Adventures in the Screen Trade (49 page)

All this, of course, is building up to the moment of actual writing. I am getting myself as full of the material as I possibly can. When I can't stand it any more, I try and write. If the writing goes well X weeks later, I have a first draft. And then I have it mimeoed. And then I get it back and look at it.

And at that point, I know more about the movie than any- body else in the world. I stand there holding the script, and of course I'm pleased that something exists, and of course I'm frightened that it stinks. But running along with those emotions is the knowledge of my knowledge-I know so much. I've made so many decisions about what to save and what to pitch- I could have written a five-hundred-page screenplay if I'd wanted. I am, as I stand there, the movie.

And then comes the moment of mourning. Because the relay race must go on and my lap is ending; I must pass the baton to the other technicians.

And when you give it away, the loss, of course, is the end of your imagination. The movie in my head is going to leave me. Other people's fantasies are going to take over. As they must.

Generally speaking, at his time of greatest knowledge, conceivably at the time of his greatest usefulness, the screenwriter is cast aside. That's the way movies are made.

I'm not a whiz at transcribing interviews; I have no idea what your reaction to them was. But I can tell you my two reactions and I was totally unprepared for both. They filled me with elation and they Filled me with despair. Elation because their suggestions improved my screenplay. Despair because their suggestions improved my screenplay. The elation I think is easy enough to understand-anytime anyone can help you, can make your work better, whether it's a friend reading a book or an editor making cogent comments, that's terrific. We all, I think, want whatever we do to have as much quality as possible.

The despair I felt comes from this simple fact: Talks such as I had on Da Vind are simply inconceivable in the actual world of making a movie.

I have been at the craft for almost twenty years now, and until the past weeks, I've never spent five minutes alone with an editor. Or a production designer. Or a cinematographer. I've never net the composer on any film I've ever done, except once, and that was long after the score was completed.

Yes, I've met with directors. Often fruitfully. But it's not the same as here. Because he has secrets.

He is fighting wars I never know about. Maybe the producer hates my script and wants to bring in someone else. Maybe the director hales my script and wants to bring in someone else. Maybe the studio is insisting on the use of a star who is suddenly available. Maybe the director took the job because he needs the money or the work or he's always wanted to do a movie on the subject matter I've written about and so he grabbed the script before someone else could make a movie covering similar ground.

From the very beginning, I have had an ambition in dealing with a director. I've wanted to do the following: sit down and discuss the script from the point of view of my particular intention. Not shot by shot. But scene by scene. I've wanted to go through from fade-in till fade-out and say, "Here's what I meant by scene one. I did it this way because this is what I was after. "And then scene two, etc. Such a talk may take four hours, it may take eight. Well, forget about it.

Never happens. And that's dangerous, because often, when a scene is sludge, it's because the intention of the script wasn't the same as the intention of the director when it went on the floor.

Now, when I say I wanted to give my intention for each scene, that doesn't mean I want the director to sit there and grunt agreement. Often, very often, I may intend something in a scene, it's clear in my head, but what I put on paper veered off. He would point that out to me. I could change it, fix it maybe. Never happens.

Once we pass the baton, we become, and I don't know why, this weird thing, some vestigial lump, like a baby born with a tail. Get rid of it.

We are not held in much esteem. Most of us don't deserve to be. But there is an attitude toward us maybe best exemplified by Sam Goldwyn, who used to sneak to the writers' building and listen and get angry if he didn't actually hear typewriters clacking.

Few of the powers out there know what a cameraman does, but they know they can't do it. Occasionally, a cameraman gets replaced, but not often. The same for the other technicians.

They don't know what we do, either, but they do know the alphabet, and they also have lists of dozens of other writers who can change what we've done. The attitude toward us continues after the picture has finished shooting. I've never seen a rough cut of a picture I've written. And I rarely get invited to sneaks. Marathon Man is a good example, because there were two sneaks, in California. And I live in New York so it's expensive to bring me out. Except I was in California at the time. Wouldn't have cost a whole lot to have me along. I mention Marathon Man because it was a picture that, I suspect, was grievously damaged by the sneak re- actions.

Probably I couldn't have helped. The movie was no longer mine, and many others knew much more about the film than I did.

But no one knew more about the structure of the film. No one ever does or ever will. You keep that inside you. And often the screenwriter will know why a section of the movie is just lying there, gasping for air. He may not be able to fix it, but he may at least be able to articulate the reason for the mess.

But we are not called on to articulate. We are, after our lap is finished, for the most part, mute. Usually, they don't want us around. As I said, I don't know why, but it's odd. And in movies, the screenwriter is the odd man out. But there is a trade-off. That beginning lap we run, regardless of what happens later-that lap is ours. We have the privilege, if you will, of the initial vision. We're the ones who first get to make the movie. . . .

Final Fade - In

I am ending this book-it's now June of '82-at the greatest time of panic and despair in modern Hollywood history.

A desperate agent said to me yesterday, "It's like living underwater out here." This past January, when I began, is already looked back on with some nostalgia. How could things be worse? Remember these?

The Border Personal Best One from the Heart A Stranger is Watching Shoot the Moon Making Love Cannery Row Evil Under the Sun I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can Deathtrap I Ought to Be in Pictures Cat People A Little Sex Wrong Is Right Partners

And that's a selective list. The fact is that, in the first five months of this year, only Porky's was a runaway hit.

Events are taking place out there-or not taking place, to be a bit more precise-that were unheard of a year or two ago. Just one example: I know of a best-selling piece of nonfiction that a studio developed. A first-class script was written. The script attracted a world-famous award-winning director. And one of the hottest young stars also committed. And the studio put it in turnaround.

I am not talking about an introverted art film-this is a movie. with action, adventure, rich characters. The director is so anxious to get it off the ground that he has agreed to defer his e tire salary. And no one will touch it.

The summer is upon us now-thirty-nine pictures will open from the major studios between now and Labor Day. Some feel the summer will be big and the studios will get active again. Some feel the summer won't be big and the studios won't get active again.

I suppose I'm perverse, but I think the summer will be huge-the biggest in the history of Hollywood-and the studios will still remain immobile. Their confidence factor is simply gone. They will make sequels--Jaws /// was announced today. And they will make rip-offs-sixty clones of Halloween are for sale to- day from all around the world if anyone in Hollywood wants to buy them.

There is nothing new about this. After his first film proved successful, Broncho Billy Anderson made 375 more just like it. And we never minded the Andy Hardy movies; I didn't, any- way.

But that was when Metro alone was turning out fifty films a year. Now the entire industry doesn't make a lot more than twice that many altogether. They are not waiting for Godot out there, they are waiting for HBO instead. Cable will save them-not byjust buying pictures, but by becoming a giant financial contributor to the actual making of movies. That's a theory, anyway.

I have no idea as to its eventual accuracy, but I believe that we will soon have again what we have come to take for granted-the most vital and vibrant film industry of any country in the world. Hollywood has been desperate before, but up till now it's been a technical advance that's brought salvation--sound or color or CinemaScope or Smell-O-Vision. But I don't think so this time.

This time I think it's going to be talent. Young talent. I have just spent the past two days looking at short films made by graduates and undergraduates at the NYU Film School. There were, needless to say, no masterpieces. And probably only two of the ten I saw would be good enough to go into the theatres immediately. But they were all so goddam gifted.

I think there's a wave of talent rising now. Thousands upon thousands of young men and women who literally love film. I realize this is a book about Hollywood, so obviously there has to be a happy ending. Only I'm not tacking this on. I believe that wave is upon us and that it's not going to be stopped. And to all that talent let me say, where the hell have you been and I wish you joy...

. . . and may you ignore the critics when they attack you, and pay no attention to their praise . . .

... and may you please remember when your scenes are sludge, that screenplays are structure ...

. . . and may you have peers as willing to improve your project as you must be; treat them kindly, for they will save your ass many times over . . .

. . . and may you always remember "it's only a movie" but never forget there are lots worse things than movies-like politicians ...

. . . and may you be lucky enough and skilled enough to make some glorious moments for all those people sitting out there in the dark, as earlier craftsmen created such moments for you . . . . . . and finally and most of all . . .

. . may all your scars be little ones. . . .

January-June, 1982 New York City

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