by Paul Cronin
Maintaining a single person per day in Antarctica costs about $10,000. Every piece of equipment has to be flown in from New Zealand, eight hours away by aeroplane, and every drop of water has to be produced through the desalination of ocean water; a single glass requires an equal amount of gasoline. Then there is transportation, heat, food, logistics and electricity to take into consideration. Knowing this, the plan was to fly down with the smallest crew possible: cameraman Peter Zeitlinger and me as sound recordist. Our base was McMurdo Station, the scientific centre and logistical hub that provides fixed laboratory facilities for research, which sits on an island in the Ross Sea, a bay the size of France, on a continent as big as North America, where a thousand men and women – all in pursuit of cutting-edge science – live together. From there, Peter and I travelled to different satellite camps, like the one from which the divers operate, collecting organisms for study. At least three new species were discovered while we were there.
Did you plan anything before you left for Antarctica?
Nothing. There was no testing of the waters; we were tossed down there and had to come back six weeks later with a film. I was flying into the unknown and had no idea who I was going to meet or what sort of film I was going to make. I looked at some photographs and read a little about Antarctica before we left, but knew that as soon as we arrived I had to keep my eyes open, act fast and follow my instincts.
The moment Peter and I stepped out from the aeroplane on the ice runway, he turned to me and said, “How, for God’s sake, are we going to explain an entire continent to an audience back home?” I had a flash of an idea. I was forced to learn Latin for nine years, and ancient Greek for six, none of which I ever really enjoyed at school, though today I’m always digging into the literature of antiquity. Homer’s epics have sunk in so deep that I could speak German in hexameters if I wanted to. One of my all-time favourites is Virgil’s Georgics. Virgil grew up as a farm boy in northern Italy, and in his book he writes about agriculture, country life and working the land. The book is an incantation of the magnificence of the beehive and the horror of a pestilence in the goat stables. He writes about tree pruning and cattle in the field; he names the glory of the clouds moving across the land and the oxen moaning. My immediate response to Peter’s question, after we had touched down in Antarctica, was, “We’ll do it like Virgil in his Georgics. He never explains anything, he just names the glory of the land. Let’s do the same.”
Encounters at the End of the World – which was edited down from about sixty hours of footage – is an invocation of all that is wonderful on the planet, an articulation of my amazement and wonder at the Antarctic landscape, a celebration of the continent. Virgil gave me great consolation while I was there, which is why at the end of the film I use music from a Russian Orthodox church choir with a basso profundo, one octave lower in pitch than a regular bass, an incredible voice that establishes the glory of one saint after another merely by naming them. One of my targets was Mount Erebus, which is more than twelve thousand feet high and of particular importance for scientific study because the inner Earth is directly exposed inside the crater. Only two other such volcanoes exist on the planet. The glowing magma continuously spits out lava bombs, some of which are the size of Volkswagens. There is a strange curiosity we humans have for the power of volcanoes, perhaps because they are capable of wiping out entire species.
Was it a difficult film to make?
Not particularly. Everyone seems caught in the cliché of human toil that Amundsen, Scott and Shackleton had to endure, but McMurdo is an ugly mining town, full of noisy construction sites, earth-moving machinery and climate-controlled housing facilities with warm beds, a cafeteria and bar, and an ATM machine, plus an aerobic studio and yoga classes. Out in the field, of course, it gets a little harder. We were there during the summer, in November and December, but if you stay throughout the austral winter – five months of permanent darkness – evacuation is impossible, so your wisdom teeth and appendix have to be removed as a precaution, even if they’re perfectly healthy. Adapting to weeks of permanent daylight can be difficult. You have to wear serious protection when the sun is out, otherwise snow blindness sets in within hours.
We weren’t allowed to bring our own boots and parkas; everyone is issued with these things upon arrival. If you use regular boots, you might be able to hold on to your toes down to about –25ºC, but after that frostbite sets in. We were sure to test our camera and sound recorder in a facility in Los Angeles at temperatures of around –20ºC. I took two recorders with me to McMurdo, but almost immediately had to abandon the more sophisticated one because it had tiny buttons and was impossible to operate while wearing gloves. As soon as we arrived at McMurdo we lost about a week because we were obliged to undertake a mandatory survival course – which involved learning to build trenches and igloos – a course in radio communications, and one in snowmobile riding. I found the authorities there too concerned for my personal safety, and resented having to spend so much time on these things; it was a little excessive for my liking. Having said that, three days after arriving I had an accident on a steep slope when an eight-hundred-pound snowmobile rolled over my body. For weeks afterwards I was sore everywhere and could barely bend down to tie my shoelaces.
The film benefited greatly from the spirit of the Antarctic Treaty, which came into force in 1961 and which I consider to be one of the finest documents of the civilised world. It banned military activity on the continent and established the area as a scientific preserve, committing an entire landmass to the principles of peace and knowledge. There is also an unequivocal ban on nuclear testing or dumping of radioactive waste. The treaty is one of the most potent manifestations of civilised behaviour among nations in modern history. I remember a time when at least a dozen countries claimed segments of the continent as their national territory, but Antarctica has no government as such; it belongs to no one, and while making the film I was witness to the extraordinary international co-operation you find there. In the film you see the mysterious, surreal, frozen sturgeon, which sits under the mathematically true South Pole, stashed away in some kind of shrine, surrounded by garlands of popcorn, in a tunnel that is permanently –70ºC. Russian scientists from the Vostok Station – which is particularly inaccessible – had run out of basic provisions and made it to the Amundsen-Scott Station asking for badly needed food. As a gift, they brought the fish and some caviar to barter for noodles.
If Antarctica represents anything, it’s stark realism. Sam Bowser, a scientist and diver who works at the field camp, is a fan of sci-fi-B-movies, and is always showing his colleagues films full of monsters and extraterrestrials, like Them!, starring giant ants that have mutated because of atomic-bomb tests in the middle of the desert. But this is kindergarten compared to the real world under the ice, the slimy blobs with ensnaring tendrils and ferocious mandibles that tear their prey apart. No wonder the mammals of prehistory retreated from the oceans to get on with their evolution in the relative sanctuary of dry land.
You filmed with a wonderful array of people.
The vast landscape of the continent is unique, but Encounters at the End of the World is more about the inhabitants of Antarctica than anything else. There is significant science being done there, which attracts a certain kind of person, and behind every door at McMurdo is an extraordinary character. With no indigenous population, no one there has anything in common other than a shared attraction to this immense, unspoilt and untouched area of the earth. Someone told me that everybody who isn’t tied down falls to the bottom of the globe.
Some of the people in Encounters I met only a few minutes before I filmed with them, and in some instances our conversation lasted not much more than the time you see them on screen. I encountered Doug MacAyeal, an American glaciologist, thirty minutes before his flight for New Zealand was due to leave, and found what he was talking about so interesting that I insisted he film with us. It was warm in that room, but I asked him to keep his eno
rmous red parka on because it would have been ridiculous having him talk about ice floes if he had been wearing a T-shirt. We talked about this and that, but there was a lot of noise coming from a nearby group of Italians, who were celebrating and drinking Chianti because their national football team had just won a match. Once I had quietened them down only twelve minutes remained before MacAyeal’s flight took off. I looked him in the eye and said, “I don’t want to hear from the scientist. I want to hear from the poet.” He nodded and started talking about how he had come to Antarctica to study an iceberg, and soon realised this particular iceberg wasn’t just bigger than the one that sank the Titanic, it was bigger than the country that built the Titanic. The sheer size of the continent is awe-inspiring. Perceptions of scale need to be recalibrated.
A utility mechanic who had escaped from behind the Iron Curtain was still too traumatised to talk about his experiences. His rucksack, containing a sleeping bag, a tent, clothes and cooking utensils, was by his side at all times; he was prepared to leave McMurdo at a moment’s notice and explore new horizons. Then there was Stefan Pashov, a Bulgarian philosopher who operates heavy machinery at McMurdo. From the age of five his grandmother would read to him from The Iliad, The Odyssey and The Argonautica, literature that sparked something powerful within. “It’s when I fell in love with the world,” he explains. That really struck a chord with me; it was wonderful to discover such a kindred spirit so far from home. He found it perfectly logical that we met in Antarctica because it’s where professional dreamers end up. Another young man, a linguist, was thriving in an environment where people with doctorates were washing dishes on a continent with no indigenous languages.
In interviews you claimed no knowledge of Abel Ferrara and his original Bad Lieutenant.
Until this very day I haven’t seen his film, nor any of his work. A few years after my Bad Lieutenant came out I met Ferrara for the first time, at a film festival, and though we sat down to talk, we didn’t do it over a drink because apparently he has problems with alcohol, and I had no desire to provoke anything. It was actually wonderful that even before I started making the film there was accompanying thunder from this man, who said he hoped I would rot in Hell for remaking his film. It was good music in the background, like the manager of a baseball team running out to the umpire, standing five inches from his face, yelling and kicking up dust. That’s what people really want to see. At that meeting with Ferrara we laughed so much I barely recall what we talked about.
I agreed to do Bad Lieutenant only after the screenwriter, William Finkelstein, gave me a solemn oath his script wasn’t a remake. The only thing that connects my film to Ferrara’s is that one of the producers owned the rights to the title and was interested in starting a franchise; it was never a question of different “versions.” The two films have nothing to do with each other, and the title – which was forced upon me, and which I told the producers would waft after the film like a bad smell – is misleading. Calling it a remake is like saying Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ is a remake of Pasolini’s The Gospel According to St Matthew, though practitioners of “film studies” will surely be ecstatic to find a reference or two in my film to Ferrara’s. I call upon the pedantic theoreticians of cinema to chase after such things. Go for it, losers.
The producers sent the script to my agent, but when it comes to negotiating contracts I prefer doing things myself, and chose to face them and their henchmen man to man. At our first meeting I sat with five people from the production company. My first question was, “Are any of you legal counsel for the production?” One of them identified himself. I asked him to stay in the room but not participate in the discussion, then said, “What I have to say here isn’t the invention of some industry agent who is trying to sound important. I represent myself here. If you want to be in business with me, I need certain indisputable prerequisites. I decide who the cameraman, editor and composer of this film will be.” They quickly accepted this, then asked me for my rate. “What do you mean by ‘rate’?” I said. “How much do you get for directing a film?” they said. “What’s your price?” My response to such a ridiculous question was the most coherent I could muster: “I’m priceless.” How can I answer a question like that in any other way? With a film like The Wild Blue Yonder I paid myself virtually nothing and used mostly my own money, but with Bad Lieutenant I quoted them an exorbitant figure, immediately adding, “I guarantee you I’ll finish this film under budget, so in effect you’ll be saving money.” The main producer wanted to shake on it immediately, but I resisted. I prefer the overnight rule. “If I have a contract in my hands at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” I told them, “we have a deal.” I have a general understanding of Hollywood: if you don’t have a deal in two days, you won’t have it in two years either. The next morning a messenger was at my house with a signed contract, which I looked at carefully for a few minutes, signed without telephoning a lawyer, then handed back for delivery to the producers.
I appreciate the value of money and know how to keep costs down because I’ve been my own producer for so many years. If it’s your own money, you had better learn to look after it. I demanded a say on the size of the crew and asked for daily access to the cash flow, which the producers acceded to. I needed to know if I could afford another half a dozen police cars in this shot or twenty more extras in that sequence. People often throw money at problems, but I have always preferred to use vigilance and flexibility in advance, diffusing situations that have a tendency to become problems. I put an end to things like having duplicate costumes for actors with only a few lines and waived my right to a trailer, a personal assistant and – that awful status symbol – a director’s chair. “I just saved you $65,” I told the producers. The completion-bond guarantor visited the set during production to see how things were going. “You charge hundreds of thousands of dollars to guarantee that this film will be completed, which makes you a complete waste of money,” I said to him. “I am the guarantee that this film will be delivered on time and on budget.”
I met with Eva Mendes in a New York hotel and won her over by joking about her not bringing her dog’s psychiatrist to the set. Eva eventually showed up with only two people: a make-up woman and a chauffeur, who doubled as her bodyguard. Nicolas Cage’s entourage was similarly small. I had very little time for pre-production, and in three weeks scouted forty locations, cast thirty-five speaking roles, put together a crew and production office, and did the required set design. Every penny of the budget showed up on the screen. I know what I want and shoot only that, and on most days we were finished at three or four o’clock in the afternoon. I would do a couple of takes, then move on. The crew weren’t used to my method of working and at the start of the shoot suggested I get more shots so I would have more editing options, but I told them we didn’t need any of that. “Finally,” said Nicolas, “somebody who knows what he’s doing.” We finished two days ahead of schedule and $2.6 million under budget. That’s unheard of in Hollywood, and it meant I earned a bonus. I delivered the finished film two weeks after principal photography was completed. The producer wanted to marry me, and immediately offered me half a dozen other projects.
The film was shot in New Orleans.
The original script was set in New York, but the producer called me, quite embarrassed, apologetically explaining that New York was too expensive, and laying out the financial advantages of filming in post-Katrina New Orleans because of tax incentives. It was a move I immediately welcomed, as from the start I had the feeling we should make the film in a city genuinely in crisis and transition. At the time New Orleans was still recovering from Hurricane Katrina. It was as if every one of America’s problems was located there, not least the crisis of government credibility, so as far as I was concerned it was the perfect place to set this story. I didn’t know Nicolas Cage also wanted to go to New Orleans because he appreciates the culture down there, especially the music. I suggested we drop Bad Lieutenant and name the film Port of Call N
ew Orleans, though in the end a rather clumsy compromise was struck.
The spirit of New Orleans is phenomenal; even a hurricane couldn’t wipe it out. The police department read the script and, to my surprise, offered assistance. The city is more than just a backdrop to the story; it’s almost a leading character, though in the film you don’t see the usual postcard clichés, like the French Quarter, Mardi Gras and late-night smoky jazz clubs. There is latent danger on every corner. It wasn’t only the levees that were breeched, it was civility itself. A highly visible breakdown of good citizenship and order took place in the aftermath of the hurricane. Looting was rampant and a number of policemen failed to report for duty; some of them stole brand-new Cadillacs from abandoned dealerships and vanished onto dry ground in neighbouring states. One of our locations was a street corner where two people had been shot dead the night before. We tried to incorporate this malaise into the story. The city was the perfect place to create a new form of film noir, the kind of cinema that erupts during periods of insecurity. Sometimes cultural history coincides with economic history, like the books of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, which are children of the Great Depression and which in turn spawned the best of film noir, the cinema of Humphrey Bogart and Edward G. Robinson.