Novak as Madeleine, moving across a room towards James Stewart, three different times in the film, on exactly the same axis, in exactly the same framing, creates an enormously potent motif that reinforces its themes. She’s presented over and over to the viewer in a manner that reinforces the character Scottie’s first and enduring experience of her, and the moment is always treated as dream-like. She moves slowly and artificially—she seems unreal, because ultimately she, the character, is unreal.

My favorite shot in the film is the long dolly shot that introduces Madeleine. The camera begins on Scottie, seated at the bar, looking over his right shoulder. The restaurant is full and noisy. The camera moves off of him and tracks to the left until it comes to rest on a shot of the entire dining room. Then, ever so slowly, like a dream, the diegetic sound drops away and the score begins as the camera slowly tracks in towards Madeleine, with her back towards us. We know who we should be looking at because of the positioning of her body in the frame—she’s posed elegantly, like a painting. Her bare back is exposed, drawing our eye like a magnet. It’s not Scottie’s POV—instead it’s an objective shot that identifies the audience with Scottie. It’s as though Hitchcock is saying, “I want you, the audience, to become as fascinated with this woman as the protagonist is about to become.” For me, it’s masterful filmmaking. And it’s indicative of a mind that understands the power of the dynamics of montage--when to make the shot subjective, when to make the shot objective, and how the difference will affect the audience.

The film tracks Scottie’s obsession with Madeleine, piece by piece—his attention and the viewer’s are simultaneously directed towards the specifics of her hair, wardrobe, shoes, jewelry—in such a way that one could turn the sound down entirely and know exactly what Scottie is thinking. Madeline is frequently shot in profile, reinforcing the idea of Madeleine as an Apollonian ideal (i.e. the idea of imposing an illusion of order on the chaos of the universe). Mirrors are also used throughout the film to reinforce the idea of the ephemeral quality of our ideals, and the dual nature of the Madeleine/Judy Barton character.

The film is stunning in how much it evokes a universal experience of projecting onto a romantic “other” our own ideas of what we want that “other” to be. It captures the sense of how we unconsciously try to duplicate an experience that was meaningful for us, in spite of what it costs us in ignoring the pleasure of a present experience. The tragedy of the film reflects the tragedy of the human condition, when one is unwilling to accept what actually is and to let go of the past. I think that is probably why the film continues to endure, and warrants repeated viewing. It presents an opportunity to ponder one’s own romantic illusions and one’s present choices.

Here is a link to a fascinating video on youtube.com, which shows many of the repeating patterns to which I refer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2SxplQFIYM Anybody who thinks that Hitchcock is only an entertainer, and not the most serious of film artists, needs only to watch this clip.

Joel Gunz (his blog is www.alfredhitchcockgeek.com) turned me onto a great interview in Salon between Michael Sragow and Camille Paglia. Here are some quotes from Paglia that I think are particularly relevant:

…It's clear that what we have in the works of Hitchcock really is, despite the ups and downs of the quality of the films, a giant oeuvre -- one huge imaginative projection. I feel also that Hitchcock's vision is so extensive, so broad, that it takes in everything, from architecture to politics to sexuality -- but sexuality in particular, with its weird mixture of beauty and desire and horror and the macabre. There's an emotional depth to Hitchcock's films that I find almost completely lacking in some of the European art films that I once so adored and now regard as rather affected and very partial statements about human life….

I think every young filmmaker should be studying Hitchcock because of the editing alone--that is, the economy with which an enormous amount is compressed into three seconds of an image. Today I can barely stand to watch most new films that are released, even the ones that are critically praised, because they run on and on and on. The people who make them have no sense at all of subtlety and suggestion and how to think about a shot, to set it up months in advance in your head and not just fall to the lowest common denominator of the audience.

Hitchcock had such a keen sense of the popular audience -- which I think he got from his lower-middle-class background and from watching the crowds in London. He's able to go directly to the mass audience and yet never insult that audience. He plays tricks on us, but with the most incredible kind of sculptured cinema. It's pictorial insofar as he imagines the screen as if it's a painting and fills up the rectangle, but it's also sculptural in the way that he photographs the human figure. The great stars of Hitchcock look like monumental objets d'art; they are just wonderful to look at.

Filmmakers today don't realize the craving of the audience simply to look and to admire and to savor the beauty of a sexy man or woman on the screen before you. They don't realize you can simply let the camera linger on the person. The director should give himself or herself over to the energy of the story or to the charisma and craft of the performers themselves -- and never mind about showing how clever and cool you are.

Writing about television...without pity and such.

2009-10-05T15:59:00.000-07:00

Without doubt, this is a golden age of television. I look forward to each new episode of MAD MEN and BREAKING BAD the way I used to look forward to the release of a much-anticipated film. Television excels at creating density of detail. There is the time to examine character and specific behavior in a way that is impossible in a theatrical film. A show like THE WIRE is similar to a novel, in its large cast and converging plots, comparing favorably with the best of Dickens.

In addition, as more and more people get larger televisions and home theater systems, the framing and composition of many shows has become more sophisticated. The use of music, the quality of the sound mixes, and the visual effects are all reaching for cinematic standards. And, given the short nature of most television schedules, the amazing thing is that there is so little in the movie theaters to compete with the best of what TV has to offer. During the past few years there have been only a handful of theatrical films that warrant making the trip out. And sometimes even the event films disappoint: REVOLUTIONARY ROAD paled for me in comparison to MAD MEN, in terms of its examination of the inchoate longings of mid-20th century marriage, partly because there was no time in the feature to get to know the characters in a way that made me care.

And there are many other shows that qualitatively make my point: THE SOPRANOS, NURSE JACKIE, HUNG, SIX FEET UNDER, SEX AND THE CITY, WEEDS, LOST, GLEE, NIP-TUCK, and BBC shows like SKINS, LITTLE DORRIT, THE WAY WE LIVE NOW, TORCHWOOD, DR. WHO...the list goes on and on. The writing on television today, as well as the production values, are extraordinary.

The happy by-product of this wave of excellent television is a congruent wave of wonderful writing about television. And with the advent of the internet, and innumerable blogs, there is a democratic opportunity for analysis and criticism by anyone who feels passionate about it.

I always read the "TV Club", a three-way discussion of MAD MEN every Monday on Slate.com by Patrick Radden Keefe, John Swansburg, and Julia Turner. It's smart, trenchant writing and makes my experience of watching the show that much richer.

In terms of my own shows, I love the New York Magazine Daily Intel reality index of GOSSIP GIRL each Tuesday. It always makes me laugh and amazes me that, beneath the wit, there are great insights about what works and what doesn't.

There are dozens of commentaries about GOSSIP GIRL on the web, but I think my favorite writer covering the show right now is Jacob Clifton, who writes GG recaps on televisionwithoutpity.com. He "gets" the show and seems to love the show. His analysis of my last episode "The Freshmen" is fresh and funny, but also finds connections between seemingly incongruous things like Sherlock Holmes, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS, and THE WIZARD OF OZ. He taps into pop culture's unconscious. I particularly like how he quotes Flaubert's MADAME BOVARY as illustration of the themes that run underneath GOSSIP GIRL's froth. It's a far smarter show than it's ever given credit for by the "legitimate press", and Clifton seems to recognize this. But his commentary is never dry or laborious. It's as witty as the show itself. Here's an excerpt (the passages from MADAME BOVARY in quotes):

The awesome and the awful thing about Emma Bovary is the same awful and wonderful thing about Blair Waldorf. Everybody thinks because that book was banned that Emma's problem is hobaggery, but if you actually read it, she's just basically Blair: So in love with romantic images and future delights that she never actually gets around to living her life. She keeps hurling herself into these new experiences and secret lives and trying to make the world as magical as she thinks it is in books, or Audrey Hepburn movies, and she keeps getting majorly burned by the fact that life isn't like that. Actual life is awesome, and she never really figures that out. So it's like continually getting dragged out of heaven, which makes regular life hell.

"Everything immediately surrounding her -- boring countryside, inane petty bourgeois, the mediocrity of daily life -- seemed to her the exception rather than the rule. She had been caught in it all by some accident: out beyond, there stretched as far as the eye could see the immense territory of rapture and passions."

"Good Girls Go Bad," a Cobra Starship song on which Leighton Meester sings, wonderfully as usual, is playing at the kegger. So right then you have the stage set for a Blair/Georgina showdown, which is all about the definition of a Good Girl and the definition of Going Bad, sung by Blair's actual human person in a triumphant manner while Blair eats shit and continues to eat more shit. It's fun. This episode is like "Age Of Dissonance" amount of complicated and cool.

I like the idea, this very fantastical idea, that going to college is some kind of revolutionary praxis where the things that matter suddenly don't matter and the lion can lie down with the lamb and whatever. I like that. It's a very comfy thing, comfy like how senior year is the last time you ever get to feel moral certainty. And it's true that the world is a lot bendier here, and those first few weeks of freshman year really account for about two years emotionally, so: At this point in orientation week it's truer than it will ever be again, for any of them, for the rest of their lives.

"...The storm kept raging, her passion burned itself to ashes, no help was forthcoming, no new sun rose to the horizon. Night closed in completely around her, and she was left alone in a horrible void of piercing cold."

Clifton also gets how the music on GOSSIP GIRL is used to enhance story, in a way that few other writers about the show seem to grasp. I was inspired, in the making of this particular episode, by a song called "Embers" by Just Jack. I heard it on the radio, while I was prepping the script for production, and it gave me a sense of how I wanted the episode to feel. I called my editor Tim Good and suggested that he listen to it and use it, if he could, as he put the episode together. Tim then proceeded to get the instrumental tracks and we used the song, as score, throughout the episode in a thematic way. Being the savvy observer that he is, Clifton refers to the song in his recap and makes the connections between Flaubert, Gossip Girl, and Just Jack:

Flaubert, sometime between 1855-1901: "Though she had no one to write to, she had bought herself a blotter, a writing case, a pen and envelopes; she would dust off her whatnot, look at herself in the mirror... She wanted to die. And she wanted to live in Paris."

Gossip Girl, more recently: "Every Fall, confident high school seniors transform into nervous college freshmen. They leave their parents' homes for the hallowed halls of higher education; and like any new venture, starting college holds the promise of limitless opportunity..."

Dorota holds a tray up for Blair, who's looking at herself in the mirror: A blotter, a writing case, a pen, envelopes. She takes a headband off the whatnot, and Blair settles it tightly over her hair, where it belongs: "The opportunity to conquer a new territory..."

The facts and the figures, they overwhelm and stifle
 Everything that you thought you knew...

That's Just Jack's "Embers," which is not only a great song and well-used thematically throughout the episode, but links us back to graduation, when that Shiny Toy Guns song kept playing the entire time.

And the petty decisions that you think make a difference
 So tiny that they blow away like dust

I think Clifton's writing is seriously good stuff, but it's also tongue-in-cheek, which might make one overlook its value as real critical commentary. But he has found a fan in me and I would encourage others to regularly read his work.

Here is a link to his blog:
http://kneesupaustin.blogspot.com

The film influences of GOSSIP GIRL

2009-10-01T07:55:00.000-07:00

One of the things I've enjoyed most about working with Josh Schwartz and Stephanie Savage is how much they draw upon film history as inspiration for their shows. GOSSIP GIRL, CHUCK, ROCKVILLE, CA, and THE O.C. are all filled with movie references for the sharp viewer.

http://www.rollingstone.com/blogs/traverstake/2009/03/why-gossip-girl-may-be-the-mos.php

I often say that GOSSIP GIRL reminds me of the Warner Brothers melodramas of the late 1930's and 1940's. The Manhattan locations and the large sets lend themselves to the kind of camera movement and expressive dolly shots that you often see in some of these old films. Even though it's hard to do on a television schedule, I enjoy collaborating with the DP in trying to integrate these kind of shots into every episode. I frequently study these films for ideas in terms of staging and framing.

Sometimes the reference is obscure or sometimes it's pretty evident. The lighting and costumes of the following shot were inspired by EYES WIDE SHUT, but the shot itself was inspired by the french film RIDICULE and THE LETTER.

I wanted to do this pool shot for an episode of THE O.C. shortly after I saw the Pedro Almodovar film BAD EDUCATION:

The photos below show a shot from the first episode I directed for THE O.C. and the shot from RISKY BUSINESS that inspired it.

I always try to think of images that will linger in the memory and inspire the imagination of the viewer. The best way to do this, I think, is to steal from the best.

End of "The Beautiful Life"

2009-09-28T16:55:00.000-07:00

Though it happens in this business all the time, it's still a shock when a television show is canceled unexpectedly. The economics that drive the decision-making don't take into account the hard work of hundreds of people, the disruption to the lives of all those involved, and the disappointment of not getting to see the work through to completion.

I spent most of last week working on my director's cut of the fifth episode of a new CW series THE BEAUTIFUL LIFE. The show was a joy to direct--a wonderful cast and crew--and I was pleased with the way it came together. Thus it was a blow to find out on Friday afternoon that the show had been canceled and that no further episodes would be aired. This had never happened to me before--to have worked so hard on something that remains unfinished. It pains me because there was so much about the project that inspired me.

But most of all, I'm devastated for all of the people who worked full-time on the show. I'm fortunate in that I get to move onto another show right away, but most of the people on the crew will now be scrambling for jobs. I hope they each land something quickly and I get to work with everyone of them again soon.

The show was about young models living in New York. Just before shooting I saw a terrific documentary called THE SEPTEMBER ISSUE, about the creation of a single issue of Vogue. I so enjoyed the movie that I ran out to a newsstand and bought the magazine. The attention to detail, in all of the magazine's photo shoots, makes me realize, yet again, how important it is to give every image the care and attention it deserves. Hard to do in television sometimes, but rewarding when one is able to pull it off.

I often tell my students that the positioning of characters in the frame creates as much emotion for the audience as an actor's performance choice. The hard work of film directing is finding a way to get a specific image while, at the same time, making the actor feel comfortable enough in the space, such that he is able to give an authentic performance. I often have actors say to me, "...but what you're asking me to do feels odd to me." My approach to directing is not to resist--because above all I want the actor to feel free to do their best work--but I will often try to explain the visual effect I am going for. If I can get the actor to trust me, and to find a way to work with the needs of the camera in mind, then the result can be breathtaking.

For example, in this frame: Mischa Barton had to bring her body and face around to an unnatural angle, in order for the camera to be able to hold her face in profile while she delivered a very emotional speech. But the effect of seeing the two actors in one shot, separated by the space between them, with Ed Quinn (who is huge) smaller in the frame, was worth the effort. The image itself speaks of the characters' alienation from one another. In my mind, this is a much more effective way of visually telling the story, rather than simply relying upon the huge close shots which you so often see on television shows. Because once you cut to a close shot, there is nowhere else to go emotionally. So I try to save those, and use them sparingly, to maximize their impact.

The photo above is a good example: Sara Paxton and Nico Tortorella have a romance that proceeds gradually in the episode, and then builds to this moment. I was inspired by the huge close shots between Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift in A PLACE IN THE SUN, but the impact of shots this large would be diluted if one went to them too soon.

I've never been a fan of the standard complementary coverage that so many directors favor. It certainly works in some places, but like everything else, it should be used specifically and deliberately, not by default. I always like to weight the scene towards one actor or another, to make you feel more emotion by the very size of the frame that holds them.

Also, theoretically, an actor can have a totally neutral expression on his face, and if you then do a slow dolly into that actor, you can make the audience feel that something is happening to him emotionally, purely by the motion of the camera and what you hold in the frame.

The best of all possible worlds is when you have actors who trust you, who deliver emotionally rich performances, and can accommodate themselves to the filmmaking process--as every one of the actors did on this particular show. It's one of the things that makes me so sad about its cancellation because I was looking forward to working with them again.

In particular, Mischa Barton is a joy to work with, and her eyes are so expressive--she reminds me of a silent film actress. I also feel great sentimental attachment to her as she was one of the first people I worked with when I started directing on THE O.C.

Here are some other stills from this wonderful, unfinished story.

Reviving the Buckley Bulletin

2009-09-27T17:17:00.000-07:00

In the late 1950's and early 1960's my family put out a Christmas newsletter every year called the Buckley Bulletin. It was a summary of what all of us had done that year, a way of documenting and adding significance to passing events. I remember enjoying the creation of it and I loved being involved in the planning, even as a young child. I was encouraged by my parents to share my thoughts and it included some of my earliest writing.

Then as the sixties encroached--as we all grew up, as Christmas newsletters became passé, and we all got too busy--we stopped publishing it. My parents became overwhelmed with other things, middle-age crises and such, and I don't think the last one ever even made it to the mailbox. I wish we'd kept it going--our lives grew more interesting, but it seems we, as a family, had less to say about it.

As the years have gone on, I've always liked the idea of reviving the Buckley Bulletin in some way. I've thought about doing it every Christmas, but it always seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. But still, I've felt this need to return to a tradition that my father started. There is something about writing things down that adds meaning to experience.

So this blog serves as my attempt to do that.

Rather than making it simply a record of events, hopefully it will serve as a way to share the things that are important to me:
in addition, it's an opportunity to explore the production of the various shows I work on;
to answer the questions of the GOSSIP GIRL fans who write me, the CHUCK fans, and the fans of other of my shows;
to serve as a resource for my former UCLA students and to satisfy my desire to pontificate, since I don't have the time to teach anymore;
to provide an opportunity for a more thoughtful political debate (as opposed to the snarky remarks in the comments section of my Facebook page or the 140-word limit on Twitter);
to review and learn from the films and theater that I see, the TV that I watch, the books that I read, and the photos and art that I contemplate;
to provide links to the material that inspires me;
to encourage others to do the same.

And so, here I go: finally, the reinvention of the Buckley Bulletin.