I doubt anyone likes to admit they’re wrong or appear incompetent. We often spend our whole lives trying to be someone else: that confident, fearless person who knows everything. Of course, this is unattainable and we end up sacrificing a bit of ourselves in pursuit of this vain and illusory goal.

I vividly remember the day Orson Wells showed up at the film school to answer questions. The cantankerous, flamboyant and extremely overweight auteur marched back and forth while barking short, occasionally dismissive answers to our questions. I’d heard that Wells knew nothing about filmmaking before he made “Citizen Kane.” How was he able to make what is arguably the greatest film ever made and know nothing of the filmmaking process itself? What was his secret? Wells stared right at me and dramatically arched one of those trademark eyebrows of his. “My cameraman said he could teach me everything I needed to know in one hour.”

While my on-the-job training didn’t seem quite that simple, this is by and large what happened. Individually, each crew member knew enough about their particular specialty to support me in that area. The script supervisor made sure I adequately “covered” each scene, captured all the dialogue in the script and paid attention to continuity. The cameraman taught me to shoot a master, two and three shots, and then close ups as necessary. I quickly discovered how to work with the camera as a story telling device. I learned, for instance, that it was unnecessary to shoot a master of an entire scene when you’ll be cutting to closer shots shortly after the scene begins. That the main purpose of a master shot is to establish a scene’s “geography” for the audience. And at the simplest level, close up’s create intimacy with a character.

All those years spent making documentaries helped me in many ways, but it also caused me a minor problem. As compared to 35mm film, the resolving power of 16mm was fairly limited. Good visuals in 16mm meant getting close to the subject and wide, panoramic shots were to be avoided if possible. I had to learn to back off from the actors and give them some “space.” I could actually capture in great detail exactly what I saw through the camera’s viewfinder. Conversely, in 35mm an extreme close up might be gruesome on a Texas-sized drive-in movie screen. Lighting and meticulous attention to detail was to become an obsession.

In general, the actors helped me too. But they were actors nevertheless and quite naturally interested in getting their close up no matter what. I quickly learned how to exploit this sometimes not-to-subtle competitive streak to improve their performances. They’d get their close up, but only if they really had something to give me. Unlike some directors who shoot 50 or 100 takes eager to obtain that one perfect performance, I realized that some actors might have only one really good performance to give in the first place. Rather than struggle with an actor trying to get the right reading, I’d hold off and not allow them to complete the scene until I thought they were absolutely ready to. A kind of creative aggravation which worked in my favor.

As the first day of shooting wore on, I began to think I might get through this after all! Hemingway, in his definitive bullfighting reference, “Death in the Afternoon,” said the bull learns more during it’s 15-20 minutes in the bullring than a man learns in his whole life. I wasn’t facing my own mortality, but I was learning how to make a feature film at an incredible rate of speed. The specialized process of making a feature film was becoming clear to me. The intricate relationships of all the varied production “elements” started to fit together and make sense. Most importantly, I discovered that a director’s most formidable enemy is time. The clock keeps ticking and another hour and another thousand dollars is gone forever. I forced myself to think and work faster and faster. I realized that I had to perform at a higher level than anyone else. Despite my lack of experience I needed to make instant decisions about very complex questions. When the assistant director asks, “What’s next?” you’ve got to have an answer right then. You haven’t got the time or money to sit down, have a cup of coffee and think about it. Just imagine the real cost of that cup of coffee!

Later on I discovered that this frantic pace takes it’s toll. You’re only human and the mental and physical stress can easily break you apart. Nothing I’d ever done in my life even remotely compared to what this job required. There were times when I actually hated “the film.” I began to think of the film as a separate, living, breathing entity that got all the attention while I paid the price for it’s existence. This was a strange but powerful emotional factor which I had not anticipated. The fact that a director must never expose these inner psychological conflicts to anyone only made it worse. The relentless pressure and sense of responsibility hit me like a one-two punch. The end result is that despite all the cast and crew standing around, I felt very much alone.

But, strangely enough, I was beginning to think like a director. I was juggling all those balls in the air at one time and few of them seemed to hit the ground. I paused a few minutes during the lunch break on that first day and thought about it. I was a director. No, I was a Feature Film Director! How many people in the whole world can really say that? It was a very enjoyable feeling for me. Despite the tough weeks and months ahead, that feeling has remained with me to this day.

Next Article:   How I Made My First Feature Film - Chapter Thirteen (Lessons Continue)

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