8/8/23
Newsletter #421
The Crack of Dawn
I’m constantly trying to figure out the cause of things. This has always been helpful in storytelling because stories are simply examples of cause and effect. As I’ve previously mentioned, probably more than once, at its core a story is, something causes something else. And, as I’ve also mentioned, it’s astounding how many movies are lacking this basic, essential element. It’s because of this basic cause and effect structure that I am tipped off so quickly as to whether or not this “story” is actually going anywhere.
Before I wised up, I used to read anything anybody asked me to read. A smart friend from long ago asked me in a very serious tone, like he was divulging a secret, if I would read his “prose poems.” Prose poems? What the hell are those? Well, they were short, and visually looked like poems on the page, but turned out to be strangely told scenes. Something like (and I’m improvising):
A man sits on a park bench alone.
A woman sits down on a bench nearby.
Both the man and the woman see each other.
Neither speaks.
She finally stands and leaves.
So does he.
They were a tad more complicated than that, but not much, and he had a thick pile of them. After reading about ten I couldn’t help but ask why did he write these? “What do you mean?” he asked. I said, “Why do you feel that you have to invent a new genre to express yourself? We already have the poem, and we have the short story, why not work in one of those accepted forms? This is neither fish nor fowl.” His answer was, “Because this is how I have to express myself.” I sadly informed him that if he couldn’t bring himself to work in an accepted form, nobody would ever take him seriously. He then got ridiculously mad at me for not understanding.
Years later in Hollywood, a good friend (who is ten years younger than me, for reference) who is one of the very few directors I know that that I respect, gave me a script he wrote. By then, ten years later, I would still read people’s scripts, but I would give them a big warning in advance. I’m very picky, and I will explain what I think is wrong. In every case it was, “Of course, sure, that would be great.” So, like every other goddam script I read in 25 years in Hollywood, he managed to not figure out the simple cause and effect formula, and therefore in 30 pages, which is act one, nothing was set up to move me into act two. When this happens to me in a script – meaning every script I’ve ever read – I stop, calmly pull the brass binders out that hold scripts together, put them in a box where I save them, then throw the script away. My director buddy came over to my apartment in Santa Monica, and casually asked, “Did you read my script?” I said, “I read the first 30 pages,” which I now realize I probably shouldn’t have said. He asked, “What did you think?” I said, “It doesn’t function as an act one. At the end of 30 pages, I didn’t want to read anymore, I wanted to throw it out, which I did.” My young friend was aghast. “You threw it out?” I said, “Yes, but I saved binders.” He was so made he could spit. “But what if it turned into Hamlet in act two?” I said, “It doesn’t matter. If act one is that broken, act two can be Hamlet and it won’t fix it. If you blow the approach, the landing won’t go well.”
My friend, whom I truly respect as a director, and who knows exactly why he’s doing what he’s doing as a director, said to me, “You just don’t like this sort of thing.” I had no idea what he was talking about and said, “Screenplays? I read them all the time.” He said, “No, the subject matter.” I seriously don’t remember what it was, possibly a crime drama. I said, “I don’t care what your subject matter is, I’m telling you your act one doesn’t work.” So, of course, he got really mad at me. He repeated, “You’re just not into this kind of thing.” I do remember smiling as I said, “Think of me as a mechanic. You bring me your car. I say to you, ‘Your brakes are shot,’ and you say to me, ‘You’re just not into Hondas.’ My friend, I don’t give a rat’s ass what the make of your car is, your brakes are shot. Accept it, don’t accept it, but the next time you’re in traffic you’re going to pump on that pedal and you’re not going to stop.”
That was 25 years ago, and I swear to God, he’s still mad at me. What can I do? He’s a director, not a writer. And a good one.
Whereas, Paul Schrader, writer of Taxi Driver and co-writer of Raging Bull, who has to have directed 20 movies, is a writer, not a director. It doesn’t matter what Paul Schrader does with the camera, or which great cinematographer he hires, he’s a writer pretending to be a director. I hear through the grapevine that Schrader’s newest film, The Master Gardner, went seriously wrong in post- production, but it doesn’t matter because he can’t direct anyway. There is something very literal, or perhaps literate, about Schrader that doesn’t translate to film.
A very similar thing happened to me twice, and I wouldn’t mention it if it hadn’t happened twice. Two different directors each gave me a 35-page script and asked me what I thought. In both cases I thought the basic idea was fine, but the scripts weren’t great, and they were both too long. For both of them I recommended that they would certainly be better if they were shorter, like 15 or 20 pages. So, in both cases the fellows made full-length features out of them (so much for my opinion). And since I have no shame, one of these films was one of Bruce’s first movies, Going Back (1983). Had it been a 15–20-minute movie, it might very well have been OK. At 79 minutes it’s challenging.
The other one is Eddie Presley (1992), directed by, though not written by, by my old buddy Jeff Burr. Jeff is another talented director who could never get his hands on decent material. For a minute and a half (actually five years), Jeff was the go-to guy in the low-budget end of Hollywood for horror sequels. Get this. Jeff made, Stepfather II (1989), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III (1990), Eddie Presley (1992), Puppet Master 4 (1993), Puppet Master 5: The Final Chapter (1994), and last but not least, Pumpkinhead II: Blood Wings (1994). He then moved back to his hometown in Georgia and became the head of elections for Fulton County. No he didn’t.
I see why he wanted to make Eddie Presley, as a break from all those horror sequels. And he made it, and that’s a big deal. But it still would’ve been better at 15-20 minutes.
The point of these tales, I guess, is that I’m an obnoxious I-told-you-so.
And even though I’m running a tad long, and this isn’t a great story either I feel like telling it. I had seen Eddie Presley, but I hadn’t seen Jeff in a few weeks. Honestly, I was ducking him. We finally ran into each other somewhere and he naturally asked, “So, what did you think of the movie?” Well, it’s not like he had forgotten that I told him the 35-page script was too long, and he’d gone and made a feature instead, so he was asking for it. Except that I think he’s a good director. I said, very honestly, “You set up a really good shot, Jeff.” Jeff, bless his soul, burst out laughing and said, “Now that’s being damned by faint praise.” I said, “Well, you do.” And he does; he’s got an eye. He’s a director; Paul Schrader isn’t.
And that’s all the bullshit I’ve got this morning.
Live long and prosper.