Well in advance of its opening there were hostile press stories about the imminent disaster—there was by then a backlash in the media against the brilliant but arrogant kids who seemed to have taken over film. Apocalypse was confused, and it was hard to believe that Coppola himself had a clear or settled version of it. But it had breathtaking sequences (for example, those involving Robert Duvall as Colonel Kilgore, and in the feeling of a jungle growing on blood and drugs), an authentic sense of horror, and an aura of America’s imperial decay. (In 2001 it looked a better film still when Coppola released Apocalypse Now Redux, a restored version, with several scenes that had been dropped in 1979.)
As a person, Coppola was troubled yet volatile. He seemed to have established a Northern Californian alternative, yet he nursed dreams of taking over a new Hollywood. So he moved to premises in Los Angeles to make One from the Heart, a deliberate throwback to the studio look of the 1940s. It is exquisite and well worth seeing, with color photography by Vittorio Storaro, gorgeous sets by Dean Tavoularis, a haunting score by Tom Waits, and the overall influence of Michael Powell, who was now director emeritus at Zoetrope. As a modest $2 million aside, it might have seemed a wonder of charm and pure cinema. But at $25 million and with more bad publicity over excess and mania, it was a disaster that plunged Coppola into debt. Few crazy indulgences or shattered budgets offend America as much as those in the arts.
Soon after the film opened to scathing press, I saw Coppola at his Rutherford home in Napa. The driveway sported a child’s warning signs, made by Sofia Coppola, who was then eight. They were intended to frighten the bailiffs who might be coming to take the family furniture or the house. Francis was down, black and blue and broke, until he started cooking a meal. Then his enthusiasm came back. The Rutherford house was next to the old Niebaum winery, and Coppola had an idea to make something of it. He would repay his debts eventually. He has carried on as a filmmaker. He has been able to see Sofia make films. (Lost in Translation, 2003, is her best.) But some think his heart and his wealth now depend on the winery and his interest in food and drink. No scenes are more touching in The Godfather than those set at the table. He is a figure in the cultural landscape such as few American directors can match. In his special way, impulsive yet manipulative (a mix of Sonny and Michael Corleone), he used the 1970s to redefine the status of the American moviemaker. He is our Griffith, though he will die richer and happier than that pioneer, able to look back on a career that transcended the old-movie attitudes toward crime—so long as it was organized, in the family, and just business. We are agreed now, I fear, that American business is ready to go beyond the law and society’s moral principles. No great American director has had a darker vision or won Best Picture with it.
A little in advance of One from the Heart (1982) there had been a more emphatic and far-reaching failure (admittedly not in Northern California). Michael Cimino (born in New York in 1943) had gone from Yale and studying with Lee Strasberg to working for Clint Eastwood. Then, in 1978, he directed The Deer Hunter, using Vietnam and the working-class hinterland of America to tell a story of Dostoyevskyan brothers. The actors were too old to be new soldiers; the film had many elements that jarred with the facts of Vietnam. But it remains a devastating work, and it won Oscars for Best Picture and direction, as well as for Christopher Walken. (That Best Picture Oscar was presented by John Wayne in what would be his final public appearance, coming down a long, tricky staircase with style.) Thus it was no surprise at the time that United Artists hired Cimino to write and direct an epic Western to be known as Heaven’s Gate.
The earliest budgetary ideas for the picture (under $10 million) were buried under eventual costs of over $40 million, thanks to remote locations that required hours of travel every day, frequent reshooting of the same scenes, the introduction of fresh action as the shooting progressed, and the gamble on Cimino’s part that United Artists was too heavily invested to close the project down. We know the details of this thanks to the meticulous reportage and the rueful tone of Steven Bach’s book Final Cut—and Bach was at the time one of the UA executives responsible for the film.
Bach’s book is candid but not vengeful. After the dust had settled, he came to this conclusion:
One thing is certain: I believe there to have been not one day or one moment in the turbulent history of Heaven’s Gate in which Michael Cimino intended anything other than to create “a masterpiece,” a work of lasting art. His certainty that he was doing so conditioned that history and much of the behavior of those around him. He did not set out to destroy or damage a company but believed he would enrich it, economically and aesthetically.
This may have been too far from “a cheap form of amusement.” Bach and Cimino were defending different things, art and business, and somehow history had brought them into awkward overlap. By dint of his own chronic maneuvers and the company’s helpless respect, Cimino was allowed to behave like Lucian Freud painting a portrait. That is a perilous way of making a movie, but Freud was a great painter—and sometimes he abandoned a picture because it was not working out. It is next to impossible to abandon a movie, and very hard to press on, after the first few days, in the knowledge that it is not going to work out. Once that picture opens, however, anyone who can deserts the ruin.
Cimino was obliged to release the film in a shorter form than he had hoped for (149 minutes), but still with the roadblock of the Harvard graduation as its opening. (There is a more promising opening some twenty-five minutes later, as the Kris Kristofferson character arrives in Johnson County, Wyoming.) The premiere (on November 19, 1980) was a scene of gloom, and it was the 219-minute version. Bach felt the silence in the theater: “The audience was either speechless with awe or comatose with boredom. I began sweating icy rivulets in that silence that roared with quiet disdain.”
In the New York Times, Vincent Canby called the film “an unqualified disaster,” and many other critics were damning. Their verdict was supported by an eventual gross of less than $4 million. Not long afterward, United Artists itself was ended, the company that had been created to defend independent filmmaking and that had a roll of honor as great as any studio (from Fairbanks’s Thief of Bagdad to Annie Hall, from Red River to Some Like It Hot). It was absorbed by Kirk Kerkorian’s M-G-M and is still somewhere in that digestive tract. Michael Cimino is alive still, and a man of mystery. His career has never regained the power of The Deer Hunter. He has not directed a complete film since 1996. But the full version of Heaven’s Gate looks better as time passes, and is further proof—if it was needed—that self-conscious artists can make something extraordinary, and then kill it.
There was another source of disquiet over Heaven’s Gate: the film offered some explanation of the United States itself in which power and money tried to oppress immigrants and the labor movement while owning the land. That text is much clearer now, but by 1980 there had been a swing back toward nonthreatening movies and tranquil entertainment. No one wants to knock tranquil entertainment so long as it is as inspiring as Fred Astaire, Rin Tin Tin, Buster Keaton, Hawks on the trail, and Preston Sturges with Stanwyck and Fonda. But by the late 1970s there began to be fewer grown-up pictures meant to disturb and provoke. The Rocky franchise was based on the increasingly farfetched dream of a Wallace Beery figure supplanting a Muhammad Ali. (Rambo would be harder to stomach.) Steven Spielberg’s E.T. was less a film made for kids than a picture designed to have adults feel like kids again. Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry series shifted from being an attack on the impossible position of the police to the glorification of a very macho loner. Above all, Spielberg and George Lucas joined forces on a grandiose new version of Saturday morning serials with Raiders of the Lost Ark, a booming franchise, and fun at first, but having so little to do with the real world. Meanwhile, the restored business confidence of a Hollywood that was more than ever the subsidiary holdings of major international corporations asked the old question: What have the movies got to do with life? And the expanding realm of special
effects had its own retort: Why, this isn’t really life anymore. And why should it be?
Not everything was depressing. Woody Allen was at his best in the years from Annie Hall to Radio Days. Terrence Malick’s beautiful debut with Badlands (1973) was not quite sustained by the studied look of Days of Heaven (1978), and that was followed by substantial absence. Martin Scorsese was a genius in turmoil in the years from Taxi Driver to Raging Bull.
The new possibilities for independent film impressed most people: John Sayles’s Return of the Secaucus Seven (1979) was a literate feature film about lifelike characters, made for $60,000 and released and appreciated. That way ahead would be taken up by Steven Soderbergh with sex, lies, and videotape (1989), by the overall enterprise known as “Sundance,” Robert Redford’s naïve but well-intended attempt to use the fruits of The Way We Were (1973) and such films to bolster the development and production of small-audience films. There was even one of the best films ever made in America, David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, so complete an immersion in sexual awakening that many sober critics found it shocking and disgusting.
By 1986, the year of Blue Velvet, something else was apparent at the movies: as you sat in the dark, you sometimes saw young members of the audience walking out of the film and heading for the lobby. Were they going to the bathroom, in search of a smoke or candies? Were they bored by the picture? Perhaps, but the lobbies were increasingly stocked with games to play on screens. It was becoming an amusement arcade. The process had begun with Pong (released by Atari in 1972), but then came games of increasing complexity and interaction. These screens were tiny compared with the movie screen, the image was often coarse, and the material was violent or nerve-jangling. One came off those games buzzing. The screen had found a new way of being. And today people sometimes play the latest version of those games in front of the movie, on their cell phone, offering their blue glowworm against the screen’s light.
What Is a Director?
Here is Anthony Minghella, the director of Truly Madly Deeply (1990) and The English Patient (1996), facing up to reality:
The film community has all these redefinitions of terms, often amusing: net profit means no profit, residuals mean no profit, producer equals liar, lawyer equals frustrated agent, agent equals frustrated director, director equals frustrated actor. The decoding mechanism is one that you learn over time…A decade later, I have a primer of some description for understanding that when somebody rings up and “they’re very excited,” what they mean is “hello,” when somebody says, “I love your work,” what they mean is they know you’re a director…“You can cast anybody you like” means you don’t have casting control.
“Ant” was not a cynic, yet he may have discovered the need to pretend to be cynical, worldly, or amused, if he was going to survive making big pictures for such as the Weinstein brothers. After a few weekend retreats with the bosses you learn to talk their way, and sometimes you wonder if you are becoming more like them. It’s a lesson in a kind of bipolarity worth bearing in mind when you think of all the old pros who lasted: Hawks, Capra, Lang, Ford, Vidor, Hitchcock, Lubitsch, Wilder, Wyler, Minnelli, Scorsese, and so on. What actors they had to be. Then consider the ones who didn’t last in that way—Welles, von Stroheim, von Sternberg, Nicholas Ray, Preston Sturges—or the ones who broke away and found their escapes: John Cassavetes, Kubrick, Terrence Malick, Michael Cimino.
In what we now call the golden age of Hollywood, directors did as they were told, swallowed the lies and the language, and fretted over their imprisonment in private. They hated their vulnerability under the system, and told horror stories about the arrogance of those who ran the studios, gave them their contracts, and then trampled on their vision as a matter of right and business habit. These disappointments might be vented in the directors’ pleasant houses in the hills, to their second (rather younger) wife, within earshot of the new Chagall and the European sports car they had just bought (to make themselves feel better). Their anger was being bought off, and in time that deal was sweetened by agreements to recognize “residuals” and “profit” participation. Just agreements, you understand.
There were directors who managed to stay moving targets, shifting from one studio to another on short-term contracts and building a body of work that French- and then English-speaking critics would later call an oeuvre (as if it had been designed as such from the start). John Ford and Howard Hawks are such worldly heroes, and perhaps the smarts or resolve of some of their loner heroes was modeled on the directors’ own survival. They did good work over five decades. After that prolonged struggle, is it any wonder that many good American movies are metaphors for handling the system, the daily grind that faced ambitious directors?
Others became studio men: it meant stomaching Harry Cohn, but Frank Capra served Columbia (and raised the status of the place) throughout the 1930s. At Warner Bros., Michael Curtiz was regarded as a guy who could shoot anything, and to this day his facility often masks the question of personality, no matter that his credits include 20,000 Years in Sing Sing (1932), The Charge of the Light Brigade (1936), Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), Casablanca, (1942), and Mildred Pierce (1945). Preston Sturges had an exceptional run at Paramount, during which he was allowed to ignore the war to make sublime comedies (The Lady Eve, 1941; Sullivan’s Travels, 1941; The Palm Beach Story, 1942; The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, 1944). He had so many rows with studio executives he began to feel he was a misunderstood genius, so he branched out, went independent, and fell apart. The wit, the insouciance, and the mercurial charm others loved, and which Sturges worked hard to maintain, turned into frustration and sorrow. He had a better money deal as an independent, but he soon wished he had never left “home.” The most domesticated director is probably Vincente Minnelli, who worked all his life at M-G-M and turned out a flow of films that includes Meet Me in St. Louis (1944), Madame Bovary (1949), Father of the Bride (1950), The Bad and the Beautiful (1952), An American in Paris (1951), Lust for Life (1956), and Gigi (1958).
The concept of “home” meant not just your own parking space on the lot and regular checks in the bank. It ensured a supply of material, stars, and craftsmen, and the greatest virtue of the factory system was that so many of those assignments were blessings. Minnelli married one of his stars (Judy Garland), and that may not have been the wisest step they ever took, but Garland’s work in Meet Me in St. Louis is a testament to affection and trust enhancing beauty and film presence. There’s a legend that the studio abused and exploited Garland, though her own mother did worse. But there were also people at the studio who loved her and wanted to look after her. Then look at the other credits: producer Arthur Freed worked with Minnelli twelve times; Conrad Salinger, an orchestrator, had ten films with him; and the head of design at Metro, Cedric Gibbons, presided throughout the director’s career.
There’s no reason to sentimentalize the “crew.” But anyone who has ever made a movie knows the benefit of practice and familiarity: in how to photograph a star; in how to construct sets that will facilitate shooting and scheduling; in the balance of color and the clarity of sound; in the idea of order and story that builds in the editing; and in the relatively relaxed way in which an assigned director may pursue his style and his preoccupations. Minnelli is often called a “stylist,” or someone in search of beauty, but those tasks can be aided by an effective factory system. It follows that Minnelli was more or less willing to direct films that were about whatever the studio and the story department wanted them to be about.
You can argue an offsetting problem in this factory attitude toward the nature of film: that all the films began to look and feel alike; that a way of shooting that was efficient and economical became a way of seeing that standardized life and experience and turned it toward being an advertisement. There’s no doubt that this “movieness” (once so exciting) became stale, unwittingly comic, and a spur to parody and rebellion. But if you believe that making a film is one of the most exhausting and unpleasant jobs ever devised—
here is Minghella again: “In the end…directing is about survival and stamina”—then the factory and the team could be a kindly climate that let directors make a lot of films. Between 1942 (when he was thirty-nine already) and 1976, Minnelli made or worked on thirty-nine pictures. (At the age of forty-nine, David Fincher has made nine feature films.)
So team is one mercy, but then consider two other liberties: such directors did not have to raise the money for their ventures, and raising money is ugly enough to scar your sense of creative integrity—in Hollywood, take note, the sense of it was more important than the thing itself. Then, when “your” film was finished, it became “theirs” and passed smoothly into what was called distribution and exhibition—it might do well or less well in the marketplace, but an audience was waiting for it all over the country, and the director was told, “The numbers are nice.” You know what that means.
The public was as much a part of the team as an orchestrator or a focus puller, and for most of Minnelli’s working life, the audience came to the movies out of habit. The distribution enterprise—with Metro it was Loew’s Inc.—made the prints, the trailers, and the posters, and paid for them. It had the theaters lined up; it arranged for the collection of money; it ran the publicity machine and might even have composed interviews with Minnelli to save him time. So for those who regard Vincente Minnelli as a true artist, it must be said that many of his choices were made for him. And choices can kill you as easily as arrangements. Minnelli died at eighty-three; Minghella was fifty-four.
Teamwork now is less common or protective, though there are strong allegiances, such as Martin Scorsese having Thelma Schoonmaker as his editor, the association of Steven Spielberg and composer John Williams, and the bond between director Oliver Stone and cinematographer Robert Richardson in finding the unstable, color-noir look of JFK and Nixon. You could add the history of J. Roy Helland, who did Meryl Streep’s hair and makeup on everything from Sophie’s Choice to The Iron Lady. But people are hired and pictures are made, as independent as well as one-off ventures. Studio money, or money that derives from the corporations that own them, has to be negotiated and gambled over—sometimes over a period of years, sometimes over a weekend. A director at the level of Scorsese has agents and lawyers to handle that business, but he may spend more time (on and off) trying to develop a project than he ever will in the shooting. Scorsese went personally broke on Gangs of New York.
The Big Screen Page 59