Larry Cohen

by Michael Doyle

  What is the most valuable advice you have ever imparted to a fledgling editor?

  The most valuable advice I’ve ever given to an editor is to forget about matching the shots as the important thing is, again, always the performance. Most editors will use the takes that match the best, but I always urge them to use the takes in which the actors’ performance is the best. You can always make the footage match if you devise some cutaways or experiment with various things, but the performance must always be at the level you are aspiring to. The most accomplished editors must be able to use their own judgements about maintaining the continued quality of a performance, particularly if for some reason the director is not present, which was never the case with me. As I say, I always supervised every cut.

  Some of your contemporaries, who made independent horror and science fiction films in the 1970s, readily embraced the studio system in the 1980s. Occasionally, these directors made studio films that have no discernable personality when compared to the distinctiveness and innovation of their independent work.

  Yeah, but that’s what you get. That’s the bargain you make when you agree to become part of the studio machine. You sometimes compromise yourself and the instincts that have served you so well on the smaller independent films. Your hands are basically tied and you have to follow the studio’s rules, whereas before there were no rules, or perhaps you were just ignorant of them. Unlike some directors who got involved with studio filmmaking, I wanted to maintain my independence. I wanted to make the kinds of pictures I wanted to make, and say the kinds of things I wanted to say. Studio interference and politics are not things I can tolerate, but I can understand why some directors do it. It’s easy to be enticed by money and big budgets, and the glamour of working with movie stars. Maybe that’s what some people want to do with their careers. I don’t know, you’d have to ask them. That’s always a difficult thing to turn down for the sake of personal integrity, but any interference would poison that situation for me. As for keeping my own personal voice, I think I was a better writer than most of the other directors who worked in the genre. I actually had something meaningful to say. I never made a horror movie with the typical things you always find in them. I wasn’t lured by the big studios like some of the other guys were, so I never made pictures that might have been dissected by committee. You see some directors succumb to the system, and their originality and creativity is destroyed or damaged. You start making movies that look and feel just like everybody else’s movies and there are no surprises for the audience.

  One of the things that has afflicted genre cinema is the fact that both studio and independent films are guilty of producing deeply homogenised fodder that, as you suggest, lack originality. Look at the way slasher movies were popularised in the wake of the success of Halloween. To this day, they still stubbornly refuse to choke on their own blood and survive in one form or another.

  Well, this is the fundamental problem with horror movies: if everybody’s ideas are coming from the same place then you are not going to get anything that is new and innovative. Some members of the audience derive pleasure from the repetition and familiarity of horror movies. I certainly don’t, but then I don’t run out every week to watch them. Some people get their kicks from knowing where all the beats are, but that’s no fun for me. Halloween was a scary and suspenseful movie that enjoyed great success, but everybody wanted to repeat the formula that John Carpenter used. Okay, fine, but then Halloween and Friday the 13th became the models for many untalented filmmakers to follow and were the definition of horror for many years. Even when some new ingredients are introduced into the mix, slasher films are still predictable. Audiences may get nervous when they see a teenager wandering through the woods in their underwear, waiting for the killer to appear from behind a tree; we may get a shock when the killer leaps out and chops somebody’s head off, but how scary is something like that when you know exactly what is going to happen? There is nothing substantial to a scene like that. But if you can fashion a strong idea, some kind of metaphor or deeper significance that goes beyond mere sadism, then you can really hit people where it hurts. They will remember what they thought as much as what they felt. I think ideas can provoke big reactions from the audience and can really scare them. When people leave the theater, they will think about the film and consider its wider implications. That kind of fear often lasts longer than some quick jolt.

  Do you feel you have credibility and respect as a filmmaker?

  I don’t know. When I ran my movies at the Vienna Film Festival, we sold out every single show. The theater held 800 or 900 seats, and every screening was completely packed out. The audience really seemed to enjoy my work. Frankly, I was surprised that people in Austria would even know my films, but they did. That’s mostly been the case all over the world when I attend film festivals: people are very familiar with my movies. When we hold screenings of my pictures here in the United States, we usually get a big, enthusiastic crowd. I find those situations very gratifying, but credibility? Honestly, I really don’t know. Aside from the screenings, there is always interest in my work and every week somebody calls up to do an interview. I’ve always said that if you keep making movies for long enough, people will eventually discover you. Maybe that’s the best you can hope for.

  You and John Carpenter have been somewhat neglected and dismissed by some high-brow critics — with the notable exception of Robin Wood — whereas others such as David Cronenberg have been critically feted. Why do you think that is?

  I really don’t know. I think David has made some fabulous pictures over the years and not all of them have been horror films. Whatever attention David has received I think he deserves, because he’s done some very good work. John Carpenter has also done some good work, but I can’t speak for him. I believe that whatever it is you are doing as a filmmaker, you can’t live your life for the critical acceptance of others. If you do, you can never be true to yourself. You just have to make your movies, get them out there and see what happens. You simply hope that people will like and enjoy them, that’s all. Above everything, what you try to do is just keep on working and creating — if you can survive! Survival is far more important to me than any critical appreciation and I’d imagine that both Carpenter and Cronenberg feel the same way.

  You’ve mentioned the popularity of the screenings and festivals you have attended, but can you talk about your relationship with your fans? On average, what kind of attention does a cult film director receive from the general public?

  Its okay, I guess. I have about as much attention as I can tolerate. I do get recognized on the street occasionally, but not so much that it disrupts my life. I also get calls and letters from some people telling me how much they admire my work. Being a movie director is not like being a movie star or a rock star. You can still get around and have a normal life without being chased by girls, not that that would be such a bad thing! [Chuckles] But when I go to the theater and attend screenings, festivals, and conventions, I do enjoy meeting a lot of the fans. It’s always wonderful when people tell you that they love your work and that it means something to them. I mean, I’m not entirely invulnerable to flattery and compliments. I’ll take whatever I can get these days. [Pause] Speaking of fans, did I ever tell you my Frank Capra story? [1]

  No.

  Two years ago, I got a letter from a man in Palm Desert, California, who said that he used to live next door to — of all people — Frank Capra. He wrote: “I wanted you to know that Frank Capra was a huge fan of yours. He loved your movies and also loved your TV series, Branded.” This gentleman said that Capra had seen The Big Country, a movie in which Chuck Connors had played the villain, and he thought Connors was a terrific actor. After that, Capra became a big fan of Branded, and it was through that show that he became a fan of my work. Apparently, Capra then started going to the theater with this neighbour and they would watch all of my movies together whenever they came out. The letter also mentioned that Capra had once tried to co
ntact me, that he’d actually called me. Incredibly, I remembered that one day many years earlier I had walked into an office and somebody said, “Larry, you got a phone call from Frank Capra.” I just laughed and said, “Yeah, sure. I wonder who the hell that is playing a joke on me.” I never returned the call because I thought it was a gag. I didn’t even recall that incident until after I’d received this letter. Then it suddenly hit me again. Pow! And I remembered that phone call. Amazing! I mean, who would have ever imagined that Frank Capra would be calling me? So, I never got to meet the great man. But this gentleman had thought that, somehow or other, I should find this out and wrote me a nice, long letter. I couldn’t believe it! Frank Capra! Oh, what I would have given to have spent an afternoon with him.

  You hear of some filmmakers, who seem to revel in the desperate struggle of financing their projects and realizing their personal vision against all the odds. Are you one that savors the rigors of independent filmmaking?

  On most of the movies I’ve made, I’ve secured distribution before I started shooting. I always had somebody who was going to buy the picture, pay for the picture and play the picture in theatres, putting out the prints and making the film visible. I’ve not been forced to run around with my thumbs in hand, begging and pleading with somebody to distribute my pictures. I’ve always managed to find somebody, so the fight has not been as hard or as desperate as it might have been. These days, everything is different. Trying to find a home for your movie in a marketplace that doesn’t want to buy pictures anymore — and certainly doesn’t want to pay for them — is tough. There are people who will take a picture, but they won’t pay any money for it. They’ll just pay for prints and advertising, but then if the film opens and doesn’t do well in one market that’s the end of the prints and advertising. If you want to get your picture back you probably have to sue them in court, and that could take three or four years and a fortune in expenses for lawyers. So, you just get yourself into a terrible situation and you are going to get angry at people and miserable. To be honest with you, I’ve made a lot of money in my career. I have a beautiful mansion and a bunch of acres up here in Beverly Hills, and plenty of dough in the bank, so the fight just isn’t worth it. I’m not going to get myself worked up and angry and run into conflicts with people when I don’t have to do it anymore.

  That’s a rather depressing indictment of the moviemaking business.

  Maybe, but it’s an accurate one. It’s a terrible business to be in at the present time. It used to be that if there was a film festival, the organisers would receive 500 applications from filmmakers. Today, they are getting 10,000! I mean, everybody who owns a video camera is making a movie and trying to submit it to a film festival. Ninety-nine percent of these movies are awful and will never get distributed. That puts the distributors in a tremendously advantaged position because there is so much stuff being thrown at them. People are more than happy to give their work to them for free — just to get it out there — as getting distributors to pay for something isn’t easy.

  What advice would you give to new filmmakers about to embark on a career?

  If you want to make movies, you just have to go out there and make them. You have to make your film and, hopefully, somebody will see it. There are a lot of people who are going to film school now. When I was going to college, there were only a couple of schools in the entire country that had film classes. At that time, you could walk into a book store or a library and literally count the number of books on filmmaking on one hand. There were only two or three, namely The Liveliest Art by Arthur Knight [2] and a couple of well-regarded books on editing. That was it, basically. Today, there are hundreds and hundreds of books on moviemaking, and hundreds and hundreds of people who are supposedly teaching screenwriting and filmmaking classes in colleges all over the country. There simply isn’t room enough for all these people to get jobs in the industry. Thank god there is television and cable, because they now have a plethora of these new channels that have to be supplied with material for broadcast. The documentary area has really blossomed in the wake of reality television and other documentary channels. There is now a chance for young filmmakers to work in television, but there also seems to be more opportunities for documentary filmmakers today than there ever was. There were comparatively few documentaries that were distributed theatrically back in the old days.

  So, the gist of your counsel is to follow your dream, regardless?

  You have to. If you don’t give it a shot, you obviously have no chance of succeeding. But I will say this: the big advice I have for people is that if you want a career in the motion picture business you have got to give it at least eight to ten years. You can’t expect to just walk in and be successful in six months, a year, or even two or three years. You’ve got to give it a long time and if you stick with it, you’ve always got a chance. If you walk away from it after two or three years, you’ll be walking away in disappointment. The people that are willing to tough it out, and suffer all the rejections and disappointments over a long period of time, can realize their ambitions. Usually it helps to have another job at the same time so you can make a living. Some scripts get bought and they don’t get made for six or seven years. Other scripts get written but don’t get bought for six or seven years. I’ve sold scripts that were nine or ten years old, so you just have to keep submitting them. You have to keep trying and trying and trying and then, eventually, you’ll find someone who likes your work. They may think it’s the greatest thing that has ever been written, but these same people might have been turning down the very same script for years. Suddenly, you may get a director like Sidney Lumet, who says he’ll do the picture, and the very next day you’ve got a deal. That’s the peculiar thing about the business: good writing and talent usually finds its way to somebody. You’ve just got to keep persevering and not believe in the negative comments you are hearing. There will be the inevitable knock-backs along the way, but if you believe in your work, you’ve got to maintain that belief and continue on. You can’t listen to all the contrary opinions because it takes a long time to get things done. Remember, it isn’t always the most talented people who succeed; it’s the people with the most perseverance. Sometimes the most capable and original artists are the ones that never get the break. Their confidence may be more fragile and they quickly get disheartened and throw in the towel. If you are going to make it in the movie business, you’ve got to be prepared to put the time in.

  How would you gauge the true success of a film?

  In my opinion, the true success of any film is not determined until twenty years or more after it’s made. The real difference between an A-movie and a B-movie is that you have to wait two or three decades to discover its true worth. If you look at the history of the motion picture business, there have been B-movies which have enjoyed a much longer life than the more illustrious A-movies that were made during the same year. Oddly enough, if you went out on the streets today and gave people the names of 230 movie stars of the 1930s, ‘40s, and ‘50s, and asked them who these people were, you’d be surprised at the reaction. I always say that the vast majority of them wouldn’t have a clue who those actors were — particularly the A-movie stars like Robert Taylor and Greer Garson, people like that. But if you showed them a photograph of Boris Karloff or Bela Lugosi, people would instantly recognize them. If you asked people who Abbot and Costello and The Three Stooges were, they would probably know them, too. It’s funny how, over time, fame can fade. Some of the people who have remained most famous are those who made B-movies and didn’t make A-movies at all. It’s the low-budget horror and comedy pictures that audiences remember. They have endured and lasted longer than many of the A-movies have. So, you can’t properly evaluate which movies are going to be considered true classics until a little time has passed.

  If you could program your own film festival what movies would you include?

  Of my own films? All of them. Of other people’s films? I wouldn’t be interested.


  If you were given carte blanch in terms of time, money, and creative freedom, would you make your films any differently?

  Do you mean how I’d make my movies, or the kinds of movies I’d want to make?

  I’m talking about your actual process.

  No, I don’t think so. I have a way of working that I’m comfortable with and it has proved rewarding, creatively and financially. I can’t be expected to just change my spots, certainly not after all these years. Even if I had unlimited resources and control, my process would still be the same. That’s not to say you don’t make certain modifications as a director when you’re dealing with various egos and personalities. Every situation is different. Sometimes you have to surrender yourself a little and let certain things go. I’ve enjoyed having the control on my movies, but it’s sometimes been tough trying to work under the same circumstances every time. If I had all the freedom, time, and money to do what I wanted, I’d still do things my own way because I can only be me. Only I can make the kinds of pictures that I make.

  One of the things I’ve gleaned from our many conversations is how proud you are of your body of work.

  Oh, I’m immensely proud of the work. None of my pictures are perfect, but they are all mine. I’ve found a lot of joy in making movies. I’ve always loved going to work every day on a set, even though I had to get up early in the morning and there were some challenging and difficult days. My own concentration and focus were so intense when I was directing, I often wouldn’t allow myself to get sick during shooting. I’m being serious! I’d refuse to be ill! As soon as we’d wrap the picture and it was all over, I would invariably be sick for a week. Usually I would come down with a cold or the flu, but when we would be shooting the picture, no matter how miserable the weather was, be it rain or snow, I would be right out there. Sometimes, in order to encourage the crew, I would take off my coat and work in my shirtsleeves or something, even though it may have been freezing. I did this just to shame the crew and they couldn’t complain about how cold it was. Despite doing this, I never got sick during production. It’s a very peculiar thing. I mean, you may notice that I actually have a cold as I’m talking to you right now! [Chuckles] But on a film set, it hardly ever seemed to happen. Maybe it’s because of the power of my will, or maybe its pure luck, but I simply refused to go down until the movie was made.