Steven Soderbergh

by Anthony Kaufman

  Q: Did having an agent change the way you operated?

  A: I continued to write personal scripts fairly quickly so she could evaluate each one. I was also able to work on two commissioned works. I wrote a television script for Disney, which was never shot, and a musical comedy for TriStar, which was never shot either. With the money I received from TriStar I shot my last short, Winston. That also was a version of sex, lies, and videotape, the story of a woman who creates an imaginary life for herself so she can keep a man who was after her at a distance. To a certain extent, it was inspired by things that were really happening in my life, but this made the whole project problematic. When I saw the film a year later, I realized I had not been objective enough for it to work. But it was an important experience, in particular because of my work with the actors. The style—camera placement and movement—was also close to what I used in sex, lies, and videotape.

  When I was finishing the film, early 1987, my life was a lot like that of the husband in sex, lies, and videotape. . . . It was a real problem for me because I was beginning to feel very unhappy and I had to put an end to my behavior and begin thinking about the effects it was having on other people. I was living with someone I really liked but at the same time I was behaving miserably and I wanted to know why. So I sold everything I had, except my books, put some belongings in a car and decided to give Los Angeles another shot. This was at the end of 1987, and a few days before leaving I started to write a first draft of sex, lies, and videotape, which I continued to work on during my trip to California. When I arrived in Los Angeles, I gave it to my agent, not knowing what she would think because this had been for me both an act of liberation and remorse. She liked it a lot and the positive reaction on the part of the producers was pretty immediate, to the extent that this was a film about sexuality, with four young and attractive characters, which could be made for just about one million dollars, which is not a great risk. So much so that between the time I put the script on my agent’s desk and the premiere of the film at the U.S. Film Festival, only twelve months had gone by.

  Q: How many versions of the script did you write and what were the changes you made?

  A: I wrote three versions and the differences are mostly in the tone. The structure stayed the same except that in the first version there was no resolution at the end: Ann and Graham had very little contact with each other. She goes back into therapy, Graham leaves the city, the husband is not scarred by the experience, and the sister disappears. Nobody finds a way out. This left me dissatisfied because I wanted a feeling of movement. The first version was harsher; it gave mostly an impression of anger. But the more I distanced myself from the events that led me to write the script, the more I became capable of making the necessary adjustments. Then, during the rehearsal week with the actors, preceding the shooting, I rewrote some of the dialogue so it would fit each actor. The scenes were not changed from a content standpoint, but I wanted to be sure that each line of the dialogue was connected to what the scene was expressing, that each explored the sub-text as much as possible, and the actors really helped me on this. I encouraged them to add what seemed natural to them. The shooting went smoothly in thirty days. I always had the impression that we had lots of time and I never came to the set with a list of shots. It was when the actors were playing the scene that I would decide on camera placement. The most takes we did were eleven, and that was because of technical problems. But for most of the emotionally charged shots we never went beyond three or four takes. We had a lot of fun, you know.

  Q: What were the rehearsals with the actors prior to shooting like?

  A: For one week, we read the entire script three or four times with all the actors. And for the rest of the week I worked on each scene with the actors in pairs. We incorporated some of their improvisations and that’s when their characters took on a definitive form. What I wanted was to create an atmosphere of experimentation where all inhibitions disappeared, because I knew I was going to ask a lot from them and it was important that they feel at ease. I really believe in casting. Once you have picked the person who best suits the role, I think you have to let them play the part without giving them too many directions. When we started shooting there was mutual respect. They had read the script and had felt it deeply. As for me, I had seen their previous work and had appreciated it a lot. During the shooting they were free to make mistakes, which is very important. As for the rhythm of the film, it established itself from the outset. What strikes me when I watch contemporary American films is their impatience. I don’t know if it’s because the filmmakers are not sure of themselves in relation to their subject, but in any event, they give the spectator no breathing space, they don’t allow the spectators themselves to establish the connections among the scenes. I wanted a natural rhythm, because when I talk to people in real life, conversations last more than two minutes; not everything that is said is of the greatest importance, and every other sentence is not a joke. I have tried to reflect back the kinds of human interactions, of verbal exchanges that I have experienced myself. The actors were relaxed because we had a small crew and in Louisiana, where we shot, none of the producers were there. It was really just us.

  Q: When you are shooting a small-budget film like this, with only four actors, your choice for the first actor must surely influence your choice for the others, to the extent that you are playing with oppositions and contrasts.

  A: That’s exactly right. While I was casting, I saw a bunch of actors that I liked and in my mind I was imagining different groupings of four people. The first person I cast was Andie MacDowell, by pure coincidence. I had seen her in Greystoke and St. Elmo’s Fire, but I wasn’t aware of the breadth of her talent. When one of my executive producers told me she wanted to audition, I was not particularly interested. I thought she was beautiful, and I knew she was a model, but that’s all. But when she came for her screen test, I was blown away. Then I went looking for someone who would be aesthetically different, with black hair for example. Soon after that I saw Laura San Giacomo. She was sensual and attractive, so she could seduce any man she wanted; but at the same time, because she wasn’t as beautiful, one could understand that she would be intimidated by her sister’s looks. So, after choosing the females, who were both in their thirties, I had to find the men. I had a hard time for Graham. I went to Los Angeles and was told that James Spader was interested in the role, which surprised me because he usually plays characters that are rather unlikeable. But he was great in his audition and he convinced me. He then suggested I talk to Peter Gallagher, whom he had just met. I thought he would be a good contrast. They got along well in real life, but at the same time they had very different working styles, which served their antagonistic relationship in the film well. It was Gallagher, who had a lot of stage experience playing roles from writers like O’Neill, who had to bring the most to his character because the husband was the least well-defined character in the script.

  Q: Is this because of your personal experience?

  A: Maybe, although in theory, at that point in my life I was closer to the James Spader character. I think it was mostly because I was too harsh toward the husband, who was just a sketch. In treating him like that I was punishing myself for what had happened. What Peter brought to the role was humor, a diabolical charm. You can see he is a seducer, while in the script he was just a jerk.

  Q: Did you come up with the title right away?

  A: When I finished the script, I did not know what I was going to call it. I asked myself how someone like Graham, direct and honest, would describe the film. And I thought about these three words, which by the way seem to me to summarize all the themes of the film, which are also the themes of modern America: the selling of sex, the practice of telling lies, and the invasion by the video. We were afraid that the public—what we thought would be a limited public—would be turned off by this title which suggested surveillance. In any event, the audience over forty could find it sordid. But we thought that once they ha
d seen the film they would not have this impression, and that through word of mouth this message would get around. The first screenings worked out just like that. The publicity and the reviews would also confirm that this was not an exploitative film.

  Q: Did you plan in the script the specific uses you made of video?

  A: Yes. We scripted every moment we went in and out of video. It was necessary, if nothing else to protect myself. For me, the video was a useful strategy to give one of the characters a certain distance in relation to the others, and to enable him to maintain it until the end. This is also in keeping with the prevalent role of video today in American society. Someone told me that the video plays more or less the same role played by letters in the eighteenth century, which makes sense to me.

  Q: The film progressively shifts from an ironic to a more serious tone.

  A: From the beginning, I knew the story would become increasingly darker. But I think that in the last part there is still some humor. The barometer for me is Graham’s comment: “Do I have a problem? I look around me and when I see Cynthia, John, and me, I feel pretty good.” In general, the audience laughs at this point because it’s a very strange comment. The first third is lighter because there are many exposition scenes and you are getting to know the characters, who at times are funny without intending to be. But this progression toward a darker tone was intended on my part and the person in charge of casting called after she had read thirty pages of the script to tell me how funny it was. I told her to call me back once she had finished reading the script. One hour later, her state of mind was not the same! If I changed the ending in a more positive direction it was not out of compromise. My personal experience has taught me that after periods of torment and suffering, there comes a healing process where you learn that the hardships you have had taught you something. And this is what I wanted to show in all honesty.

  Besides, many American independent films are depressing at the end in order to prove that they are not “commercial” and I did not want to fall into that trap. I wanted the film to be what it needed to be, and not the result of a position taken in relation to other considerations. To sum up, this film came from the gut. And for me the end is ambiguous: I don’t have a clear sense of what’s going to happen to Graham and Ann. Nor to the other two characters. I am not sure that John is going to lose his job. For me he represents a certain type of American for whom what is bad is not to do something reprehensible, but to get caught. It happens everyday in American politics.

  Q: If your film is very American in the way that the characters talk about themselves, the way you use language and the role you give conversation also makes one think of films like The Decline of the American Empire or of those of Rohmer, Bertrand Blier, or Bergman.

  A: I am going to seem ignorant to you. I am not familiar with Denys Arcand’s film, and I still need to discover Rohmer and Blier! Based on what I’ve been told, there must be connections; but since I’m in Cannes I am embarrassed that I have not seen them. On the other hand, I like Wim Wenders’s work a lot. I saw Wings of Desire many times; I like its slow rhythm and its emotion. The only unpleasant thing about this festival is that he is the head of the jury committee and since I am competing I can’t talk to him. I’ll have to write him a letter when this is all done.

  Q: Your rhythm is similar to that of certain American films from the early seventies, like those of Rafelson.

  A: Certainly. And also to a film like The Conversation. Kubrick too is not in a hurry in Lolita. When you trust your material, you can take your time, but you can’t fall into the trap of complacency.

  Q: The film crew, were they about your age?

  A: For the most part. Walt Lloyd, my director of photography, is in his forties, and he is the only one I brought from Los Angeles. All the others are from Louisiana and had worked with me before. Walt is not only a remarkable artist, but also someone whom I like very much. His cinematographic style in this film is seductive but discreet; it never calls attention to itself. Walt is also someone who is very sensitive toward the actors and he sets his own shots. This is important because the actor expresses an emotion along a certain line and my job is to follow this line closely. Walt knew what was the best angle to capture this emotion. I am well versed in the technique and I can plunge myself into it, but the only conversation I had with Walt about it led to the decision not to use a telephoto lens. If we wanted to be close to the characters, we would simply bring the camera close to the actors, even if that made them feel that the lens was physically too close to them. We did not want, however, to fill the screen with their faces, let alone the eyes. There too, the Hollywood classics offer an example. You can count on one hand the number of extreme close ups in a Hawks film. Another important contribution was Cliff Martinez’s music—he’s in his thirties. I wanted it to be discreet and to reinforce the atmosphere. Without the music, the last scene with Ann and Graham on the couch would not have had the same emotional force.

  Q: What are your future projects?

  A: I have five or six scripts already written. But I am not satisfied with some of them. I have two immediate projects. One is an adaptation of one of William Brinkley’s novels, The Last Ship. It’s once again a story about men and women, sexual tensions, but on a larger scale and in extreme situations. I have just signed a contract with Universal and I was able to convince Sidney Pollack to be my executive producer, which makes me feel more secure in my dealings with the studio. My other project is to work on two other scripts. One of them, The Mistaken Theory, is a verbal comedy, with a fast rhythm in the style of Preston Sturges. The other, State of Mind, is a thriller set in New Orleans. They have taken the place of the two older projects: Dead from the Neck Up, a slapstick comedy written in 1986 which I have put aside for the time being because a film which is too similar, Naked Gun, was just released in the U.S., and Revolver which I started writing at the end of 1987 and which I put aside in order to work on sex, lies, and videotape.

  Q: How was the production of sex, lies, and, videotape set up?

  A: I had several producers who played crucial roles at different times. Nancy Tenenbaum negotiated single-handedly the foreign rights with Virgin by simply showing them the script and her enthusiasm. They had never seen any of my previous work and had never talked to me on the phone before fronting the money. Robert Newmyer, one of my producers, closed the deal with RCA-Columbia Home Video for the American distribution. As for John Hardy, he set the budget with me at $1.2 million and was physically the producer during the shooting in Baton Rouge. I suppose this film reflected my desire to return to the scene of my childhood, rather than to choose a big metropolis like New York or Chicago as the setting. I wanted it to be the middle of the country.

  An Exploration of the Work Kafka

  Michel Ciment and Hubert Niogret / 1992

  From Positif, April 1992. Translated by Paula Willoquet. Reprinted by permission.

  Q: At the end of our last interview, after the screening of sex, lies, and videotape, you mentioned two projects and two other scripts that you had decided not to shoot. None of these four projects was Kafka. What led you to make this second film?

  A: Indeed, at the time I thought that The Last Ship and King of the Hill would be my next films and that Kafka, about which I was already thinking, would come next. I gave up on The Last Ship after writing a first version because I couldn’t find a solution for the third part. The book, on which the script was based, did not follow a chronological order and when I laid out the story for the cinema, it did not work. So I told Sydney Pollack and Universal that I wanted to put The Last Ship aside for a while and make Kafka right away. Finally, I completely abandoned The Last Ship because developments in the international situation rendered it obsolete. People today no longer worry about nuclear holocaust, even if in two years they start thinking about it again. It was a huge project and I had too many doubts to pursue it.

  Q: How did you become aware of the script for Kafka?

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p; A: In 1985, my first agent—she died in a car accident in 1988 and her younger brother took her place—gave me a script from Lem Dobbs as an example, and at the time I wanted to learn to write a script. I loved Dobbs’s work, but I did not think that someone someday could make a film of it. I was afraid that those who would be able to raise the money for it would not appreciate its potential. Nevertheless, the first version contained many autobiographical details that I decided to exclude. There were many scenes with the father, Anna, the fiancée, etc. Today, many people complain that the film is neither a biography nor an imaginative work, which is exactly what I did not like about the first version of the script. I wanted to stick to the thriller and, in a way, Kafka was the protagonist only by accident. So, I started cutting things out and we went from 140 pages to 110. Most of the scenes that were cut were family scenes.

  Q: In what way did Lem Dobbs’s script seem like a model of narrative technique to you and your agent?

  A: He is a writer who knows how to suggest images without having to give directions for camera angles, etc. He is an excellent writer, very powerful, whose technical knowledge is rare in the U.S. nowadays. I now have in my possession all of Lem’s original scripts, and they are great. Only one was shot, Hider in the House, but it was rewritten by someone else during the scriptwriters’ strike. Now, he is getting ready to shoot his first film based on one of his scripts, Edward Ford, a fascinating work which I would have liked to make. It’s about a Midwest character, a kind of Travis Bickle [the hero in Taxi Driver], who is obsessed with B films and who goes to Hollywood at the end of the fifties to become an actor in this kind of film, without realizing that it does not exist anymore. We follow him for twenty-five years while he tries to get a card from the Screen Writers’ Guild. It’s the funniest and the darkest piece of Americana that I have read in a long time.