Tales from the Set: The Auteur at Work

So one of the best things about being an independent/student filmmaker is getting to work with people you absolutely love to bits. There's something really, really satisfying about getting together with a group of friends and in the timeframe of one or two days, or sometimes even one or two hours, just making something because you freaking can.

What's really great about the Oakland University cinema studies program, not to shamelessly advertise my own school or anything, is that even though most of the classes offered are theory or analysis-based (Film Theory, Methods of Cinema Studies, Masterpieces of World Cinema, Film History, etc.), the majority of the professors will allow you to make a film or other creative project for a grade. I ended up making a short documentary on film exhibition as my senior capstone. In my junior year, I wrote a script about globalization for my World Cinema class and then did a short documentary on the effects of globalization in Detroit for my Documentary theory class.

And in my second-to-last semester at OU, I teamed up with my close friend Morgan and my boyfriend Ian to make a short film for the film theory class that all three of us were taking. The movie we made was called The Auteur at Work, which you can see here, and let me just say, here and now...it would have been way easier to just write a paper.

Trying to work in a team when all three of you have wildly varying opinions and filmmaking styles is no picnic, but the thing is, that can always be worked around. Morgan and Ian and I just sat down one evening between classes and said, okay, what do we want to do? The assignment was to make a short film--not a video essay--about a film theory that we had studied that semester. We tossed out a few ideas, but the one that really stuck was making fun of several prominent filmmakers that we'd studied that semester by making a film about auteur theory.

And for those who have not suffered through endless film-school debates about auteur theory, allow me to briefly explain what the hell that is. Basically, auteur theory claims that directors deserve "authorship" for their films. So, by that logic, Big Eyes is not a Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski film, it is officially a TIM BURTON film. Because the director has the most creative input, they deserve to "claim" the film as their own, the way a writer claims authorship of their book or an artist claims authorship of their painting. A lot of people agree with this point of view, but there are definitely scholars, critics and teenagers out there who do not. Hence, the debate.

So Morgan and Ian and I decided that we would shamelessly make fun of auteur theory and several prominent 20th-century auteurs--Sergei Eisenstein, Jean-Luc Godard, and Orson Welles--with our final project. The story was simple: a director would write and re-write a script in the hopes of pleasing a producer and, in the end, would end up pleasing no one. The message was that in order to really be an auteur, you couldn't copy other directors' work, you had to create your own style or you wouldn't get the attention your work deserved.

It took me all of two days to write and edit the four-page script. We quickly decided that Morgan would be director and camerawoman, since those were her favorite aspects of production, and Ian, the tallest of the three of us, could do audio. Since Morgan had her hands full juggling final exams, Ian and I would be the editors and finish the post-production work. Morgan found our cast, too: her friend Cody would be the director, and her brother Collin would play the producer. We had a shotlist, we had a cast, we had props, we had a plan. Everything was in place.

And then, as always happens, once we got on-set everything went to merry hell in a handbasket.

Problem #1 came when we realized that the sunlight was encroaching on our chosen location for the producer's office. Morgan was about ready to go upstairs and outright yell at the sun, but that wasn't an option for obvious reasons, so we had to improvise. By moving office furniture to the right, we managed to keep both of our actors out of the blinding sunlight and maintain semi-even light through the scene. Crisis averted, but then we had to figure out how to make our audio work. We ended up calling our professor, the one who'd taught us to do audio and camerawork in the first place, and he told us how to solve the problem. Crisis averted again. And with the exception of Collin knocking over the table, we got through the scene with minimal outtakes.

The next major problem popped up when we realized we had nowhere to actually shoot the scenes from the Director's script. Ian and I ran out to find the next location, while Morgan, Cody, and Collin stayed with our equipment stash. Everywhere in the Oakland Center (where we shot the entire project) was occupied. We needed a long table to shoot the "Citizen Kane" parody scene, and we needed a place with a lot of light because two of our scenes were "deep depth of field" shots, meaning that everything and everyone in frame needed to be in focus, not just the people/objects in the foreground. After ruling out the food court and the basement, we settled on fireside lounge. Perfect, because lots of windows meant lots of light, and--miracle of miracles--there were several long tables that were not in use, right there, ours for the taking! Couldn't have been better.

Then we realized that lots of windows didn't just mean lots of light, it meant lots of backlight. Figuring out how to shoot without breaking the 180-rule while keeping our shots in the right light was a pain. Finally Morgan came up with the brilliant idea of shooting only one angle for each scene. Why not? Godard was famous for long takes, and Welles loved using a stationary camera and long takes to create a live theater-esque aesthetic. As for the Eisenstein parody shots, well, we could do that in post-production; he was more famous for editing than camerawork anyway. Problem solved.

The idea of the director's script was that it was a normal scene (we decided to have me passing a note to Ian, nice and simple) that got progressively more elaborate and jacked-up as the producer demanded more and more rewrites. First, he'd demand an Eisenstein-esque rewrite. Unsatisfied with that, he'd instruct the director to give him a Godard-themed rewrite. And when that wasn't good enough, he'd ask for an Orson Welles homage. And, crazy as we are, we decided that we'd shoot all these "rewrites" in order.

The first take, the "normal" shot, was easy enough. One take. Boom. We needed a close-up of Ian's wide-eyed "shocked" face for the Eisenstein parody, which we got no problem. One take, boom. Hey, maybe this was going to be easier than we thought...

Nope. Not even.

The Godard parody was one long shot. This basically meant that if we screwed up one thing, we had to do the whole scene over again. And because it was a parody of Godard, who loved to cram lots of details into his movies, we had a lot of little things to worry about. We had one guy (Collin, doing double-duty as an extra) pelvic-thrusting with flowers stuck in his pants. We had Ian fixing a Barbie polaroid camera with a candy cane. And I was supposed to come into the middle of this craziness and hand Ian a note, which Cody, wearing my Star-Lord mask and a feather boa, would snatch from my grasp with a pair of tongs. If none of that makes any sense at all, don't worry. It's not supposed to; it's a damn Godard parody for Pete's sake. But it made for some damn difficult filming. I think we did maybe three or four takes, not including all the rehearsal takes that we didn't film, before we got it right.

Finally we shot the Citizen Kane parody. The danger here was laughing. Collin played a butler, who passed Ian my note on a silver tray...while wearing my blazer, an old black velvet thing that, when put on him, was so painfully obviously a women's blazer that it bordered on hilarious. Then Ian would read the note and react...well...Kane-style. He was supposed to flip the table, throw furniture, and yell at me...and guess how much of that he was actually comfortable doing in a public place? If you guessed "zero out of three," you'd be right. "I'm worried about causing a scene," he told us. Ian, honey. We've already pelvic-thrusted with flowers in our trousers, run amok dressed like Star-Lord at the Pride Parade, and set off my broken alarm clock. We're way past causing a scene at this point.

I won't bore you with the details of post-production. Just know that if one of your editors is working through a cold and the other has the actual maturity level of an eight-year-old on Froot Loops, you will get nothing done. Seriously. We had to bust our asses, mainly because we wasted so much time laughing off said asses while we watched and re-watched the clip of Star-Lord-Cody snatching the note away while Collin pelvic-thrusted with the flowers in the background. (In our defense, it was finals week and we needed something to laugh about.)

But for all of that we made a damn cute film. I'm proud of it, and I truly hope that the others are, too. The moral of the story here is, work with your friends. You will love the results. Seriously.

Make 'em laugh, make 'em laugh!

So tonight for one of my classes we watched Best Worst Movie. Then we proceeded to talk about fandom culture, B-movies, cult classics and overthinking filmmakers. And I was fine, until we got to that last one, because that was when a handful of the guys in my capstone class basically jumped all over the poor dude and called him "delusional." Okay, guys. Okay.

Now, I understand where they're coming from. The director and writer of Troll 2 may have had the best of intentions, but holy Christ did something get lost in translation. I can see why Troll 2 has its cult following--God knows I like my fair share of awful movies; we've already talked about this--but I'm definitely not a fan. I like my b-movies like I like my fashion: straight out of the 1950s, and Troll 2 is just a touch too 1980s for my taste. (And if you're wondering why I'm not too into the 80s b-movie scene, sit down and watch Killer Klowns from Outer Space sometime. I still have nightmares about that one.) And no, for anyone who isn't familiar with the movie, Troll 2 was not a critical hit. It's got all the excess of a bad indie film with none of the charm. Bad acting. Bad costumes. Bad dialogue--oh, yes; as a scriptwriter that dialogue makes me cringe.

But with all that being said, I also understand where the director of Troll 2 was coming from when he was interviewed for Best Worst Movie. "They're laughing at parts that were not meant to be laughed at," the bemused director points out during one screening. It's clear that he has no clue that his audience is enjoying the film in a different way than how he intended. He's taking those laughs personally, and taking offense at the fact that the audience is laughing during a scene that's supposed to be tense. Maybe the audience is having fun, but the filmmaker is not. He's not sure what they find so funny.

And at that point during the movie, my heart went out to the poor guy, because I've been there. Oh, hell yes. I have been there.

Way back in 2010, I made my first thesis movie at Interlochen. It was called Posession, and it was...okay, it wasn't my best work. Watch it here, and decide for yourself. And if you don't have time, well, I'll just tell you: my editing sucked. My dialogue was iffy, at best--I was trying to pack fifteen pages of story into five pages of script. Not a good idea, believe me. As for my directing...well, I may have had a cast of good actors, but I was too shy to demand what I wanted of them. And that just didn't end well; it made all four of us look less than stellar.

But even with all that, I was proud of what I'd accomplished. So on the night of the thesis screenings I was so excited to show off my work. Nervous, yes, but totally thrilled. It was the first time I'd gotten to see something that I'd worked so hard on shown on a big screen. And I was so, so ready to see the audience's reaction. Through the first few films that night I let my imagination run wild. For a few brief, shining minutes I entertained the hope that I'd make someone cry.

And then Possession came up, and my hope was shattered.

The bulk of my jokes, including a Blair Witch Project reference that I'd thought was just so clever, fell flat. Instead, people cracked up at all the wrong moments. The moment that Gavin, my "out" gay character, confessed his crush to his "straight" (read: gay but so not ready to admit it) roommate, the entire room erupted. This was supposed to be the moment that everyone was holding their breath (would Ronnie like Gavin back? would they kiss? was there a happy ending?), but instead, apparently, it was a Comedy Central special. I couldn't figure out where I'd gone wrong. I spent the remainder of the screening trying to hide my tears from my fellow filmmakers. And I hated myself for being so useless. I thought this was it, I'd never make it as a filmmaker.

In retrospect, I think the majority of the laughter came from the fact that these were classmates, watching a couple of guys who they knew and loved play out a scene that, quite frankly, never would have happened in real life. Alex and Andrew, my actors, got along well enough on the set, but anyone who knew them probably snickered (or, judging by the reaction I got at the screening, laughed hysterically) at the thought of them being lovers. Also considering the fact that I was showing this movie to a roomful of teenagers, most of whom probably still found the idea of sex either mysterious or borderline uncomfortable....yeah, that probably didn't help either. But you couldn't have convinced me of that at seventeen. Nope, because that one scene got the wrong reaction, I was destined to be the next Ed Wood.

I realize that I spend far too much time on this blog writing about other filmmakers' work, and not enough time writing about the experience, the thrill and the pain and the fear of actually making a damn movie. I've said before I'm not a film critic--and make no mistake, I'm not--but I've always found it easier to analyze something someone else has done than analyze something I've done. I don't want to think about my own stuff because if I do...well...I have to think about what it means about me. And sometimes, that's the last thing I want to do.

But I look back on Possession now, apart from the glow of creation and the unflinching pride in my first "real" movie (I'll probably go into more detail on that later), and I can admit that God, yes, that thing is flawed as hell. But at the same time, there is so much good in it. No, it's not the story that I originally wanted to tell, but there are enough of my little quirks in it to make the film feel like it's truly mine. I cast the actors I wanted, got the DP I wanted, and found a composer to write the score I wanted--and to hell with everyone who said you don't want that actor or that girl hasn't DPed enough or that music doesn't match your story. I fell in love with my characters and maybe that was a mistake, but if there's one thing about Possession that I'm still proud of it's my characters. They are alive. They don't do things just to move the plot forward, they're human--and damn it, that was a hard thing to pull off.

Now, granted, my movie didn't wind up with a cult following, so of course Mr. Troll 2 is totally one-up on me there. And yeah, yeah, I know. It's not the same, a microbudget horror film and a student thesis movie. But tonight I felt a moment of kinship with this guy, this lovely man who genuinely believes in the movies he makes. You know what's really cool about that? The only real cult films happen when the directors don't set out to make a cult film. That's what separates the Scary Movie V's from the Troll 2s and Plan 9 from Outer Spaces. That's what makes people fall in love with your work: when you really believe in what you're making.

So for as long as I live and breathe and make art (good art or bad art, I don't give a damn), I will put myself into it, heart and soul. I will give every film I make my all, and if it's a roaring success, well, that's wonderful, and if it's a flop, so be it. I will do what I love, and let the audience laugh and cry at whatever moments they like. If their laughter means I've failed, then let me fail again and again. In the immortal words of the Mythbusters: Failure is always an option.

My own manifesto

So last week for my film history class, we read Lars Von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg’s “Vow of Chastity” and “Vow of Chastity Rules.” Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Dogme 95 (which, I’m assuming, is the majority of people who have never been forced to learn about it in film school) basically it’s a list of strict rules that must be followed in order for a movie to be “real,” or “pure” cinema. An excerpt of said rules:

I swear to submit to the following set of rules drawn up and confirmed by DOGMA 95:

1. Shooting must be done on location. Props and sets must not be brought in (if a particular prop is necessary for the story, a location must be chosen where this prop is to be found).
2. The sound must never be produced apart from the images or vice versa. (Music must not be used unless it occurs where the scene is being shot.)
3. The camera must be hand-held. Any movement or immobility attainable in the hand is permitted.
4. The film must be in color. Special lighting is not acceptable. (If there is too little light for exposure the scene must be cut or a single lamp be attached to the camera.)
5. Optical work and filters are forbidden.
6. The film must not contain superficial action. (Murders, weapons, etc. must not occur.)
7. Temporal and geographical alienation are forbidden. (That is to say that the film takes place here and now.)
8. Genre movies are not acceptable.
9. The film format must be Academy 35 mm.
10. The director must not be credited.

Furthermore I swear as a director to refrain from personal taste! I am no longer an artist. I swear to refrain from creating a "work", as I regard the instant as more important than the whole. My supreme goal is to force the truth out of my characters and settings. I swear to do so by all the means available and at the cost of any good taste and any aesthetic considerations.

…Yeah. Okay.

Now, here’s the thing. We actually watched a Dogme 95 film, The Celebration, and believe it or not it was actually pretty damn good. I liked the style. I’ve always liked stripped-down, “indie” aesthetics every bit as much as I love the classic, big-budget Hollywood style. I’m one of those weird-ass people who will sit through Django Unchained, then go home and watch Twilight or Juno just for kicks. (So far my weirdest double feature to date is Tim Burton’s Big Fish back-to-back with Legally Blonde, which I chased with an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos.) Point is, yes, I detest Von Trier but, as I discovered this past week, I do not, as it turns out, detest Vinterberg.

But those rules! Good God! Can we talk about those rules for a second? So restrictive. So intense. Holy crap, they even recognize right there in the rulebook how restrictive they’re being with their movies--they call it chastity, for Pete’s sake! Lord above, I could write a blog post on that alone. As if all the other movies who didn’t follow their rules were...dare I say it?...slutty.

Look, I understand that Dogme 95 is an important movement and it’s in reaction to the big-budget commercial films of the early 90s. I get that. And I understand that there are plenty of people out there who are not like me, who do not like the shiny Hollywood look as much as the gritty indie look, who absolutely despise the shiny Hollywood look and want to kill it with fire. I understand all of that just fine. And I applaud Vinterberg and Von Trier (I hate that I just said “I applaud Von Trier” in any context, but credit where credit is due) for having the balls to say, “The hell with this, let’s do something no one’s ever done before. Let’s strip that down and make it right.”

But…

But…

Well, but...when you make up a list of rules and force yourself to stick to them, simply for the sake of sticking to the rules that you yourself imposed, it gets pretty damn limiting.

And I don’t like limiting.

Here’s what I loved about The Celebration: that movie was not afraid to, excuse my language, let you know how many flying fucks it did not give about whether you liked it or not. It had the aesthetic of a found footage movie without the gimmicks. And it was a thing of absolute beauty simply because it didn’t preach, didn’t command, didn’t get all fussed about making a statement. It was like, here, take these characters, love them or hate them, but just watch them and see where this goes.

In short, it was everything that Von Trier’s subsequent work was not. Don’t believe me? Watch Antichrist (or, if you have the slightest shred of self-preservation, don’t) and tell me that movie follows those rules he wrote and swore to follow. Watch Dogville and tell me it’s not the most pretentious piece of work you’ve ever seen. Watch Melancholia and...actually, Melancholia didn’t suck. (Actually, it was pretty decent. But don’t tell Von Trier I said that.) But I’ve made my point. Von Trier wrote the rules and then proceeded to indiscriminately break all of them, yet he continues to act like he’s the shit because he has, in the objective sense, a talent for filmmaking. And that, when you get down to it, is really what fries my cheese concerning Von Trier: he acts like he’s above everyone else, and then he doesn’t even follow his own damn rules.

And yet Dogme 95 is still incredibly interesting to me and I can’t put my finger on the reason why. Maybe because it inspired so much of the independent cinema I know and love today. Maybe because without this movement we wouldn’t have Jimmy and Judy or, hell, even the silly ones like Funny Ha Ha or Hannah Takes the Stairs where you just sit and watch and wonder Jesus Christ is this movie ever going to go anywhere or develop anything vaguely resembling a freaking plot. Maybe because I find it so restrictive and so interesting and so weird. I doubt I’ll ever even attempt a film that would meet the Dogme 95 standards. But hell, maybe one day I’ll try, who knows?

But in the meantime...with all that being said, here’s my own vow. My manifesto. You know...my rules.

Here and now I promise, as a filmmaker, that I will never try to break ground for the sake of breaking ground. I won’t be purposefully “artsy” or throw in moments of shock just to get attention. I’ll write my own films, as often as I can. And for the love of God, someone smack me if I ever even think about making anything that resembles a Michael Bay film.

I promise I’ll make movies that follow a story. A real story. A real story, about real people. I won’t say now that I’ll never do a blockbuster--in this day and age, who the hell knows?--but I won’t make one just so I can say I’ve done it. I will never, ever make a movie that I can’t connect to on an emotional level, because if I can’t, God knows my audience won’t be able to.

I promise, in short, to stay myself. And in an industry motivated by fear, I know that’s even more difficult than meeting Von Trier and Vinterberg’s exacting standards.