PURPLE VIOLETS
It was now 2005 and we had done two films in two years. I knew that in order to make another film the following year, I had to get writing.
I had an idea for a film about an enormously successful writer of crime novels who has everything one could want except critical acclaim. He craves to be acknowledged as an esteemed novelist. When he finally does write the book that he believes is his masterpiece, the critics trash it. After reading the reviews, he walks out the back door of his beautiful Hamptons beach house, jumps into the ocean, swims out, and the movie ends. I never wrote the script, but I did like the idea of the writer who wrestles with that dilemma. Do you write the story that comes from the heart, or do you write the story that pays the bills? I had gotten lucky with The Brothers McMullen, as that film satisfied both goals, but it had been a long time since one of my films found any real commercial success, and this debate was beginning to consume me. I decided that my next script would explore that tough decision.
Purple Violets is the story of two novelists who were former lovers at NYU and reunite in their late thirties. My protagonist, Patti, is a writer who has put her career on hold after the publication of a critically acclaimed short-story collection. She now doesn’t write for fear that she can’t match her previous success. Patti crosses paths with her college sweetheart, Brian, a successful writer of crime novels in search of literary credibility.
Once Patti and Brian reconnect, it forces their respective best friends, Michael and Kate, to get back in touch. Their issues are as passionate as they were twenty years earlier.
It was a familiar construct for me. It enabled me to look at the way relationships you have in your formative years maintain a hold on you later on. There was romance and sex, drama and comedy. But there was also a serious undercurrent. Nearly all the conversations between the two main characters, Brian and Patti, are about the cost of creating personal work from the heart versus the pursuit of more commercial success. Which was the way to go?
The theme I was looking to explore was the idea of second chances. Would Brian get his shot at literary acclaim? Would Patti ever write another book? Would the other two characters in the film, Kate and Michael, get another chance at love?
“There are no second acts,” my character, Michael, tells Brian in one scene, quoting F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“I don’t believe that, and neither do you,” Brian replies.
In a way, I was thinking out loud and wondering the same about my career. Was there a second act in store for me?
Every film is its own mountain of challenges, an uphill climb full of exhilarating moments, self-doubt, hope, disappointment, hard work, laughs, mistakes, and even some triumphs. Such is this business. You want to make movies. The desire and passion burns in your blood. You don’t have a choice. Making movies isn’t what you do, it’s who you are. But it’s just so hard to get them made, and then even harder to get them seen. If it’s too hard for you, you’re in the wrong business. If you like running into brick walls, stick with it. I knew if I wanted a second act for my career, I needed to be the architect of it, and that meant I needed to figure out a way to continue making movies.
We put together a cast that included Patrick Wilson and Selma Blair for the leads, Brian and Patti. I played Michael, Brian’s best friend and attorney, and Donal Logue committed to playing Patti’s controlling husband. Debra Messing flew east from LA to play Patti’s best friend, Kate, who was my character’s girlfriend in college—until I cheated on her. We also cast good friend and hysterically funny Dennis Farina. Ever the trouper, Dennis banged out several scenes in one day. He is sorely missed.
We had budgeted the picture at $4 million but had not yet raised any money. I wanted my cast in place before I went looking for money.
Pamela Schein Murphy, a woman I met through friends in New York, wanted to get into the movie business. I spoke to her about the ins and outs of financing, and soon we had a backer for Purple Violets. Pam’s company, Lucky Day Pictures, agreed to finance the film, and Purple Violets began shooting in and around Lower Manhattan.
Every day was fun. Aaron, DP Will Rexer, and I relished the comfort. On Ash Wednesday, we had shot in shitty bars and tiny apartments, and we had made Looking for Kitty outdoors in the dead of a freezing winter. By contrast, Purple Violets was set in big, airy lofts, gorgeous restaurants, and beautiful tree-lined streets.
Of all my films, Purple Violets is where I was most successful in featuring the city as a supporting character. That happened organically, as a result of the ease and enjoyment we had making the movie. In those situations, you let yourself go with the vibe, and I did. This project was the third film that Will Rexer and I had collaborated on. Even though it was a twenty-five-day schedule, we had to move quickly and there were some days that were run-and-gun in nature. We also knew we had the opportunity to experiment with the camera. I mentioned earlier when talking about She’s the One that I am an admirer of Woody Allen’s moving masters. These long, single takes where the camera doesn’t cut, sometimes for the entire length of the scene, were a staple of Woody’s, and a big part of why I was drawn to the filmmaker’s work. Will and I identified a number of scenes in the Purple Violets script where we wanted to embrace that cinematic style and create the kind of shots that we admired in those films. There are a few scenes in Selma Blair’s apartment where we executed these shots beautifully.
Shooting a scene with a moving master is always a great challenge for both the cast and crew. For the cast, it’s more like performing onstage. Typically when shooting a film, if an actor forgets a line or isn’t happy with their performance, they know they’ll not only get another take but there will be other shots from various angles (e.g., medium shot, close-up, etc.) where that line will be covered. However, if you forget or flub a line when shooting a three-minute moving master, the entire take is no good.
The same holds true for the crew. These shots are carefully choreographed so that the character’s blocking (where/how the actor moves around a space) works for the camera’s position, angle, and focus. If the dolly or Steadicam accidentally bumps into a piece of furniture, or the boom microphone enters the shot, or the camera assistant loses focus because the actor doesn’t stop exactly where rehearsed, the shot is blown. Usually, these types of shots take a long time to set up and a long time to rehearse. But if you get it right once, you’re done with the scene.
Purple Violets really was one of those charmed shoots. It was fall in New York, and we were making a movie with an experienced crew, many of whom were friends and longtime collaborators. In addition, we had an excellent cast of gung ho, up-for-anything actors, and a filmmaking-friendly financier and producer. We were having fun, living the dream.
When we finished shooting, Aaron and I went out for a drink. We knew we had done good work and we felt we finally had a movie that would get us over the hump. Our new editor, Thom Zimny, had been raving about the footage and when we settled into the editing room, we could see why. The actors delivered and Will’s photography was gorgeous. For $4 million, we had a New York romantic comedy that looked like a studio film.
P. T. Walkley produced a beautiful score, and when we screened the film for our agents at CAA in Los Angeles, everyone was confident we finally had a hit on our hands. An agent of mine had been trying for years to convince me to abandon my small, personal films and throw my hat in the studio directing world. After screening Purple Violets, he shook my hand and told me, “I loved it and I promise I’ll never try to dissuade you from making your small movies again.”
At the end of 2005, I had three movies in the can. I was convinced 2006 was going to be a good year. The Groomsmen had not been released yet, and Purple Violets was our best work to date. I believed one of them was bound to hit. As for Looking for Kitty, I had given up on that one. The finished movie would live on a shelf with all those unproduced screenplays.
A few weeks later, I was more than pleasantly surprised when my agents called with unexpected news. They seemed to have a buyer for Looking for Kitty. Mark Urman of ThinkFilm liked the movie and wanted to talk. Mark had cofounded the distribution company in 2001 and was heading its theatrical division.
“He does have some notes. Would you be willing to sit down, hear him out, and maybe make some of the changes? If so, I think they’ll buy it.”
“What do they want to pay?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s a partnership,” he explained. “What’s called a no-advance partnership.”
In short, this meant they were going to buy the movie from us for nothing. They would distribute it, in this case worldwide, and after they broke even on costs, we would split the profits fifty-fifty, or whatever percentage we negotiated. With nothing better on the table and the film on my shelf, I thought why not, and soon Aaron and I were meeting with Mark Urman.
Mark’s notes on Looking for Kitty were similar to the thoughts Aaron and I had shared after watching it. The film felt like two different movies. One is a more melancholy story about this private detective who is mired in another era, and the other is a buddy comedy with some goofy situations. Mark wanted to see more focus on the PI. He thought this was the stronger story.
We made the changes with existing footage and also ran outside and shot a couple extra scenes, the benefit of shooting digital. We brought in several editors and got the film to a place where it finally seemed finished—or as finished as we could get it. I know Looking for Kitty should probably have never seen the light of day. To me, it still feels like the B-side in a rarities album, but it accomplishes nothing on the shelf.