Leave the Gun ...

First, an apology.  Last month's post was goddamned mess, not in terms of content, but formatting. Among other things, there was a blizzard of unintended redundant links, because it turns out I can't just toggle back and forth cutting and pasting between this site and its Substack doppelgänger.  Various iterations of that have been tried, each of which failed in a different way ... which meant double the work for me, since the post has to be custom fit for each respective platform. This post presented similar formatting difficulties, most -- but not all -- of which I was able to fix.  Maybe I'll get it right next month, but that's all the more reason you-all should head on over to the BS&T Substack page rather than this increasinlgy cranky Blogger site.  There's a lot more to read over there, and once the book is out, I'll probably abandon Blogger to put all future posts on SS.

When I was in school making student films back in the Pleistocene, my assumption was that working on movies in Hollywood would be a completely different experience. While student films were a one-step-forward/two-steps-back circus of earnest, enthusiastic ambition hobbled by boundless ignorance and confusion, Hollywood productions would be run by seasoned pros who knew how to make each day’s filming on set unfold in a smoothly efficient manner. My assumptions further concluded that the classic films which lured me to the world of film — Casablanca, The Wild Bunch, The French Connection, Chinatown, and The Godfather — must have been a pure pleasure to work on, right?

Yeah … about that. Despite repeated first-hand experience in just how fucked-up a Hollywood film set can be, the romantic (read: hopelessly naive) illusion that those classic films were somehow blessedly immune from the maladies plaguing all forms of filmmaking persisted in my mind. It’s only now that I’m comfortably ensconced on the sunny beach of retirement that I’ve learned the truth: working on every one of those films was a bitch.

This revelation came from the venerable form of self-education known as “reading books.” Yes, I know … reading printed books is no longer fashionable in these modern screen-addicted times, but I’ve reached the point in life where the socio-cultural whims du jour are a matter of indifference. When I’m not outside shaking my cane and yelling at passing clouds, I even listen to CDs and watch DVDs — so, yeah, I’m a full-on dinosaur. 

My latest this-is-how-it-was read is Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli, by Mark Seal, and it’s a good one. If you’ve read Bob Evan’s memoir The Kid Stays in the Picture or seen The Offer, a ten-part dramatic series about how The Godfather was made, you know something about it, but Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli goes much deeper without stretching the truth for the sake of ramping up the drama. It’s very well written, and a great read for any fan of The Godfather in particular, or movies in general. 

I hadn’t seen the movie since it first hit theaters in 1972, more than fifty years ago, so after reading the book, I pulled out the DVD and slipped that shiny disc in the player. Although it didn’t feel quite so monumental as it had on that warm summer afternoon so long ago, it’s still a damned good movie — and having learned how hard it was to get that film from screenplay to screen made it all the more impressive. I dunno … maybe there’s a connection between how difficult a particular movie is to make and the quality of the finished product. As the old adage holds: “It takes a lot of pressure to turn a lump of coal into a diamond.” 

On the other hand, consider a phrase I heard on set more than once: “It’s just as hard to make a bad movie as a good one — so let’s make a good one.”

As for reading about those other classics, I highly recommend the following books — they’re all terrific:

We'll Always Have Casablanca

The Wild Bunch

The Friedkin Connection

The Big Goodbye

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The single-take aesthetic has long had adherents among a small cloister of cinephiles deluded enough to declare that Hitchcock’s Rope — the first long-take feature film I saw — is actually a good movie.  Rope is an interesting experiment in crafting a film that appears to be shot in one uninterrupted take — a feat impossible with the technology of the time — but it’s light years from being a good movie. I found it an insufferable bore: a stage play turned into a movie that embodied all the negative aspects of live theater while pointedly ignoring the advantages of film. As evidenced by Twelve Angry Men, a truly great film can be made with a small cast in a single room, but Rope doesn’t measure up … at all. Even the masters occasionally fall flat on their face, so with all due respect to the great Alfred Hitchcock, the only way I’d watch that movie again is if I was strapped to a chair like poor Malcolm McDowell here.

The next long-take feature I became aware of was Birdman, but being perennially behind the times, I have yet to see it, and thus can’t say whether the single-take technique works for that film or is just a gimmick.

Now comes a four-episode show from Britain — each segment an hour long — called Adolescence that also follows the single-take muse. I watched the first episode and was seriously impressed with the astonishing human and technological achievement of shooting a multiple-location, sixty-five-minute drama in one single take — without so much as a single cut — but wasn’t entirely sure that it qualified as “entertainment.” The initial episode is a grim story about a terrible thing that happens to two working-class families in England, a tale that in many ways feels all too real. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted to watch any more … I mean, it’s extremely well done, but given that we’re currently living in a world that seems to be collapsing on itself and going up in flames, “grim” doesn’t necessarily check the “that’s entertainment” box of my watch list. 

Maybe that’s why I tuned in this podcast interview with Steven Graham, the British actor playing the father of the young boy who’s the focus of that first episode. The meat-and-potatoes character Graham portrays is a blue-collar guy, stocky and muscled, without a lot of nuance, but he loves his son and can’t understand how or why the young boy — who’s just a kid — is being held by the police on a charge of murder. 

Until listening to that podcast, I had no idea Graham had a big role in getting this show made and on the air. It turns out he’s not so much interested in who did what — the dramatic thrust of most police dramas — but why it happened. I don’t yet know if the series can or will answer that question, but after hearing him talk about it for forty-five minutes, you bet I’ll be watching to find out.

In a recent piece for the San Francisco Chronicle, critic Mick LaSalle discussed the aesthetics and relative impact of shows that simulate a single-shot technique by using post-production technology — in other words, cheating — and the real deal like Adolescence.

“There’s a difference between faking it and really doing it. Part of the distinction is our own response. If you’re watching a trapeze act, it’s just more exciting if there’s no net. The longer a shot goes on, the more pressure there is on the actors not to blow it, and I believe we as viewers can pick up on that anxious energy. But an even bigger difference is that a genuine one-take film has a weird languor about it. Simple acts, such as walking from room to room and driving from one location to another take place in real time, and that creates more immediacy. We’re forced to inhabit spaces in a more direct and immediate way.”

I think he’s right. If done the cheaper, easier way by faking a single-shot episode or using the standard wide shot/medium shot/close-up editing techniques, Adolescence might still be a good show, but it wouldn’t be extraordinary — which it certainly is. 

That said, Apple’s new The Studio is more in my wheelhouse these days. Two episodes in, I love it — and you don’t have to be a Hollywood veteran to appreciate this show. It’s cringy-worthy in the extreme, but very funny … and I don’t know about you, but “very funny” is exactly what I need right now.

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So here we are, May already, the doorstep of summer. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by the tsunami of bad news these days: we’re in a serious shit-rain with no end in sight and the news brings another “unprecedented” insult every day. I don’t know how, when, or if this will end, but here’s the crux of the test facing each of us: Do we remain strong, keep the faith, and push back however and whenever we can to set things right, or do we curl up in a fetal position and hope that it all goes away? 

Time will tell.

April

 

                                “Change is the only constant,” Heraclitus

 

Note: It seems that none of the links in the original post here worked ... so I opened it up and fixed all that.  This is one more reason I've bailed on Blogger in favor of Substack.  But ... sorry about that. 

I'd like to remind any who stop by here on the first Sunday of every month that I've more or less moved BS&T over to Substack.  Although it's not a perfect fit, Substack is considerably less glitchy than Blogger, so I'm going with it. The usual monthly posts will continue to arrive here (until I run out of steam, anyway), but that's all -- over at Substack you'll find another post every Sunday, some of which are re-written oldies that didn't make the cut for the book along with a few that did.  Don't be put off by the relentless exhortations of the Substack administrators to "subscribe!" -- which I find extremely irritating -- but subscribing is free for BS&T. All it means is that each new post will be sent to your e-mail box as soon as it hits the web.  Blogger had that feature, but it was never reliable and quit working a long time ago, which is just one more reason for the move.  And now, on with the show...

Waves of change have buffeted the film industry ever since the first scrappy producers fled New York — and Thomas Edison’s patent police — early in the 20th century to set up camp in Hollywood, where land was cheap, snow scarce, and sunshine abundant. They made the most of their new home, and although a few early movie stars rode the outhouse-to-penthouse roller coaster right back to the gutter, the industry prospered.1

The first revolution to hit the new Hollywood was the introduction of sound, which 

ended the careers of those who couldn’t adapt to the new reality.2 Another casualty was the visual sophistication silent films had achieved, using exceptionally fluid camera movement to refine and expand the scope of cinematic language. The noisy cameras of the time needed to be encased — sometimes with the cameraman — in huge sound-proof enclosures, rendering them essentially immobile, while the bulky microphones that made “talking pictures” possible were hidden on set in ways that hindered the actor’s ability to move. 

Photo courtesy of Cine Collage

This led to ponderous movies — lots of talk and little action — until quieter cameras and better sound recording equipment were developed, bringing motion back to the screen. 

Filming on location with a blimped camera and carbon arcs at the LA Arboretum, 1944

As the technology improved, so did the movies, ushering in the first Golden Age of Hollywood as the studio system achieved a new level of stability … but not for long. After courts ended the lucrative vertical monopoly studios had long enjoyed, another revolutionary technology — television — began to compete for audiences, forcing studios to produce vastly more expensive cinematic spectaculars to keep theaters full and profits rolling in. Making movies has always been a risky business, but putting more eggs in fewer baskets raised the stakes to the point where a single flop could threaten a studio’s survival. The final nail in the coffin of the old studio system was driven by an influx of young writers and directors using newer, more compact camerasand lighting equipment to make radically different movies that captured the imagination and ticket-buying dollars of their generation.

It turns out Heraclitus knew what he was talking about.

The waves of change keep coming, with the ongoing digital revolution now turning Hollywood upside down, not only changing the way work is done on set, but undermining the economic foundations of the industry in a major way. The new technology, rapid proliferation of international financial incentives (read: bribes), and lower labor costs overseas led productions to shoot offshore, leaving much of the below-the-line workforce in LA — and the rest of the U.S. — high and dry.3 Although I rode the boom-and-bust roller coaster through some serious bad times during my forty years in Hollywood, I never experienced anything like what’s happening now.

All of this was on my mind when an aimless trek through the wilds of Substack brought me to No Soul, Dark Nights, by screenwriter Dean Bakopoulus. Although it was written more than two years ago (well before the current political insanity), it sums up what’s haunting so many people in — and beyond — the film industry these days: 

“I found ‘discontinuity’ to be the perfect way to describe how so many people are feeling right now, whether they’re worried about climate change, or something more immediate, like heartbreak, or a layoff, or any rejection of some key part of themselves by a force they cannot control. Discontinuity is a moment where the experience and expertise you’ve built up over time cease to work. It’s extremely stressful, emotionally, to go through a process of understanding the world as we thought it was, is no longer there… There’s real grief and loss. There’s the shock that comes with recognizing that you are unprepared for what has already happened.”

I avoid politics on this site in favor of concentrating on the film industry — my lived experience was in Hollywood, not the corridors of power in Washington D.C. — but I encountered that paragraph as the current regime began taking a wrecking ball to the institutions of government so many Americans have relied on for many decades. Although there’s much dust, chaos, and confusion at the moment, one thing is clear: we’re transitioning to a very different world. This new reality has rocked millions here and abroad as they wonder where all this disruption will lead, and although history suggests that we’re sliding toward a very dark place, nothing is yet cast in stone. There’s still time to stem the tide, although rebuilding what’s been broken won’t be quick or easy. Meanwhile, much of the country and beyond has joined Hollywood in being traumatized by uncertainty and fear. It’s not a comfortable feeling. 

I won’t pretend to know what’s coming — for Hollywood or our country — but it’s safe to assume we’re in for what the Chinese refer to as “interesting times.” Indeed, we’re already there, so buckle your seatbelts, people: wherever you are and whatever you do, it’s gonna be a very bumpy ride.

1

See: Fatty Arbuckle

2

John Gilbert was among many famous actors who didn’t survive the transition to sound.

3

A “perfect storm” of factors contributed to this, including Covid, which stopped the industry dead in the water, after which strikes by writers and actors shut things down. The subsequent contraction by the major streaming entities led to massive unemployment in Hollywood at a time when the high cost of housing makes it difficult for single-income families of film industry workers to survive, let alone thrive.

The Lead Dog

I've heard those word more times than I can count, and although the phrase hold an undeniable resonance when paired with an image like this, it's always seemed a bit glib to me.* After all, the lead dog isn't exactly running wild and free -- he's chained to the same heavy sled just like the rest of the pack.  Granted, his view is an endless expanse of ice and snow rather than ice, snow, and the butts of all the other dogs, but I'm not sure it makes much difference while every member of the team is working so hard.

Who exactly is the "lead dog" on a show?  Both best boys answer to their respective superiors, the key grip and gaffer, who in turn answer to the DP.  Like all the other department heads, the DP then answers to the director, who answers to the executive producer, who answers to the network or studio executives, who answers to a board of directors who are controlled by whichever rich scumbag owns the most shares of the corporation's stock. Does that mean the lead dog is the majority stock holder -- some smug, overfed A-hole who drinks Dom Perigon for breakfast and has a closet full of Brioni suits but nary a callus on his smoothly manicured hands?

I don't know and don't much cares.  It seems to me that everybody has a boss of one sort or another,  but even if there is no overall lead dog who enjoys the very best view, every department on and off set really does need to be led by someone who knows what he-or-she is doing.

There are no superfluous members of a film crew -- everybody has a role in carrying a show across the finish line. Still, it's clear that some people really are born to lead: due to whatever quirk of personality, they actually need to be out front ... and when they're not, things can get squirrely. 

When I first started as a gaffer, the position was handed to me: in essence, I inherited the job. I'd never harbored any big  ambitions on set -- I just wanted to do a good job with rest of our crew -- but when circumstance shoved me in front of my lighting crew, I tried to make it work.  It seemed to for a while, but being granted that nice view and earning it are two very different things, and I couldn't make it stick.  Still, I learned a lot from the experience, regrouped, and eventually came back to be a much better gaffer the second time around.  Even then, if being the lead dog of my little lighting tribe offered a better view, it came with a price.  As gaffer, I had to stand by the dolly all... day... long, watching, listening, and paying full attention to what was going in in front of the camera -- and on something like an eight day "Barbie" commercial, an intense focus on something so utterly absurd and ultimately meaningless really can turn a guy's brain to mush. A fellow gaffer friend of mine termed this phenomenon "content poisoning," and he was right. Maintaining my concentration on jobs like that was some of the hardest work I ever did on set.

At one point the best boy grip of our group began getting into petty conflicts with my crew.  I never witnessed them -- they always happened out of sight and earshot -- but I'd hear about them later.  I probably should have confronted the best boy myself, but the key grip and I had come up through the ranks together over many years, so I talked to him.  He dealt with it and things got better for a while, but the best boy eventually went back to his troublesome ways just as we landed a four day car commercial to be shot in a city a thousand miles from LA.  This time the key grip was booked on another gig, which meant his best boy would bump up to the key grip slot. Now, it seemed, he and I would finally have that confrontation ... but a funny thing happened on location: the trouble-making best boy morphed into an  excellent key grip. He was totally solicitious of me and my department for the entire job, always asking what else he could do to make my job -- our job -- easier.  This astonishing about-face confounded me until I realized the obvious:  he was just one of those people who couldn't be happy unless he was the lead dog on his crew -- and once in that position, his attitude and actions toward my crew did a full turnaround.  I literally could not have asked for a better key grip on that job.**

That said, people are different. The gaffer I worked with on the longest run of my television career -- a show called Melissa & Joey -- was one of the best.  He was smart, had a great sense of humor, never got stressed or rattled on set, and really knew his business. Working with him on that crew was a real pleasure.  We'd often end up day-playing together on other shows between seasons of M&J, and there he was just as good a juicer as he was a gaffer.  His approach to the two very different jobs was exactly the same: pay attention and work hard. That kind of professional flexibility is crucial to surving in the freelance jungle of Hollywood, because there's only room for one lead dog on each individual crew. If you're a gaffer or key grip and none of your DPs are working, you have to take whatever work is available, and you really do need to adapt to the new role in being exactly what your boss and department need.

 It all boils down to personality, I suppose, but the bottom line is this: a lead dog can't do it alone, and is only as good as his or her crew.  A good lead dog is essential, but those who work behind him in the shadows are just as important in their own way, whether they like the view or not.

* Kind of like "Don't sweat the small stuff."

** He then went on to have a long, very successful career as a key grip.

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Note: That was supposed to be the end of the March post ... but then Gene Hackman died, along with his wife and dog under circumstances that have yet to be explained. He was my favorite actor of modern times, so I had to say something...

                                           Popeye Doyle

I can't overstate the impact Gene Hackman had on me as Popeye Doyle in The French Connection.  Having committed to study film after a few years of going through the motions in school, I was enamored with the classics of old Hollywood: the films of Ford, Hawks, Anthony Mann, Budd Boettecher, and so many others, but other that "The Wild Bunch," hadn't seen much in the modern films of the early 70s that truly gripped me.  

Then came The French Connection, which blew my young mind -- and nothing was quite the same.  That's when I knew I was headed for Hollywood come hell or high water.

There are good obits from various papers that tell his story -- like this and this -- better than I can, and they're worth reading.  As one put it: "Hackman’s career has so much gold in it that it is almost impossible to mine."

Indeed.  Thanks for the memories, Gene.  RIP