How do you maintain a comfort level about the timeliness of a project, given the length of time between accepting the project and the film’s release, considering today’s rapidly changing political and cultural environment?
A producer on a studio picture has very little control over the timeliness of a movie’s release or release date. There are too many extraneous factors which undermine the ability of a producer or studio to target a release date which makes the film timely in the cultural and political environment. Sometimes incredible events lead to unplanned and ironic sleeper success of a film (e.g., Three Mile Island and THE CHINA SYNDROME). But generally you cross your fingers and hope the film connects with audiences at the time of release. Movies about the atrocities of war usually do not do well in times of war simply because audiences wish to escape what they see in everyday life. The time it takes to shoot some movies precludes them from being released during a relevant social or political time—simply because time marches on and changes occur in the political and cultural realms.
Are there any particular genres you consider lacking in quality script proposals?
The sci-fi and fantasy genres seem to be the hardest genres to find quality scripts. Most sci-fi and fantasy writers get so caught up in creating a world, special jargon and creatures, that they lose sight of good storytelling. Comedy is another genre in which it is hard to find quality scripts because there are different types of comedy (e.g., slapstick, screwball, satire). Sometimes what I read as unfunny can be made funny by a gifted comedic actor/writer. I read AUSTIN POWERS before Mike Myers was brought in and I thought it was the dumbest and most unfunny script I’d ever read—but then when the comic genius of Mike Myers created the character and world on screen, it was hilarious.
Could you please provide some background on how you became a film producer?
I started as a production assist in the production office on the film MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING and that afforded me the opportunity to work around the producers Jerry Zucker and Gil Netter and study what they did on the job. I was observant and made sure I asked them questions about their work if I did not understand. I was mentored by some of the biggest producers in Hollywood (Ralph Winter, Richard Zanuck and Lauren Shuker Donner) and aligned myself with them and observed them producing movies. They are the producers who saw the “producer” potential in me, believed in me, and saw that I was serious and passionate about producing and they were able to open the door for me to become a producer. You must build relationships of trust with those who are in the position to help you achieve your goals. You also have to persevere and work very hard and long hours.
Given that hundreds, of not thousands, of scripts are written every year, do you have any particular advice you could impart to an aspiring screenwriter on how to get his or her script to your desk?
It generally helps to know if the writer has sold a screenplay before or has been produced. That will usually pique my interest in reading a writer’s script. If they are new to screenwriting and submitting a spec script, I suggest they work on a logical one-page synopsis of the story which reveals a discernible story arc and interesting characters. I believe that if a writer cannot write an interesting one-page synopsis of their story, then generally the writer will not be a talented screenwriter and the screenplay will not be worth reading. There are few exceptions to this rule of thumb.
CHAPTER 19: GETTING TO HOLLYWOOD
VIA THE INDIES
Prior to the 1970’s, independent or “art house” films were synonymous with the European moviemaking circuit. Sans the financial wherewithal and resources of the Hollywood machine, these flicks were generally low-budget endeavors that colored outside conventional lines and appealed to the “intellectual” strata of society.
This same decade also saw the emergence of underground associations such as the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, artists whose cinematic voice and alternative point of views ran counter to mainstream entertainment.
Somewhere in the middle were entrepreneurial youth with Super 8’s, an empty corner of the garage and a bag of plastic dinosaurs.
As the accessibility of camera, editing and sound equipment grew, the independent film movement grew with it, providing a viable forum for those who wanted to make the kind of movies they wanted to see. The good news for screenwriters, of course, is that they need an ongoing supply of quality material in order to stay in business.
INDIES VS. STUDIOS
By definition, “indies” are companies that raise their own money in order to produce the kind of films they really believe in. Driven by passion more than paycheck, many first-time directors and photographers have honed their craft on independent productions, savoring the challenge and thrill of coloring outside traditional lines in order to tell a story their own way. In contrast, the Hollywood studio system assigns creative decisions to executives and managers who subsequently dictate the style and policies for hired directors.
Where studios have the luxury of big budgets, big crews, and custom-made sets, indies operate with less money, fewer employees, and the grace of community volunteers willing to open their homes, businesses, and property to a film shoot. And although many major stars might decline a role in an indie, just as many more are amenable to take a pay-cut for the freedom to push their talent in new directions and widen their options.
The proliferation of indies throughout the world means that aspiring screenwriters can conceivably find film opportunities right in their own backyard. For instance, each state has a film commission, serving the dual purpose of assisting Hollywood productions on location and maintaining a database of local actors, “tekkies”, investors and writers. Not only does this network benefit producers in search of regional talent, but promotes the word that you—the writer—are available to develop and revise scripts. Whether an indie invites your participation in any actual filming depends on the existence/absence of a writer-director team, as well as the feasibility, resources, and expense of shooting a particular story.
Furthermore, you don’t need an agent in order to bring your work to an independent producer’s attention—another major difference between indies and studios. Indies typically aren’t structured by such formality, nor are screenwriters left waiting indefinitely as committees debate a script’s marketability. Indie screenwriters can generally expect to play a more active role in a film’s development than they would at a studio, where revisions are often penned by someone on staff.
Nor is it necessary for indie material to have been “audience-tested” prior to submission; i.e., a best-selling novel or play. While studios favor established works that represent lower risk, indies are fearless about pushing limits and thrusting lesser-known projects into the limelight. To use a restaurant analogy, studios are serving up burgers and fries; indies are offering vegetable pakoras and tandoori.
So what will your paycheck look like? If you’re a dues-paying member of the Writers Guild, there are already established minimums in place (found at the WGA Web site) which specifies what writers should be paid for virtually any type of screenwriting. Nor surprisingly, a number of indies request that potential screenwriters not belong to WGA. Why? Because it does not obligate them to pay WGA minimums but rather to set their own price for services.
With a studio, the compensation and perks are based on industry standards and an agent’s chutzpah. Likewise, an established reputation as an already “hot” author is an influence on the number of zeroes on a check. With an indie, however, the package is based on a compromise of what the producer can realistically afford and what the writer can willingly sacrifice for the joy of getting his or her story to the screen.
MEANWHILE, BACK IN VERMONT…
In a part of the country that’s known for its covered bridges, autumn foliage and maple syrup, you wouldn’t expect to find movie cameras rolling. Yet the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont is exactly where you’ll find independent filmmaker Jay Craven and the crew of Kingdom County Productions/Fledglin
g Films. To help aspiring screenwriters glean a better understanding of the fiscal challenges and the priceless rewards of making indies, Craven shares his insights on what it’s like to work outside the traditional Hollywood infrastructure.
Do you perceive independent production to be a stepping stone to something bigger or is it a destination in and of itself?
Unlike Europe, Australia, and Canada, there is not much of a sustainable independent film industry in the U.S. U.S. indies hope to make their first film as a way to get industry attention and financing. I am committed to working outside of Hollywood, and use independent financing and distribution where I can, but I need industry support and cooperation where I can get it. When I can’t, I work to find other means, despite the lack of significant public funding, soft money, tax-breaks, and the kind of incentives foreign filmmakers have. The problem is that, in the U.S., “cultural” filmmaking is not recognized or deemed important. And that’s what I do—drawing stories from outside the commercial mainstream. This requires me to seek allies inside and outside of the film industry—and even inside and outside of the U.S.. It also requires me to dig even deeper roots into the region as a source of continued funding and distribution. This is complicated by the vagaries of distribution and the bankruptcy-prone fiscal instability of so many independent distributors. I plan to remain independent and pursue the stories that are important to me and have a cultural sensibility. I always look for industry allies and support—and am grateful whenever I get it, especially in the form of well-known actors willing to work for indie wages. I try to make this combination work—and still get my films out to as many people as possible.
With a shoestring budget for PR, how do you accomplish that?
Indies face enormous disadvantages in a movie marketplace where the average studio picture dominates the TV and radio airwaves and can spend $50 million or more in marketing. Indies depend on word of mouth and can’t be expected to open “big on the first weekend.” Twenty years ago, indies could build slowly through word of mouth, sometimes staying on screen for a year. There is a lot more pressure now to sizzle immediately—and to warrant, even for an indie film, as much as $20 million in marketing support.
The advantage for indies is that there is an infrastructure of art houses that know and love film—and who have built the trust of audiences that they reach through mailing lists and web sites. But these venues also face tough competition. What we really need here is 800 terrific art house venues across the country that are able to survive and program diverse fare, including good self-distributed films, documentaries, and other pictures that don’t necessarily have the current big buzz.
Sadly, there are only about 200 such venues, fewer than even five years ago. We need to build that infrastructure back up, with young people hopefully finding that it can be exciting to do this kind of work and find community support.
Indie filmmakers need to be ready to self-distribute and to play alternate venues as well as theaters—libraries, museums, schools, arts organizations. And to work through alternative press and in small towns where they can often get more attention and find audiences for work that can connect with people there. The job now is to build film culture for a broad range of material. This is a tough job but an important one that will make life more sustainable for indie filmmakers.
How do scripts initially come to your attention?
We receive scripts, but don’t realistically have time or resources to select many. We did pick up the idea for Windy Acres, a comedy TV series we’re producing for public television, through a random pitch. Then, we commissioned the writer, Randi Hacker, to develop a script, which we continued to work.
While we have several self-generated solo projects in development, we are much more able to work with outside material when scripts or projects come to us with attachments—especially with talent or a producer. I then get involved as a writer, director, and co-producer or producing consultant. We need allies out there to help us actually get pictures made. We don’t have time to work on projects that don’t have that kind of chance to develop. We have three or four projects now in development that have these kinds of allies associated with them. That enables us to build the critical mass we need to move them forward.
Do you encourage participation by the writer(s) once the cameras start rolling or do you prefer to make the creative judgment calls yourself? Why or why not?
I do a lot of writing myself, but I have had writing partners, to whom I turn, as needed, during production. I do change the scripts during production, based on what I’m seeing emerge. I then turn to co-writers or the original novelists, where available, to solicit their input. Ultimately, I’ve always made the final call myself, since I’m closest to what’s going on and use the writing to help me shape what’s intended on screen. I like collaboration and try to work with all collaborators, including writers, in a way that allows their unique voice, particular contribution, and best effort come forward. I’m always interested to hear what they have to say.
Tell us about your first production.
In 1988, I adapted High Water, a short story by Vermont writer, Howard Frank Mosher. We raised about $40,000 from our existing base of supporters and shot the film in a week, beginning on Halloween. The film came out pretty well, we toured it to sixty-two Vermont towns—and it won a number of festival prizes.
My experience with High Water was good enough that I decided to proceed with plans to make a feature film, Where the Rivers Flow North, also from a Howard Frank Mosher story. With support from a $35,000 National Endowment for the Arts grant, my wife Bess O’Brien and I launched our non-profit company, Kingdom Country Productions and spent the next year finalizing a script (with local writer Don Bredes), raising money through a foreign sales advance ($500,000) and limited partnership ($6,000 shares), and organizing casting and production.
Part of that wish list included Michael J. Fox. How did you get him to “yes”?
Wade Treadway, a friend from my Catamount Arts days, was hired to restore Michael J. Fox’s Woodstock, Vermont farmhouse. I approached Wade and he gave Michael a copy of my short film, “High Water.” One night, I called Wade from a library screening in Olean, New York. I asked him whether Michael had gotten the video. Wade replied that Michael was there, sharing a couple beers. Next thing I knew, Michael was on the phone. He’d liked HIGH WATER and invited Bess and me to come to his house for lunch the following week. We did—and began the long process of convincing Michael’s agents and studios (Universal and Disney) that our project was viable and worthy. Because Michael generously ran interference for us at each stage—and invested modestly in the film—we were able to make it happen. This helped us get our foreign rights advance which was crucial to making the film.
The rest of the cast and crew came through Vermont connections or personal connections. The extraordinary production designer David Wasco (Rushmore, The Royall Tennenbaums, Pulp Fiction) grew up in Vermont. DP Paul Ryan also had Vermont connections, as did Treat Williams and Co-producer Mark Yellen. We saw Tantoo Cardinal in Dances with Wolves and Black Robe and tracked her down.
I’d known Rip Torn a little when I lived in New York in the early 70’s. In fact, he played the voice of General William Westmoreland in the Vietnam documentary, Time Is Running Out, where I’d shot some footage as a college junior at Boston University. I sent Rip the script in January ’92. He called me in June, having finally read it. He loved it, and I traveled to Connecticut to meet with him. He identified with the character of Noel Lord—and worked hard to bring him to life.
You mentioned that this script was adapted from an existing novel. What changes/concessions were made to accommodate your vision of what this film should be?
Because the original novel is fairly short, we were able to keep most of the basic story elements in place. There were changes of emphasis; flashbacks were turned into contemporaneous action; and we cut a subplot involving Noel Lord’s hunt for an elusive catamount (a mountain l
ion thought to be extinct). In fact, we spent $3000 and brought a mountain lion to New Hampshire (Vermont officials wouldn’t permit it), but the creature lacked the vigorous performance that the script demanded. So we shot some material, and had to cut it. The last shot of the film, next to Noel’s gravesite, originally included the mountain lion. I had only eight frames of material for this shot that didn’t have the mountain lion in it. So, we had to generate an optical where those eight frames were duplicated over and over again, to create the last image. Snow was falling in the scene, so we had to make a subtle dissolve from one loop to another, to blend the snow into itself.
Could It Be a Movie Page 23