5/9/23
Newsletter #331
The Crack of Dawn
By the time we were 18 years old, me, Bruce, Sam and our buddies had already made a number of Super-8 movies, but none of us had yet really taken it seriously. We shot on weekends, and though we basically knew what we wanted to shoot, we hadn’t yet bothered to write a script or plan anything. And then we edited the films together as best as we could. This was the real learning experience: would the various angles we’d shot actually cut together. If you couldn’t achieve a good cut, you couldn’t help but think, “Why isn’t this cutting? What do I have to do differently to get it to cut right?”
In 1977 Bruce and I decided to go the next step and make a film properly. Or as properly as we could figure out at the time. First, I wrote a script, which was a novelty. It was called The Final Round, and it was an 18-page boxing comedy. I chose a boxing comedy because the winner of Best Picture the year before was Rocky (1976), and though it hadn’t won yet at that time, I crossed it with the Best Picture of 1977, Annie Hall. Basically, a nebbish wimp (played by me) ends up fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world. When Bruce read the script, his first response was, “We need a boxing ring.”
We found one at the Redford Boxing Club. Redford borders Detroit and is predominately black. The members of the Redford Boxing Club were entirely black. The very friendly coach listened to our request and said, “You can use the ring if you’re members of the club and actually participate.” Without hesitation, Bruce and I joined. We then actually showed up and participated. We were the two white movie nerds who were there because we wanted to use the boxing ring for a movie. They were 25 young black athletes who all wanted to go to the Olympics. In boxing, this is called a mismatch. At first, the coach had the good sense to just have Bruce and I sparring with each other, which was pretty even (Bruce would dispute this, but he can write his own newsletter). Perhaps imagining the impending disastrous mismatch in our future, the coach urged me and Bruce to bring our white, movie nerd, friends so that we’d have equivalently bad opponents. So, we got Bruce’s brother Don, and Tim Philo, a long, lanky, athletic guy who would later shoot Evil Dead.
Even these matchups were questionable. I had the great pleasure of fighting Don, who always considered himself more macho than Bruce or me. I caught him early in the first round with a straight shot to the nose, and both his hands went down. I then spent the remainder of round one, and all of rounds two and three, punching Don in the head until my arms hurt. I give Don all the credit, he never went down. Next, I fought Tim Philo, who was taller than me, far more athletic, and terrific baseball player with long arms. We sparred for a minute or two, then Tim threw a punch that started down in Toledo, Ohio, and caught me square in the face. There weren’t stars; there was just one big star. I opened my eyes to find that I was flat on my back on the canvas. The coach and Tim were both looking down at me asking if I was all right. Yeah, I was great.
Apparently, seeing how well I handled defeat, the next week the coach put me in with one of his real fighters. This was a serious, no bullshit, 18-year-old black kid who could smell the Olympics. I have no doubt that the coach had advised his fighters to go easy on us white guys because he really liked having some white members. Well, both plans and good advice are instantly forgotten the moment you get hit. Me and this serious kid went around a few times, feeling each out, throwing ineffective punches to gauge the distance. And then there it was – his unguarded chin. He’d mistakenly lowered his right hand. I popped him directly in the chin with a left jab. It wasn’t a very hard punch, but it was perfectly accurate. And this pushed his “on” button.
Suddenly, this kid opened up a barrage of every kind of punch ever conceived. My hands dropped to my sides as I staggered back into the corner, then he used my head as a punching bag. Thankfully, the coach jumped in and pulled him off me. My membership to the Redford Boxing Club expired at that moment. I saw that we were playing with fire.
We shot all the scenes we needed in their ring, and it looked great. I only lit the ring itself, then let it go black outside the ring. I then went to a Pistons basketball game and got crowd shots. And finally, in my parents’ basement, I got some particularly well-lit reaction shots, as well as shots of the sports announcer, and the former heavyweight champ, portrayed by Sam Raimi with cotton in his cheeks, who is clearly afflicted with brain damage. It all went together pretty well, too. The Final Round turned out all right, but its true importance was that it was a big step forward technically in that it was our first film with a script and a schedule, things we would have to contend with for the rest of our careers.
I swear, I just started this silly newsletter a few weeks ago, and it’s rapidly approaching a year.
Like painted kites, those days and nights, they went flying by.
Have fun.