COLLEAGUES AND SWINE

Very little film dialogue is significant. Silent Film stoop-workers included “titles” writers. “Came the Dawn”; “Tahiti: Land of a million memories, awaiting the White Man’s Pleasure…”; “Bilbergtown, a community of workers, like Doc Miller, and of victims, like Bill Boggs…”

None of the silent titles that I’ve seen would have been missed if excised. Many of them displayed snatches of dialogue from the plays raped onto the screen, but the wiser man might have realized that the titles were showing something that needed no narration (“Mont-Blanc, a looming presence…”) or that actually impeded the mental processes which moved the audience along. A shot of a drunk at a bar, finishes a glass, and garrulously motions the bartender for another; title: “Jimmy Floyd, the Town Drunk.”

Earliest scenarists said they were employed writing “gags and titles,” much as a symphony conductor might proudly announce himself a Band Leader. (See Rex Harrison, Unfaithfully Yours, 1948.)

Many of the title card writers were women—perhaps a lucky case of proximity to the secretary’s typewriter. Many of the women became scenarists, as many of the books adapted to the early screen were written by women, Edna Ferber, Fannie Hurst, Anita Loos, Adela Rogers St. Johns, Vicki Baum, and so on.

Their breakthrough into directing came through the proximity to actual film. (In my day, a long strip, coated with emulsion, run through a mechanical camera, which exposed the 35mm films, twenty-four frames each second. The negative was then boxed and taken to a lab, where it was processed, and a positive print made.)

This positive copy of the original negative (the actual film actually exposed on the set) was cut and assembled by editors. Many of them were women. The women got the job because they were already in the lab, hand-coloring the early silent black-and-white films.

Their hands were smaller than men’s, and they were considered more adaptable to the fine work; hand-tinting being the Forbidden Stitch of moviemaking.

Their presence in the lab led to their employment as editors. And there is no better way to learn to write or direct a film than editing. Shoot for show, cut for dough.

The editor was doubly blessed (then and now), as she had no investment in the previous work—she hadn’t slaved to make the scene work on paper, or spent three months of nights in a sandstorm to film it; she got a load of film dumped on her desk and, with that and the script as a guide, labored to turn it into a movie.

Some women transitioned from the editing room to behind the camera; and many directors (myself among them) learned a bit of craft in the editing room.

I worked for forty years with the great Barbara Tulliver, my friend and “cutter.”^I She was my pal through many films and TV shows. She saved many a sequence and taught calm and patience. Samuel Clemens was looking at a moon down south, in 1870, and said to a servant, “Look at the moon,” and she said, “Lord, Mr. Clemens, you should have seen that moon befoah the Woah.” And you should have seen Barbara, a sphinx, sitting calmly while some new assistant hunted for the strip required, upset the rack, spilled coffee, and generally melted down.

On every film, in post-production, I’d get a call, usually late at night, from Barbara, who was still at work. “David, you’re going to hate me,” which meant she had cut my Favorite Scene, as it was ruining the film.

My friend Ricky Jay died in 2018. He, the greatest magician of his age, was a wonderful actor in the tradition of the other Jewish light-heavies, Harold Huber, George Stone, Murray Alper, Paul Stewart, Ricardo Cortez, Abner Biberman, Sheldon Leonard.^II

See Ricky in House of Games, Heist, Things Change, Redbelt, etc. And do treat yourself to this: HBO’s Ricky Jay and His 52 Assistants, the TV version (directed by me) of his Off-Broadway show.

Ricky had been performing since he was seven. He was the youngest magician ever on TV, on a show called Time for Pets. Some of his wisdom: you never know your show till everything that can go wrong has.

Speaking of which, I met with Jim Gandolfini, who’d signed on to a TV pilot I’d written, The Lake, about crooks and lawyers (PAUSE) and cops in Chicago.^III

He said that he adored doing The Sopranos and preferred TV to film, as by the time one figured out how to make the film the shooting was over. And he loved the life of the cast and crew, that usually-better-than family.

I, too, loved the camaraderie on my movie sets and was always grateful to be there.

A musician friend told me that she was playing as part of an orchestra backing up A Very Famous Singer, and all the orchestra members had to sign a pledge that they would not look at her.

This is a wrong solution to an actual situation.

Everyone on the set or stage is intent on helping the Director and the Star. Should either of these, when passing through, catch the eye of a crew member (primed to offer assistance), it’s incumbent on the person in authority to understand, and not trouble the worker—say hello and move on, or look down, but do not catch their eye.

Directing a film, in my day, meant taking the helm of a small community of dedicated craftspeople who took pride in fulfilling any request. But, note, the request had to be stated in practicable terms. “Could I have a yellow one?” Yes. “Can you make it More Inviting?” No.

Nichols said, commuting between the two coasts, that his life in Hollywood was, “What about if the shoes were slingback?” Back in New York, on Broadway, “Why don’t we try it upstage of the couch?”

Regarding the crew: when the Director, stumped, is in sad conference with the DP, a crew member might up and say, “This might be stupid, but…”; and it is always wisdom. Recall the truck stuck in a tunnel, this onlooker recommending removing the wheels, that one jackhammering the ceiling, and a young kid stepped up and suggested, “Why not let some air out of the tires?”

I loved hearing from the crew. They were so smart.

Set custom held that one must never help another fellow do his job. If you’re doing the other guy’s job, something is assuredly suffering in your area of responsibility. However—and, indeed, tempered by the universally acknowledged culture of nonintervention—when a department head (sets, lights, gaffers, transportation, costumes, makeup) said, “This may be stupid, but” (translation: “I am well aware that I am treading close to a prohibition, and would not do so were I not absolutely sure this will help”), the burden of command was lightened and the clouds of confusion cleared.

Executives have no place on the set. They don’t know what they’re looking at.

Shooting at Oak Street Beach, a resident looked at the infestation of our crew and said, “Don’t they have anything better to do? None of them are doing anything.” While all I saw was ordered activity.

Just as Barbara was the brains of the cutting room, the Assistant Directors were the brains of the set.

I made several films with two greats, Cara Giallanza and Cas Donovan.

As I’ve said, the Director’s job calls for a freak. Directing a film is like playing chess while wrestling.

There I was, for example, between shots (most of the time spent on the set), and I knew I was going to run late—that is, exceed the time allotted per day, by contract, with the crew or cast.

I was going to have to ask the Star—I believe it was Gene Hackman (Heist)—to stay five or ten minutes late, for the shot he’d been patiently waiting for.

His contract read twelve hours door-to-door; and if he stayed late, we were going to exceed that and would need his acquiescence. This is no inconsiderable request: the contract should be honored de facto and de jure, as a sign of respect—to transgress its letter or spirit was (and is) the job of the studios and the producers. But the Director (an artist himself) has been on the fuzzy end of the lollipop and may display his respect to his like best by observance of the contract.

Now, here’s how one directs a film. I am wondering if I can ask Gene to stay late so I can get the shot. He, being a gentleman, will most likely assent—the unspoken agreement, that this is not the new normal but a one-off.

While I am pondering, I am walking the set, which is being dressed (accessorized) for the new scene: lamps, pillows, pictures, tchotchkes, and so on, are being placed on the set by the Set Dressers. They are, professionally, overdressing the set, in order to give me, the Director, choices; I am walking the set, and pointing, “Lose it, lose it, lose it, what happened to the nice dachshund paperweight I saw in the show-and-tell…?” And so on. Simultaneously conferring with the DP (hallowed street name: cameraman) about some aspects of the first shot; and now, if I ask Gene to stay, I am going to squander any opportunity to ask again, should I again come up against it.

I might ask him to stay if I can reschedule his early-morning call tomorrow; but it would involve flipping the day’s first two scenes. His scene, the first, takes place on a park bench, and his second, on a boat. I don’t know if I can have access to the boat first thing, someone will have to call the boat-wrangler. I turn to Cas, and she says, “I’ve taken care of it.”

Cara (I beg pardon if these are twice-told tales) was the AD on Redbelt, my martial arts film.

We’re shooting the final Big Fight in the Pyramid in Long Beach; the audience is made up of extras and, between them, inflatables, balloons of human torsos dressed appropriately. No one had been asleep for years (the fatigue grows exponentially as one nears the end of shooting, and the surest sign of depletion is the Director’s “What do you think…?”).

We are dead on our feet, and Cara is setting up the next shot, in which the audience has to be moved. She picks up her megaphone and announces, “Alright, now, the Real People, AND THE REAL PEOPLE ONLY…”

Good lord we had fun.

And here’s a lesson in directing. I wrote and directed Phil Spector for HBO Films. I was told, in first negotiations, that they never gave any director final cut. I said that was fine, I’d take my script somewhere else, and they capitulated.

During the cutting process, however, the HBO Executive kept asking to come to the cutting room, with his suggestions.

I eventually tired of reminding him of my contract, and (my mistake) said, alright, come in.

In the cutting room, as on the set, the Director is involved not only with the momentary question but with its ramifications for the entire film. Just as I had to think about Gene Hackman and the boat. In the editing room, a cut might seem appropriate to a well-wisher reflecting solely on the one cut; while the Director knows that this decision is also affected, for example, by a similar cut in the previous sequence not before the outsider.

This Executive didn’t know what he was looking at—how could he, as he hadn’t lived with the thing as a script, on the set, or through days in the cutting room. He just saw what was in front of him. (He also came forty minutes late to the first screening, but I’ve forgotten all about it.)

In the cutting room he suggested this or that cut, and I, indictably, sighed, and said, to Barbara, “Yeah, alright, let him cut the sequence.” He thought a bit and made a suggestion or two; and their awfulness was surpassed by my horror at the realization that I’d just resigned as Director and Barbara, accepting my decision—as was her understanding of her job—was now actually paying attention to this amateur idiot whom I had appointed. Ashamed (as I am at this writing), I let him conclude his ten minutes of fumbling, ushered him out, with thanks, apologized contritely to Barbara, and asked her to repair the damage I’d caused.

Great are the responsibilities of command and great the pride of having fulfilled them to the satisfaction of the Company. You can’t fool the crew.^IV

I was prepping my script Blackbird.

This (never yet made) is a thriller based in Hollywood. The granddaughter of a motion picture effects producer comes to Pasadena on his death, to take possession of the house he left her, and his estate, which has been supplying her and her son with income for some years.

She finds the house was not his, and the money stops. She starts to investigate, and her life is threatened. Great stuff, many surprises.

I, or my terriers, found a French Muslim producer to fund it for a dollar and a half. The reason for my mention of his religion appears a little farther on.

Now, we were very short of funds, and I had already waived my directorial fee and was doing the script for WGA-prescribed minimum. We’d gotten the money, as Cate Blanchett read the thing and said she’d be most happy to play the lead (for minimum).

I flew to Australia to meet her, as did the producer. I found him there (as opposed to in our first meetings in L.A.) cold to me. I asked him why, and he said, “I don’t trust you.” This was a poser, as I knew of no reason for his distrust; what did he know about me, save that I’d thrown my project into his pot, glad to be making it for the fun of the thing? In any case, there we were. We came back to L.A., where I began, in spite of his mistrust, prepping the thing, calling in every favor I could think of.

His pre-production money was not forthcoming, and I’d already reached out to location scouts, with the offer of his promised fee. But their fee wasn’t there. I apologized to the location scout I’d chosen and said that I’d cut her a personal check, but she said that was unnecessary, as my word was good enough.

One of my proudest moments as a director.

Well, pre-production went on, everything cut down to the bone. And I realized that we were still several hundred grand away from the barest budget sufficient (God willing) to get the film in the can. I called the producer and asked him to come by my office, and he did so. I told him why we needed the extra cash, and he said he’d have to take it under advisement and would call me back that night. He neglected to call but did, that afternoon, get on a plane to Paris.

I started scrambling, and saw a way through to stitching together the money. I called Cate’s agent (Hylda Queally), who said, don’t bother, the producer, Saïd Ben Saïd, had already called her and said the film was off, and explained it was my fault, and that I shouldn’t be trusted.

Cate thus was correctly being protected by her agent from a failing project, and I can’t quite fault the agent for believing the libel. But why did the fellow not trust me?

I paced my office, where we’d first met and discovered, on the coffee table, the first thing he’d have seen on entering, this book: L’Exil au Maghreb: La Condition Juive Sous l’Islam.^V Well, I left that book there prior to the inception of the project, but how could he not have considered it a deliberate insult? In effect, he could not. What a shame.

I did enjoy my time in Australia—what little I can remember of it. They do like to drink. Cate was charming.

I spent that year’s High Holidays at the Great Synagogue in Sydney. I came first on Erev Rosh Hashanah, happy to find the entrance protected by young men and women in combat gear. (America seems to be the sole Western country that does not, as a matter of course, protect its Jewish Institutions.) I was in line to get wanded and frisked when a man came up beside me. “I’m Rabbi X,” he said, “and you’re David Mamet, coming to our shul. Welcome.” “Thank you, Rabbi,” I said. The young woman with the carbine said, “Shall we pass him in, Rabbi?” And he said, “Naa, frisk him,” which she did.

The movies were never a medium for dispensing justice but rather for selling popcorn.

Who goes out of an evening proposing to be lectured? No one. And now that the cinemas are dying or dead, we stay home, and can, if we wish, skip past the sites flogging racial harmony and national self-hate, and hope to find something worthy, if not of our delight, then at least of our attention.

Marlon Brando sent Princess Sacheen Littlefeather up to accept his Academy Award for The Godfather.^VI She lectured us about racial injustice to Native Americans. But what did that have to do with him getting a gold star from a bunch of Yids he’d made money for?

And now, each celebrity has his pet disease to be revealed at awards time, the equivalent of the new guest at the dinner table regaling us with the details of his aunt’s stomach cancer.

People flourish in hierarchy. Not only those in positions of leadership but those on the shop floor.

Folks suffer under dictatorship, but everybody craves direction.

Psychotics get it from Mars, the deluded from The Spirits, or The Sunset, the fortunate from Religion or family custom. It’s a fine thing to know one’s place in an organization whose goals you endorse, when assured that your contribution will be noted and appreciated.

Interchange on a set: Director, myself, needs an immediate alteration in a costume. He calls for the designer, Laura, she’s off set, working with her Assistant; and the on-set costume woman is back working in a trailer. Crew looks around, takes in the situation; and responsibility devolves onto the most proximate responsible person—in this case, perhaps, the set dresser, not a costumer, but also involved in design, who steps up and says, “I’m Laura…” What a privilege.

See Patrick Dennis, in his Auntie Mame. Her wisdom: “Life is a banquet, and most poor sons-of-bitches are starving to death!”

I. Barbara tells me she’s taken up writing, having fought clear of the impulse for years until she realized that “writing is just making shit up.”
II. If this ain’t a prize instance of film insanity call me a blue-nosed gopher. In the 1946 propaganda film Little Tokyo, U.S.A., Huber, Biberman, and Stone play three Japanese spies.
III. The project died with Jim, may he rest in peace.
IV. Are dogs more intelligent than humans? They are certainly more rational, for they do nothing contrary to their own best interest. Playing catch or fetch, the dog can’t be distracted by your strategies or body language: they’re just watching the ball. The crew, similarly, may notice, but will pay no heed to the moods, impertinence, absurdities, posturing, and ineptitude on the set, they’re just there to get it in the can.
V. Exile in the Maghreb: The Condition of the Jews Under Islam.
VI. Sacheen Littlefeather, Maria Louise Cruz, was not a Native American. See also the perennial Iron Eyes Cody, designated Indian in countless movies and TV shows, and the iconic image of the “Keep America Beautiful” PSAs of the seventies, in which he shed a tear at the pollution of our national parks. He was Sicilian. Brilliant.