1000 FILM SCHOOL WORKSHOPS

THE OBJECTIVE (PART ONE)

The four pillars of storytelling are character, plot, setting, and theme. Understanding every character’s choices and interpreting how they weave and connect and lead an audience through a satisfying story is the director’s job. I call it ‘the director’s contract.’

For directors, understanding characters and shaping a performance is critical, and it’s one of the toughest things to teach effectively in film school.

If student directors are working with prepared, dedicated actors and being authentically challenged in directing workshops, there are genuine lessons to be learned, as opposed to working with filmmaking classmates playing the role of the actor. Play-acting can only take you so far in building the necessary skills for sustaining a professional directing career.

Characters in conflict and the actions they choose to take in order to overcome the obstacles in a scene are the starting points for the actor/director relationship. Someone wants something. They have a goal, a purpose, an agenda, and this is covered in the catch-all term: objective.

It’s important to keep in mind that an actor can never play the whole film but only individual scenes. A character’s objective is the character’s want for each individual scene. Objectives provide actors with a through-line for the actions they choose in any given scene.

Every strong objective should fulfill the following criteria: it has to be active, it has to be specific, it has to be achievable within the scene, it has to be able to drive a character’s actions from beginning to end, it has to affect another person and require a response from them.

After decades of directing, as well as leading over 1,000 directing workshops, I can tell you that coming up with objectives is not easy, because objectives are not necessarily on the page.

A strong objective dwells in the subtext, and this needs to be explored by going deep into the script. An in-depth script analysis precedes a directing workshop and strengthens the dynamic relationship between actor and director. Preparation for productive workshops and rehearsals is imperative for actors, directors, and teachers.

More to come…

The Lost Tapes: Frank Daniel Q&A (pt 1)

Sorting through one of my time-capsules of collectables, I’ve found personal recordings, micro-cassettes and VHS tapes with some truly priceless content. I hadn’t forgotten that I had dictated my observations about the first film sets I was on, or my university days in theatre and film – I just stored them in the basement. Until now.

I started collecting info on film education, film schools and film teachers in the 80’s. Everything from newspaper and magazine articles to out-of-print books and esoteric recordings. I’m unpacking those goodies and leaving some of them here for posterity. WordPress – my new time-capsule.

Frank Daniel is American cinema’s direct link to the original curriculum developed at the All-Union State  Institute of Cinematography in Moscow – the birthplace of film education. He left Europe in 1969. He headed up various film schools in the United States and was a major influence on filmmakers from the 70’s to the 90’s. Screenwriting students had a chance to Q&A with Frank Daniel when he was at Columbia University (circa 1986.)

THE LOST TAPES (pt 1)

Sound, Color, Props, Costumes

Q. You were talking about sound, color, props and costumes, and that’s the place where I feel a little weak. Can you tell me some directors that you think are really good at doing that?

FRANK DANIEL: Wilder is the best. If you look at Lost Weekend or Sunset Boulevard you’ll see. Lost Weekend starts with a pan over the New York skyline, and the camera stops and sees a bottle hanging from a window. In the room there is a guy packing, and his brother is talking about their forthcoming long weekend, and convincing him how, after all those things he has been through he’ll have fresh air, water, and milk, and the guy is suddenly upset. He doesn’t want to hear about those dull liquids. Immediately you make a connection between the bottle outside, and then, when he tries to smuggle the bottle into his suitcase you are hooked. From that moment, the bottles, glasses, jiggers and snifters are props that go through the whole picture.

There is one scene in the movie when the main character first meets his girlfriend at the opera. He watches the drinking scene in La Traviata. People are standing with champagne in their hands, sipping it and singing. That part of the movie you should especially look at. It has some brilliant staging. In the center of the image there is always some drink. Bottles, glasses, more bottles, and more glasses, and people with glasses. Finally the poor guy can’t take it anymore and he just leaves and goes to the cloakroom for his coat, because he has a bottle of whisky in the pocket, but he cannot get his coat. Because of a mistake with the tickets, he is given a ladies fur coat. He has to wait until the whole opera is over to get his coat back, and that’s how he meets the girl.

They exchange coats and the coats begin to play a part in the movie. At the end of the picture he takes her coat and goes to the pawn shop. You believe that he is going there to get money for it, but he is going there to get his gun, to kill himself. She comes to get her fur coat back, and she is in his raincoat!

If you look at the way alcohol is presented in that movie you’ll see that it became a character. It goes through the whole story and the glasses and bottles and the circles they leave on tables express things that otherwise would have to be stated in dialogue, in words.

In Lubitsch’s Ninotchka, the hat that Ninotchka buys elucidates her whole character. It expresses the change of Ninotchka from a dogmatic Russian commissar into a loving woman completely. That’s the use of props, not for the purpose of more interesting acting business, but for dramatic emphasis, for creating poetic images, and metaphors.

Subplot

Q. Would you talk a little bit about subplot and how to know if your subplot is actually moving the story towards a culmination?

FD: It’s not that difficult. You check each scene as you write, or better when you finish the first draft against the main tension of the story. See if it helps, or if it leads somewhere else, or if it’s actually diluting the tension. Then you can decide if it’s used properly. That’s what needs to be done, and you always try to find out what the thematic connection of the subplot with the main theme of the story is. Is it a variation? Is it the opposite of the main character’s? Is it preparing new obstacles eventually? How does it relate thematically and plotwise to the main theme and the main action? Does it heighten the tension?

By the way, another thing, I might have mentioned, that happens often in the first draft, is that the third act scenes are, as a rule, too long. They are actually dealt with in a manner that is proper for the first part of the picture, but not when the story is reaching its resolution. The scenes in the third act have to be much shorter, much more condensed, and much more energetic because of the passions that collide into one another after you have reached the culmination. Usually the beginning writer tries to say too much there, and we, the audience, have no patience at that time.

Q. So when you’re doing a first draft or a treatment, you really have to know what the subplots are?

FD: If you don’t then you have to go back and give them the proper function and meaning. In the first treatment ever written, the first script, you are not ready to deal with all the people at the same time. It is enough to be able to jump from one character’s shoes in a scene, and if you have to take care of five story lines, it’s a little too much. You have seen Fellini’s 8 1/2 where he doesn’t have any problems with it, but if you look at La Strada or White Sheik you’ll see that he was learning too! He could, at that time, develop only two main characters, because he was just gaining the muscles. Milos Forman, you know, started with small scale stories, with one character in the center. And then he develops and directs Amadeus, and takes care of the whole world. One needs to learn to be able to do that.

Features vs. Shorts

Q. Do you think there’s a difference between setting out to write a feature length or say a half hour script? Is it more difficult or easier to write a short script? Do you apply all the same logic to it?

FD: Well, to write a good short is not that simple, but it is easier because in a short you deal with just one event, one situation that the story turns around. And usually you need a very small number of characters, because otherwise you couldn’t afford to shoot it. It takes less time and less energy to write a short than a feature, and that’s why at our school it’s obligatory to write shorts before you go on to treatments, and then to a feature script. It’s also a question of those dramatic explosives that you need for a two hour story. The conflict in a feature film must be strong enough to keep people watching it for two hours. And then there is the whole question of strategy. How do you open the conflict? How do you force the characters to come with the passions and the fights and where do place the up and downs? That comes from experience, from repeated exploring, and trying. There’s a generic difference, I would say, between a short and a feature. For a beginning director it’s quite different. A director can show his directorial capabilities in a short almost completely. You can see that he knows how to work with actors, that he knows where to put the camera, that he knows how to edit, that he knows how to use music, and so on. As a director you can have a calling card that’s ten minutes long and people will know that this guy is a potential director. But a short film doesn’t do too much for a writer. It can’t show that he knows how to divide those two hours into moments of full involvement, relaxation, surprise, build up. That is something that comes only by constant studies of films and scripts, and then by writing, writing, writing.

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ONE PAGE FILM SCHOOL: Theme

As final exams approached in my first year as a film student at the University of British Columbia, I condensed two semesters of class notes onto one page as a study tool.

(Okay… it was double-sided. And the letters were tiny. But it was still a single page.)

One side was dedicated to the purely technical details; the other focused on the artistic and interpretive aspects of visual storytelling. Everything was on the table for the exam.

The first word at the top of the ‘story’ page was theme. In the list of all the story terms – plot, inciting incident, climax, resolution, and so on – theme was the one that generated the most interesting discussions in class.

Understanding themes – primary, secondary and tertiary – is critical for a thorough script analysis and requires a commanding knowledge of the content, characters and overall action of the story. Identifying and stating the themes isn’t always easy or straightforward, but it’s essential for anyone hoping to take on a key creative role in the film industry.

I love script analysis. In my graduate directing class, I dedicate three entire lessons to various analysis strategies. When I work with filmmakers and students, theme is still at the top of my list. It’s surprising how many story questions can be answered, how creative choices can be improved, and how audience satisfaction can be enhanced when there is a clear understanding of the themes.

Frank Daniel, my teacher-in-absentia, offered excellent notes on the challenges of screenwriting. Here’s a transcript from his lecture discussion on theme:

“One of the most difficult terms to deal with — and to understand — is the term ‘theme.’

The theme — simply spoken — is the principal subject: the main aim why a story is being told. This specific purpose, eventually, becomes the resulting effect of the finished work and can be analytically deducted from it. It gives the whole its unity. It gives each part and each element its place and function.

But how should a writer apprehend it when he is beginning just to meditate over his future story? From what end should he approach this confusing matter when his story is barely emerging as a possibility? If you are writing a film story, think of your theme only as the final effect, of the resulting impact that the audience should feel when the picture is over. You are offering an experience – a visceral, emotional, almost physical excitation.

Tension and Release

That’s why the tension, its gradation, culmination and release is the ‘vehicle,’ the tool, and de facto form in which the theme materializes. It consists, therefore, from the realization of the dramatic situation. From the apprehension of whose story, whose predicament is going to be followed, displayed and participated in. From the aroused intent and the consequent empathy, followed by the resulting sympathy and continuous anticipation.

Full involvement in the main character’s conflict becomes a distressing uncertainty about the surmised development of the events and the gradual crystallization of the wish to see the fulfillment of the main character’s desire.

Ordeal and Craving

The sympathy with the protagonist’s ordeal and craving brings with it, simultaneously, the fear from the threatening destruction of this desire, scheming or dream. In other words, the theme becomes, in the story itself, the craving for the fulfillment, imperiled either by natural, social or psychological circumstances or, many times, by all three of them. The more specific and simultaneously humanly universal this protagonist’s craving gets, the easier it becomes to create the viewer’s sympathy.

But there can be a totally opposite case. Instead of a humanly positive desire for human fulfillment, a story can follow a depraved, accursed, appalling aspiration, evil coveting, anti-humane obsession, destructive or even self-destructive mania. The history of tragedy offers great examples of this type of ogre: Richard III, Macbeth, Medea…

The Audience’s Emotional Approval or Rejection

In essence, we see either the audience’s emotional approval, or rejection, abhorrence, and even repulsion, depending upon the nature of the dominant drive (spine) that carries the story from its genesis to its resolution.

If the drive of the main character is a desire for human fulfillment, from its lowest, modest forms to the most heroic ones, in other words, love in any of its appearances, the theme becomes the acceptance, and the approval of the main character’s objective and the emotional effect of the story — feeling joy, satisfaction, elation or sadness, anger, bitterness – depends on the outcome of the presented conflict.

If the drive, fixation, or fascination of the protagonist is any kind of destructive or self-destructive delusion, then the theme unfolds as a progressing disapprobation. It can take a form of horrified aversion, hatred or just derision and the final effect, again, depends on the outcome of the conflict: relief, anger, sadness, etc.

The Storyteller’s Position

The storyteller’s position, his philosophical moral stand, shows itself inevitably in the theme. There is always the dichotomy between what he or she sees as reality or delusion, creation or destruction — what’s presented as meaningful, and what’s shown as nonsensical, harmful or harmless.

From this realization it is easy to approach the basic structure of the cinematic or dramatic story: the protagonist craves for a humanly positive value. Othello — to take the most blatantly clear example — is love, giving oneself to the loved woman, trust, etc.

The Antagonist desires to destroy this value, i.e. to change love into jealousy and a feeling of disgust from female vileness. The story carries and contains us, necessarily, by the deception of the protagonist, of his temporary or lasting error.

It leads, consequently, to the obligatory moment of recognition, the horrifying realization that the deception has caused. If the scene of recognition precedes the ‘catastrophe’ (the tragic resolution), we have a happy ending. If it follow the catastrophic conclusion, then the end is obviously tragic.

Protagonists are almost always wrong. Their values are not clarified. The scene of recognition becomes obligatory and leads to self-recognition, self-knowledge.

It figures that for the strongest possible effect, it is much better when the viewer has a chance to realize that the protagonist is in error and when he expects, with suspense, the moment of recognition, we will have a chance to see other story patterns and realize how the specific tension in each one of them determines the structure of the story.

The Most Important Fact

The most important fact to keep in mind is that the theme is not a philosophical, political, moral, or any other ‘thesis,’ (or ‘premise’ as some people call it) but an emotional response – social, personal, or any other – a stand, an engagement of the whole human being for a certain human truth, displayed in a process of its affirmation in the conflict of the story.

One way of originating a story is to start asking – What is threatened? What’s being offended, exploited, smothered? What human values are being destroyed? What truth is getting silenced or smeared? What beautiful dreams are being thwarted, or ruined, or crushed? And how should we feel about it? Horrified? Sad? Appalled? Victorious? Triumphant?”

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Searching for an Authentic Education (part 6): Frank Daniel on Screenwriting

The transition from first to second draft – or any subsequent draft – is an opportunity to advance all of the story elements in play. Rewriting for sound, color and lighting builds more layers that help to elevate a visual story. Focusing on the further details of location, props and costumes help advance the characters, their world and their obstacles.

Frank Daniel offers up a list of tips for the re-writing screenwriter in my final part of his last lecture at Columbia University. I think it’s pure gold.

Frank Daniel on Screenwriting (part 6)

Columbia University School of the Arts, Film Division, May 5th, 1986

“Usually, in the first draft, sound is used only in the most pedestrian and naturalistic form. There are special ways that sound can help create the best metaphoric effects, for example, sound that means something for the character. You introduce it at the beginning and it pays off later. Suddenly just the sound of a train, or a jet landing, or whatever, assumes a meaning that dialogue cannot ever express. Well, pay attention to sound and explore its dramatic and poetic possibilities.

Colors

Another thing, the first draft is very rarely written in colors. It’s always black and white. It pays off to look at the script from this point of view also, and to think how you can use colors for dramatic impact. Most of the scripts, in the first draft, are lit in a television manner. Everything is clear, there are no shadows, no darks, no overly bright scenes. So that’s another element that you look at and try to use for the point of contrast and emotional reaction.

Locations

Locations in the first draft are very often completely cliché. Masters always try to figure out how to make the locations special. Do it their way. Ask how the place can help the scene, how it can work against the character, or for it, how it can create obstacles, offer difficulties, and how you can get rid of the stereotypes.

Props

Props are not properly used in the first draft. They are introduced and they are not continued. Props have tremendous power of poetically enlightening the story. You have seen it in the analysis classes, you know how they can be used. If you look at any of Billy Wilder’s or Lubitsch’s pictures, you know that props can do as bearers of metaphors. Why not learn from them and help your script to gain sophistication and cinematic magic?

Wardrobe

Costumes are never taken care of in the first draft. Again, from the analysis classes you learned that you have to be aware where change of costume becomes a part of the dramatic buildup in your story. Again, it’s something that you can play with in the second draft. The dress of a character can be more expressive than a whole monologue. It can let us know what has happened to the character. If he or she is “dressed for the occasion,” the viewer reads it, guesses the meaning of it, and becomes more involved. These are things that, if you are aware of them, can help your scripts to be better, and more professional.

Transitions

Transitions between the scenes can have tremendous effectiveness. In the first draft, as a rule, scenes are written in their entirety. People come into a room, say good morning, take their hat off, put it on the hanger, and although the scene actually starts five minutes later, you get into it at the beginning. That’s why the transition from one scene to the other cannot have that desired sparking power. Try to jump into scenes as late as possible. Ask how you can eliminate all that unnecessary early stage of the scene that makes the writing flat, banal, anti-dramatic. That’s where you see more exciting possible connections between the scenes.

You Can Master All the Tricks of the Trade

These tips are a sort of shopping list that you can keep, and use whenever you go back to your first draft with the goal of changing it into a full-fledged script. They may help you. And they may foster the realization that there are no mysteries in our craft, that you can master all the tricks of the trade.

The most difficult thing to learn, as I’ve seen it so far, is not the structuring of a story. Finally, that is based on the psychological truth of the characters’ behavior and on the logic of events. Far more difficult to acquire is the awareness of how the anticipation of the audience should be built and structured into the way the story is presented – the difference between the narrative and the dramatic, if you want. All the techniques of suspense, surprise, mystery, irony, etc., exist because of the viewer’s anticipation. If there is not anticipation, there cannot be tension, there cannot be suspense. And you learn to understand it.

William Archer, in his book Playmaking, says that dramatic writing is constant preparation. Think about it. What else are we doing but preparing the audience for the resolution of the story? Where does the viewer’s anticipation come from? What is it based upon? Somebody must put it in the picture. And who else can it be if not the writer? He tries to “use all the pointers,” all the elements that lead to the future. That’s why he weaves all the fears, all the hopes, all the desires, dreams, plans, and warnings into the texture of the story.

That’s the secret and it’s odd to see how most students resist accepting this simple truth. They have the feeling that somehow it is not necessary. But watch films. Look at the way the writer and the director keep you excited. Anticipation is the device. It’s getting you to wish, to want, to predict what’s going to happen, to make you afraid, to hope. It cannot be in the story on its own. It must be put there. It’s too late to think about these things when the picture is shot.

Another difficulty for a beginning scriptwriter is the realization that we are not writing characters but parts. As a scriptwriter you are writing roles for actors. You have to give the actors something exciting to play. Dialogue is the least valuable thing you can give an actor. Difficult action, physically or psychologically embarrassing moments, moments that require the actor to do something considerable, memorable, unheard of, chances for the characters to display their intelligence, their inventiveness, their skills.

That’s what you are obliged to offer. Actors are the first ones who are going to make the decision whether or not the film will be made, and they can become your allies in the hard world of filmmaking. And you will need allies, believe me.”

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Searching for an Authentic Education (part 3): Frank Daniel on screenwriting

It’s hard to find and write strong original stories that are realistic for independent film production — and particularly low-budget/no-budget film production. There are several tricks that experienced writers have used to conceive, believe and achieve their storytelling goals — and Frank Daniel passes a few of them along in [part three of] this last lecture at Columbia U.

For some, the difficulty with writing is exactly that — the difficulty with writing. There’s much to be said about understanding your own process for getting the words on the page. Distractions are everywhere in today’s world. But there’s always been distractions — and many times we seek them out, intentionally or not. Sometimes the distractions can lead you to great things. Sometimes not.

Your Creative Process

Trusting and embracing your creative process is something that can be learned and developed. It takes time, and it’s helpful to employ strategies to organize your understanding of how you work — your creative process.

I’ve used these tricks and never regretted it. It doesn’t cost anything to try’em. The title for this section might be ‘New Dogs, Old Tricks.’ Let me know if you find it helpful.

Frank Daniel on Screenwriting (part 3)

Columbia University School of the Arts, Film Division, May 5th, 1986

It’s not a bad habit to keep files. You can make notes about the interesting originals that you meet, and you can put them into the files that say ‘characters.’ It’s not necessary to write long treatises. You just need to make a couple of notes, but you must put it in writing. You cannot rely on your memory. You need to create this habit of verbalizing your observations — one file for characters, one file for sets and locations and things, one file for gags, one file for lines that you overheard, one file for titles, one for situations, etc. You don’t need to know what the situation is going to be used for, just that there was something interesting that you saw happening. Make notes and collect these observations.

Titles are difficult to find. Sometimes you suddenly get an idea of a title that has nothing to do with anything you are writing at the moment. So you put it in the file. It can be the first step of a foresight of a story coming off. You know what the first ideas usually look like, oftentimes those are just germs of ideas. It’s a scene that’s not a scene yet. It can be a sensation of some figments of character that asks to be put in a story. An atmosphere of a place or environment that attracts you — whatever. These beginnings of ideas are coming from your subconscious mind, so they can have any kind of form. And before those dim silhouettes of characters, imagined bits and pieces of scenes or elements become alive and interesting enough, before they begin to make some sense and create some whole — it takes a long, long time and you have to help the process.

Ideation

So these notes, and a constant alertness in which you need to train yourself, help the first step, the ideation of the story. In my classes, I always spend several weeks at the beginning of the year just getting the germs of ideas from the students and trying to see where an idea leads and finding out why the writer has a desire to deal with it. The fact is that the students very often don’t know the answers clearly. It takes time to figure all those factors out.

You might have had an experience that I’ve had very often. Suddenly you start reading strange stuff. You go into the library and browse through volumes on biology, history, horticulture, or something else that evidently doesn’t have anything to do with what you’re working on. I never stop myself when this happens, because I know that there is a need for it. You just read whatever strange book you feel like reading, and then suddenly, when the idea comes, you see why it was necessary.

Just One Idea

Maybe from a three hundred page book you have read, there is just one idea, maybe just one line that appears in the script at the end. But it helped you to explore the territory, the subject matter, maybe the character or relationships. In other words, the ideation can be helped, and that’s what you need to learn — to play games with your subconscious creative mind. You constantly trick yourself, you put yourself into difficulties and solve problems that you have created for yourself.

You play other kinds of games, as well. For example, it’s well known that your desk, the place where you write should be used only when you work — when you really sit down and write. When you think and when you have what’s called writer’s block — which is just a very kind term for what’s called laziness in other professions — you don’t use your “creative” niche. Because your desk should be the place where the pleasure of writing occurs. You sit down when the scene is clear and when you can start typing. It’s a trick, sure, but try it, and you’ll see that it works.

Another way to help yourself — it may sound crazy, but it has worked for many people and I didn’t invent it — when you have an idea that is still unclear, when it still is more of a feeling of emotion and you know that you have got something you feel like doing, something you want to write, take a sheet of paper and write everything that you can tell about it: whey this script will be the greatest piece ever written, how it’s going to shake the world — in other words, brag on paper as much as you can. Use all the superlatives that you can imagine. Tell how people will stand in line to see it. Tell about all the festivals that will be astonished by it — whatever. And the moment you start writing all these gasconades some strange things will begin to happen. There will be some ideas that still may not have any specificity, but they’ll still be ideas that express the push and pull of the story.

The Envelope Please…

When you finish this bravado, take an envelope, fold the paper, put it in the envelope, seal the envelope, lock it up so that nobody can ever read it, and then forget about it. Then the work starts, the ideas start to become clear, and you get into the drudgery of writing. It becomes a question of how the scenes connect, and what the next sequence is going to be, what to tell now, what to reveal later, and all that.

Then, usually when you are approaching page seventy to seventy-five of the first draft of the script, there comes a moment when you are getting at least fifteen new ideas for better scripts than the one you are working on. Don’t throw those ideas away, make notes about each of them and by so doing get rid of them, for the time being, but if you reach that moment when you sincerely believe that the script you have been working on really stinks, and that it’s a piece of ‘you know what,’ then take out the envelope, open it, read the paper you wrote at the time of the prime inspiration, and you’ll be surprised.

The tormenting problems that you have had with your script have been there in the envelope, solved. You begin to see the answers, keys, the locks start opening. Now you can finish the script and then you can go back and improve it — make it into what it was originally dreamed to be.

Try it. Those who have used it have never regretted it. It doesn’t cost anything. It’s an old trick that I’ve learned from old script writers years ago.

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Days of Grain and Processing

Not so long ago, film was dangerous. It was mechanical, chemical and physical – and there was always a sense of risk. Film labs used to be one of the key links in the filmmaking chain. You would bring them your hours of work and trust them with all of the magic from set. Next day you’d be back to screen it. I loved that routine.

We still call it filmmaking, even though we’re not really touching a lot of film anymore. It was great to revisit 16mm B&W prints of my first feature. I hadn’t been at a rewind bench in years and the memories came flooding back. I loved my split reels and splicers!

I was inspecting two prints that were now 25 years old. I remembered that the lab had difficulty in processing my black and white 16mm film. (Their business was mostly 35mm color.)  They struck a “first answer print” which I screened, but wouldn’t pay for. They agreed it was dark, but rather than throw it away, they gave it to me.

The next print was better. Comparing them side by side, you can see just how different the one print is: the contrast is high and there’s a lot of grain. Even the perforations are black.

Watching that print gave the story a completely different feel. Yes, some narrative elements were lost in the shadows, but there was an overall sense of foreboding and creeping dread that I liked. It kept me watching for different reasons. I’m glad I preserved it.

Coward, Bully, and Clown: Crafting the All-Canadian Male Film Protagonist

When I set out to write and direct my first feature film, I knew I had to do something decidedly different or else it wouldn’t get done. Nor would it be remembered. I had written a couple of scripts about American characters in big budget scenarios, but that was a pipe dream. I couldn’t compete with my American neighbour. I had to get real; I had to embrace my roots; I had to get back to Canadiana.

The research began. In a collection of articles and excerpts from Take One I found a 1973 essay by Robert Fothergill which proved to be pivotal in crafting my story and leading me toward my goal. Coward, Bully or Clown: the Dream-life of a Younger Brother was a checklist about the radical inadequacy of the male protagonist in English Canadian film.

Jackpot! Eureka! I felt like I’d found the winning ticket for the lottery of losers.

Subvert and Exaggerate

I immediately set out to subvert and exaggerate this historical collective debility in the imagination of Canadian filmmakers – English ones, to be precise. (The Quebec filmmakers had their own crosses to bear.)

“Where are the monstrous depictions of smothering Moms?” Fothergill asked. (This kept me writing for weeks.) Castrating bitches? (Hmmm, definitely include one of those…) Faithless tramps? (I was off and running.)  I lined up my bevy of fascinating females to counter the cowards, bullies and clowns choking beneath the phallic smokestacks of my factory town setting.

Years later, I booked the sound mixing theatre at Film House in Toronto – circa 1991 – to submit my film, The Grocer’s Wife, for the Toronto Festival of Festivals (now known as TIFF). It was finished but unassembled. I had plans to blow it up from 16mm to 35mm and I had not yet raised the money to get it to that stage. The judges would be watching it in 16mm, in ten minute segments – which is the maximum length for a reel of 35mm film. Between every reel there would be an intermission to reload the projector. I wasn’t sure how this was all going to play out. It was as much of a calculated risk as making the movie.

“Fascinating and Theoretically Unrepeatable” – Cameron Bailey

The judges arrived: Piers Handling, Cameron Bailey, and John Sharkey. After introductions and pleasantries, they took their seats, the lights went down and the experiment was under way. Plumes of smoke filled the screen; the giant smelter roared like a beast; and strange characters were upon us. (I can guarantee that they had never seen anything like this before.)

When the lights came up for the first reel change, they looked over at me quizzically. “Where is this place?” they asked. “It’s Trail, in British Columbia,” I answered. “The self-proclaimed ‘Home of Champions’.” They chuckled, “Really?” The lights went down and the next reel flickered to life.

Next break, a few more questions. “Who is this actor? Is he a Canadian?” “That’s Simon Webb. I believe he’s from England, but he lives in Vancouver.” “And where do you live?” they asked. “I live in Montreal. I’m doing my master of fine arts at Concordia.” They exchange hushed comments. The lights dim. (I think it’s going pretty well so far.)

Next break, a bit more confusion. “So, is this a Quebec film?” “Well, I shot it in B.C., and I’ve been editing it in Montreal.” I reply. “But I’ve probably spent the most money in Toronto. Sound mixing and opticals. It’s been expensive.” They nod knowingly and seem content to settle in and see where this smoky dream will take them next.

During the last reel change, they huddle, then ask, “Could we call this an Ontario film then?” I get my first sense of the national film politics at play. I’m cautious, but honest. “I don’t think that would be wholly accurate. I’d call it an all-Canadian film.” They nod in unison.

“An Odd, Almost Dangerous Film”

As I headed home later, I felt that the story and characters had resonated with them, despite the interruptions. I believed they’d fallen under its trance-like spell. After all, they had screened thousands of English Canadian films over the years. Perhaps they didn’t consciously realize that such a consistent diet of Canadian films would leave them with a pre-condition to accept it like a recurring dream.

Weeks later, they informed me that the film would have its  world-premiere at their upcoming fest. The experiment was a success. John Sharkey wrote in the festival guide: It’s been a long time since such an odd, almost dangerous film arrived on the Festival’s doorstep. Cameron Bailey wrote: The Grocer’s Wife is what science might call a singularity – odd, fascinating and theoretically unrepeatable.

It’s funny how things work out. I had wanted to shape a cinematic dream into a distinctively Canadian reflection of life by embracing Fothergill’s thesis. It’s a dream I’ve never woken up from. It’s not for everyone, but if you’re curious, you can see it – with no interruptions – on April 3rd at 7PM at the Pacific Cinematheque in Vancouver. Get advance tix here:

Shameless self-promotion link

 

 

Secrets from Film School: Everyone’s a director!

The treasures of my travels through countless used book stores are many.  Commitment to discovery is the driving force and the shelves of my library are lined with great texts on film, mostly hardcover and out of print.  One rare beauty – Lessons with Eisenstein – cost me fifteen bucks and hours of happy hunting but can now be had at the click of a keystroke on Amazon for $171.28 (add $6.49 for shipping).  Act fast – only 6 are available.

In the appendix of this dusty gem lies the original curriculum for the first film school in history, in Russia.  In addition to the great theories on editing developed at the time (circa 1919), Sergei Eisenstein’s four year “Programme for Teaching the Theory and Practice of Film Direction” charts the course of study to receive a diploma and the title of Qualified Director from the Soviet National Institute.

Eisenstein’s First Year Fundamentals

The primary fundamentals for the first year of study are initially surprising.  First year, Division 1 is titled ‘Work on Oneself’ with four separate components:  Development of the Necessary Physical Requirements, Development of the Necessary Gifts for Directed Perception, The Creative Process, and Work in the Group.  Division 2 includes Theoretical Studies and Production Planning both considered inseparable and required to ensure complete assimilation of the Institute’s method of teaching the subject of film direction.

Sign me up for this program any day of the week!  ‘Physical strengthening of the health of the organism’ might sound like a fitness membership but believe me, the hours required for industry directors can take a physical toll on some creative personalities, and if you want to work in this business I recommend not skipping any of these classes.  Boxing and gymnastics might seem a bit abstract for film directors, but not if you really stop and think about it.  These are skills that will come in handy.

Voice training and the bases of diction – this is a must!  I took years of elocution as a child and have my parents to thank for that – it served me well.  You have to have a voice on set.  This is the communication business and, in addition to developing your voice, I recommend installing an instant filter that lets you be impeccable with your words – at all times.  How quickly things can get derailed on a set with a leader who has not chosen his/her comments with care.

Most contemporary Western film schools are filled with students packing HD cameras in their smart phones.  They’re making movies every day.  Their landscape of audience, community and friendship is mediated by the internet.  Interpersonal social skills are under siege.  What human stories will the filmmakers of tomorrow tell?  How will technology impact ‘The Creative Process’ or ‘Work in the Group’?  No one is certain.

Dealing With People

In the human experience, some things never change.  The Russian Film School lays out an entire section on ‘Tact and tactics in dealing with people.’  Sounds fascinating if you can pull yourself away from Facebook for an hour.  Don’t get me wrong.  The internet is an amazing tool and I believe that, if used wisely, you could google and learn a lot of the muscles that are detailed in the first year at Eisenstein’s film school.  But it requires personal discipline.  And discipline constitutes the primary feature and major characteristic of the film director’s craft in this proposed program.

As stated in his thesis, not one of the generally accepted academic methods of teaching is adequate for teaching the craft of film direction.  I think the same holds true now.  The notion of a strong film production education is not a secret.  The study is multi-fold and multi-disciplinary, and should give pause to any budding film student.  Eisenstein took great efforts to expose the flaws in American and European filmmaking of his time citing symptoms of elitism, childishness, incompetence and commercialization.  Filmmaking was hard and competitive a hundred years ago, and the challenge ahead for the filmmakers of tomorrow is even greater.  The playing field has been leveled – sort of. You may have a camera in your pocket but so does the person next to you.  In the history of film and film education, our current state is a paradigm shift of epic proportion.  Everyone’s a director – now more than ever before.  It’s time to take off the gloves…