Film School (4 page)

In the fourth semester (the last half of year two), students who crewed on a film in the third semester can compete to be directors for these 546 and 547 films.

The third year (semesters five and six) is generally when students work on their thesis films—longer self-funded films—and crew on other thesis films. In these semesters, students can also apply to direct or produce one of the 546 or 547 films. The lucky people chosen to direct a USC-funded film don't have to do a thesis film nor do those who write a feature film script.

Every graduate production student will write and direct at least six films, work on several more, and possibly write a feature-length script. Every production student thus takes on every aspect of filmmaking: writing, producing, directing, lighting, sound recording, editing, sound design, graphics, distribution. A USC production student is in some ways a jack of all trades, master of none.

It's a big honor to direct one of the USC-funded feature films and documentaries, as only about 15 percent of USC production students are chosen to do so. It is, I suppose, a bit like being chosen to be on the Law Review in law school or making honors in medical school. (Full disclosure: I was chosen to direct a USC-funded film.)

USC has a reputation for student films that are very Hollywood-like—that is, high production values, traditional three-act storytelling, and sometimes seriously large budgets. In 2006, USC grad student Ari Sandel won the Academy Award for Best Live Action Short Film for his twenty-minute student film, WEST BANK STORY—an intensely high-gloss comic riff on the classic 1961 musical WEST SIDE STORY. Sandel's film is set in a fictional West Bank neighborhood, complete with competing falafel stands, real camels, and huge dance numbers with actors dressed in Middle Eastern costumes. If there's a film school other than USC where students can top
that
kind of production, I've yet to hear of it.

A
fter orientation, classes start. All first-semester graduate production students carry essentially the same course load. The instructors may be different, but the classes are the same, with minor differences.

In my first semester at USC, I am taking a film history course with a professor named Drew Casper. I have a screenwriting course taught by Ross Brown. And I have a massive class called Production 507. Under the umbrella of this class, I have an acting course, a sound engineering class, a cinematography course, and a directing class. These specialties are taught by a variety of instructors, but there's always one head-honcho instructor in charge of each 507 group. Five-oh-seven—that's what it's called. Not five-hundred-and-seven. Just 5-OH-7. USC's film school has used the same class identifying numeric system for decades. Students don't use the title of classes; they use the numbers. New students quickly get used to the notion. Soon, we all sound like mechanics discussing V-8 engines when we refer to our classes:
I didn't get a lot out of my 507, but my 546 was awesome. How'd ja like your 508? Pretty rough?

The forty-eight of us in our semester are divided into three 507 subgroups. The only place we intersect is in our sound course, taught by a genius named Tomlinson Holman, the creator of THX surround sound. In all the other 507 classes—cinematography, acting, directing—I will spend almost all my time during the semester with fifteen other graduate production students in my 507 section. The only time I'll interact with students from the other two 507 sections is in large group lectures (sound, film history) and in my one small screenwriting class.

At USC, a film student taking a full load typically takes eight to ten credits per semester. It takes a minimum of fifty-two credits to graduate with a master of fine arts degree in film production.

The program is not cheap. At the time of publication of this book, USC charges about $1,500 per credit, so a degree costs about $80,000 just for tuition. Add to that all the other costs of schooling, including class fees, insurance, books, transportation, and that all-important food and shelter. Some of my classmates run up tabs of $150,000 or more. Thesis films are self-funded, which means students foot the bill, and many USC thesis films run up serious mid-five-figure production costs. It's not unheard of for students to rack up $150,000 or even $200,000 of debt.

It's an expensive place, and I'm acutely aware I'm spending my kids' college funds to go to USC. I don't want to dwell on it too much, but I'm spending close to $200 a day just for tuition.

According to what little I have heard, the time commitment for 507 is pretty intense. I like hearing that because I want to get every last dime's worth from the class. The rumor mill is already buzzing from the first day of classes. I hear gossip about students from previous semesters who dropped out because they couldn't take the stress, about students who started eating too much or stopped eating, or started drinking like hard-living writer Charles Bukowski. I think this is a bit silly. It's only a class, after all.

Still, 507 is a big deal. The lead instructor of every 507 group is also a big deal because this one instructor establishes the ground rules for the semester. This instructor sets the tone for how we will critique our films. This one instructor will determine the grade we get for the class. We students know a bad grade in 507 can seal our doom because we will be shown the door if we don't maintain at least a B average.

I have a problem. My lead 507 instructor seems to hate my guts from the first time he meets me.

The instructor is tall—about six foot two—and thin and muscular. He's not much older than I am and has an almost-shaved head, a four-day stubble, a frayed trucker's cap pulled low over his eyes, a pair of torn bell-bottom jeans, and a faded gray T-shirt. In my mind, I give him a nickname: Frayed Trucker's Cap or FTC.

FTC introduces himself to our class by sitting in a chair, head down, inside the classroom. He appears to be sleeping or meditating or just plain ignoring us. We students file past and quietly take a seat. We hardly know each other, much less who this guy is. We
think
he's the lead instructor, but maybe he's a wayward parent or a homeless guy. A couple of my classmates look at me questioningly, wondering if I have a clue what's going on. I shrug. I know as little as they do.

We're in the Robert Zemeckis Center for Digital Arts, an outpost of sorts for lowly first-year production students. The Zemeckis building is located several blocks from the main campus, outside the iron fence that surrounds USC. To get to Zemeckis, we have to walk across the hot Shrine Auditorium parking lot every day, which guarantees most of us are sweaty by the time class starts. So now, on this first day of class with FTC, we're sweaty
and
confused.

Finally, the mysterious FTC lifts his head. He introduces him-self. He talks slowly. He has a nasal, languorous accent no one in class can put a finger on. It sounds like a Deep South–Southern California–Mainline Philadelphia mix. He talks about what will happen in the class, how we each make five short films. His favorite word seems to be
dour
, as in, “I find this film very dour,” or, “The mood in the scene was very dour.” He pronounces it
doooooooer
. He stares at the ceiling for long seconds while he formulates a thought. The energy in the room slowly drops while he stares.

Aware that I had muffed my first introduction, I want to be a bit more expansive among this smaller group of classmates, a group I will be in close contact with for the entire semester. So I'm dropping the
less is more
thing. I look around at my fifteen classmates. Five are women, ten are men. We're a collage of colors and accents. There's a guy from Japan, another from India, and a woman who was born in Ecuador. There are plenty of children of recent immigrants, and we're from the four corners of the United States. I'm by far the oldest—by almost a decade—but a fair number of my classmates worked after graduating from college prior to applying to USC. One is a novelist, another worked for a film studio in marketing, another worked as a young executive for a major corporation, another worked in television.

I'm not the only married person: two of the women are also bringing spouses along for this ride through film school.

As we go around the room, sharing a bit more of ourselves, a thin student with a Deep South twang captures our attention. J. says he grew up in a small town and that his grandfather ran the local movie theater. He says he watched films constantly, and that one day, when he was a teenager working at the theater, his grandfather had a massive heart attack in the projection booth. J. says that as his grandfather lay on the floor, barely breathing, he uttered a wish that someday J. would become a filmmaker.

J. pauses, looks up. We are all holding our breath.

Then he breaks into a huge grin. “Naw, that's not true! You kidding?” he drawls. I laugh. I was hoping for a few jokesters on campus. J.'s comedy is funny and concealing because J. never says a word about his real background, whatever it is. He's cleverly done his own version of
less is more
.

Then it's my turn. I'm completely straight. With just sixteen of us, we can each spend a few minutes introducing ourselves. I tell people I had been a reporter, I am married, I have three kids, and I've hardly done any filmmaking. I add that my total filmmaking experience is making two safety videos for a large agribusiness—a job I stumbled into because I was writing speeches for some executives of the company at the time. I feel more comfortable with the smaller group. I'm still smiling about J.'s shaggy-dog story and compliment him on his great tale.

The students nod approvingly at my story. There's a sense of warmth from them.

But not from FTC. From the first time we meet, he projects an icy chill. Whenever I speak, he stares at me, a frown on his face, his arms folded. By chance, I'm sitting directly across the room from him in our half-circle of chairs. I can hardly see his eyes under his baseball cap as we face each other. As class goes on, I notice that every time I say something or add a comment, FTC rolls his eyes slightly or sighs with what seems to be thinly disguised disdain. I'm wondering what I'm doing wrong. Did FTC read my application essays and find something distasteful? Is he mistaking me for someone else? Did I unwittingly steal his parking spot? Does he hate me because I've privately nicknamed him Frayed Trucker's Cap? He's not giving the icy vibe to everyone in the class—with some of the women in particular he's loose and friendly. But with me, he's like ice.

As I walk from class, I wonder what set him against me.

The term
film school
can
mean different things at different schools. Some schools offer classes in film production only. Other institutions emphasize film theory or critical studies. Saying “I'm in film school” is therefore about as descriptive as saying “I'm studying the humanities.”

For example, USC students can get graduate and/or undergraduate degrees in the following categories. All these categories are under the umbrella of the School of Cinematic Arts—USC's formal name for its film school.

1: Writing about films and television shows and interactive media.
Called Critical Studies. Students learn to dissect films and write critical commentary. They watch films, listen to lectures, write papers. Hundreds of undergrads at USC take this route. A much smaller number of MA and PhD students get their degrees in this field.

2: Producing. Students study how to produce a film or television show.
Budgeting, staffing, selling, industry techniques, and, I would hope, learning which large black automobile to buy should they hit it big.

3: Animating films and television shows, and game development.
Officially called Animation and Digital Arts. Students learn all of the cutting-edge stuff that will make them exceedingly marketable to places like Pixar. A faculty member told me the school has trouble holding students until they complete their degrees because of hiring pressure.

4: Writing films and television shows.
Students learn (and write) what goes on between Fade In on the first page and Fade Out on the last page.

5: USC now offers something called an Interdivisional Media Arts and Practice degree.
It's a PhD program in which students design their own course of study.

6: Making films and television shows.
This is the production division. Students do everything in the process: write, shoot, record, edit, produce, animate, cast, direct. Here, students can choose to specialize. But everyone has to do every part of making modern moving pictures. Students are also required to take courses from the critical studies program and the screenwriting program. Undergraduates focus on the core classes for two years. Graduate students are in a three-year program.

The production division is the one that allows students to follow in the footsteps of Lucas and Spielberg and Scorsese and Coppola, and it's the program that trains people to do everything that goes into making a film or television show. This is the program I'm in.

C
hastened by my time with Frayed Trucker's Cap, I look forward to my first day of American Sound Film, Post-World War II. Based on the description in the USC course catalogue, it may be my cushiest course. Every week we watch a film or two in class and listen to a lecture by Dr. Drew Casper. We have to write only one paper. That's it!

The course is held in the cavernous Eileen Norris Cinema Hall, a 341-seat movie theater in the heart of campus. The darkness, the air-conditioning, the padded movie theater seats, the enormousness of the hall, and the knowledge that I've got a little break from the intensity of 507 relaxes me. I grab a seat five rows from the front. I'm early, and Casper, a slight fellow with close-cropped blond hair and a chiseled face, is quietly walking between the aisles and introducing himself to some of us students. This is an open course—anyone enrolled in USC can take it—so there are undergraduate film students, graduate film students, engineering students, sorority girls, freshmen, and me. Most of my fellow 507 students are enrolled as well, but we're spread out in the auditorium. I like having a little time to be by myself.