sitting as though he were a sack of rusty machine
parts, his best work was behind him and he no longer kept his brain tuned to
the sharp clarity that had given the world such films as Meet The Gobs, All
These Forgotten and Caper . He was garrulous and relaxed and perfectly content
to bend a young stranger’s ear for an hour or so while the snow fell outside
and the beautiful girl performed her function of keeping his old body warm.
But something had to be done, if any useful
material at all were to come out of this meeting, so finally, after the memoir
of the dog Rudolph, I decided my only choice, since Edgarson persisted in
distracting me from my job, was bring him into the interview. Maybe he would
help us get moving in a more useful direction.
Q: “I’d like to ask you now a more or
less specific question of technique, based on a film other than one of
yours.”
A: “Somebody else’s picture?”
Q: “Yes. This is a work in progress being
done by a young filmmaker here in New York. I’ve seen the completed portion, and I’d
like to ask you how you would handle the problem this young filmmaker has set
for himself.”
A: “Well, I’m not sure I get the idea
what you want here, but let’s give it a try and see what happens.”
Q: “Fine. Now, the hero of this film is
being blackmailed in the early part of the picture. But then he gets rid of the
evidence against himself, but the blackmailer keeps coming around anyway. He’s
bigger than the hero, he threatens to beat him up and so on, he even moves into
the hero’s apartment, he still wants his blackmail money even though the
evidence is gone. The hero doesn’t want to go to the police, because he’s
afraid they’ll get too interested in him and start looking around and maybe
find some other evidence. So that’s the situation, as far as this young
filmmaker has taken it. The blackmailer is in the hero’s apartment, the hero is
trying to decide what to do next. Now, if this was one of your pictures, how
would you handle it from there?”
A: “Well, that depends on your
story.”
Q: “Well, I think he wants the hero to
win in the end.”
A: “Okay. Fine.”
Q: “The question is,
where would you yourself take it from there?”
A: “Well, what’s the script say?”
Q: “That doesn’t matter. That’s still
open.”
A: “Open? You have to know what happens
next.”
Q: “Well, that’s up to you. What would
you have happen next?”
A: “I’d follow the script.”
Q: “Well, they’re doing this as they go
along.”
A: “They’re crazy. You can’t do anything
without a script.”
Q: “Well…They’re working this from
an auteur assumption, that it’s up to the director to
color and shape the material and so on.”
A: “Yeah, that’s fine, but you got to
have the material to start with. You got to have the story. You got to have the
script.”
Q: “Well…I thought the director was
the dominant influence in film.”
A: “Well, shit, sure the director’s the
dominant influence in film. But you still gotta have a script.”
Well, that wasn’t any help. What was I
supposed to do, go ask three or four screenwriters for suggestions? Is the
director the auteur or what the hell is he?
I did keep trying along in this vein for a few
more questions, but they didn’t get me anywhere. So far as I could see, Big
John Brant’s career had come down to this; he was the fellow who told the
cameraman to point the camera at the people who were talking. And to think how
high in the pantheon I’d always placed this man.
The script. Only a hack cares about the goddam script. What I needed was to talk to a real director; Hitchcock, or John Ford, or John Huston, or Howard Hawks. What
happens next? That was my question. Sam Fuller would
have an answer to that. Roger Corman, even.
Well, it was all hopeless. The interview with
Brant meandered along, being of no use personally and damn little
professionally, until Miss Fireperson came in a
parts, his best work was behind him and he no longer kept his brain tuned to
the sharp clarity that had given the world such films as Meet The Gobs, All
These Forgotten and Caper . He was garrulous and relaxed and perfectly content
to bend a young stranger’s ear for an hour or so while the snow fell outside
and the beautiful girl performed her function of keeping his old body warm.
But something had to be done, if any useful
material at all were to come out of this meeting, so finally, after the memoir
of the dog Rudolph, I decided my only choice, since Edgarson persisted in
distracting me from my job, was bring him into the interview. Maybe he would
help us get moving in a more useful direction.
Q: “I’d like to ask you now a more or
less specific question of technique, based on a film other than one of
yours.”
A: “Somebody else’s picture?”
Q: “Yes. This is a work in progress being
done by a young filmmaker here in New York. I’ve seen the completed portion, and I’d
like to ask you how you would handle the problem this young filmmaker has set
for himself.”
A: “Well, I’m not sure I get the idea
what you want here, but let’s give it a try and see what happens.”
Q: “Fine. Now, the hero of this film is
being blackmailed in the early part of the picture. But then he gets rid of the
evidence against himself, but the blackmailer keeps coming around anyway. He’s
bigger than the hero, he threatens to beat him up and so on, he even moves into
the hero’s apartment, he still wants his blackmail money even though the
evidence is gone. The hero doesn’t want to go to the police, because he’s
afraid they’ll get too interested in him and start looking around and maybe
find some other evidence. So that’s the situation, as far as this young
filmmaker has taken it. The blackmailer is in the hero’s apartment, the hero is
trying to decide what to do next. Now, if this was one of your pictures, how
would you handle it from there?”
A: “Well, that depends on your
story.”
Q: “Well, I think he wants the hero to
win in the end.”
A: “Okay. Fine.”
Q: “The question is,
where would you yourself take it from there?”
A: “Well, what’s the script say?”
Q: “That doesn’t matter. That’s still
open.”
A: “Open? You have to know what happens
next.”
Q: “Well, that’s up to you. What would
you have happen next?”
A: “I’d follow the script.”
Q: “Well, they’re doing this as they go
along.”
A: “They’re crazy. You can’t do anything
without a script.”
Q: “Well…They’re working this from
an auteur assumption, that it’s up to the director to
color and shape the material and so on.”
A: “Yeah, that’s fine, but you got to
have the material to start with. You got to have the story. You got to have the
script.”
Q: “Well…I thought the director was
the dominant influence in film.”
A: “Well, shit, sure the director’s the
dominant influence in film. But you still gotta have a script.”
Well, that wasn’t any help. What was I
supposed to do, go ask three or four screenwriters for suggestions? Is the
director the auteur or what the hell is he?
I did keep trying along in this vein for a few
more questions, but they didn’t get me anywhere. So far as I could see, Big
John Brant’s career had come down to this; he was the fellow who told the
cameraman to point the camera at the people who were talking. And to think how
high in the pantheon I’d always placed this man.
The script. Only a hack cares about the goddam script. What I needed was to talk to a real director; Hitchcock, or John Ford, or John Huston, or Howard Hawks. What
happens next? That was my question. Sam Fuller would
have an answer to that. Roger Corman, even.
Well, it was all hopeless. The interview with
Brant meandered along, being of no use personally and damn little
professionally, until Miss Fireperson came in a
Similar Books
