During one of the performances, Else was shooting some stagehands playing checkers. In one corner of the room was a television set. Playing on the television set, while the stagehands played checkers and the opera company played Wagner, was The Simpsons. As Else judged it, this touch of cartoon helped capture the flavor of what was special about the scene.
Years later, when he finally got funding to complete the film, Else attempted to clear the rights for those few seconds of The Simpsons. For of course, those few seconds are copyrighted; and of course, to use copyrighted material you need the permission of the copyright owner, unless “fair use” or some other privilege applies.
Else called Simpsons creator Matt Groening's office to get permission. Groening approved the shot. The shot was a four-and-a-half-second image on a tiny television set in the corner of the room. How could it hurt? Groening was happy to have it in the film, but he told Else to contact Gracie Films, the company that produces the program.
Gracie Films was okay with it, too, but they, like Groening, wanted to be careful. So they told Else to contact Fox, Gracie's parent company. Else called Fox and told them about the clip in the corner of the one room shot of the film. Matt Groening had already given permission, Else said. He was just confirming the permission with Fox.
Then, as Else told me, “two things happened. First we discovered. . . that Matt Groening doesn't own his own creation—or at least that someone [at Fox] believes he doesn't own his own creation.” And second, Fox “wanted ten thousand dollars as a licensing fee for us to use this four-point-five seconds of. . . entirely unsolicited Simpsons which was in the corner of the shot.”
Else was certain there was a mistake. He worked his way up to someone he thought was a vice president for licensing, Rebecca Herrera. He explained to her, “There must be some mistake here. . . We're asking for your educational rate on this.” That was the educational rate, Herrera told Else. A day or so later, Else called again to confirm what he had been told.
“I wanted to make sure I had my facts straight,” he told me. “Yes, you have your facts straight,” she said. It would cost $10,000 to use the clip of The Simpsons in the corner of a shot in a documentary film about Wagner's Ring Cycle. And then, astonishingly, Herrera told Else, “And if you quote me, I'll turn you over to our attorneys.” As an assistant to Herrera told Else later on, “They don't give a shit. They just want the money.”
Else didn't have the money to buy the right to replay what was playing on the television backstage at the San Francisco Opera. To reproduce this reality was beyond the documentary filmmaker's budget. At the very last minute before the film was to be released, Else digitally replaced the shot with a clip from another film that he had worked on, The Day After Trinity, from ten years before.
There's no doubt that someone, whether Matt Groening or Fox, owns the copyright to The Simpsons. That copyright is their property. To use that copyrighted material thus sometimes requires the permission of the copyright owner. If the use that Else wanted to make of the Simpsons copyright were one of the uses restricted by the law, then he would need to get the permission of the copyright owner before he could use the work in that way. And in a free market, it is the owner of the copyright who gets to set the price for any use that the law says the owner gets to control.
For example, “public performance” is a use of The Simpsons that the copyright owner gets to control. If you take a selection of favorite episodes, rent a movie theater, and charge for tickets to come see “My Favorite Simpsons,” then you need to get permission from the copyright owner. And the copyright owner (rightly, in my view) can charge whatever she wants—$10 or $1,000,000. That's her right, as set by the law.
But when lawyers hear this story about Jon Else and Fox, their first thought is “fair use.”[1] Else's use of just 4.5 seconds of an indirect shot of a Simpsons episode is clearly a fair use of The Simpsons—and fair use does not require the permission of anyone.
So I asked Else why he didn't just rely upon “fair use.” Here's his reply:
The Simpsons fiasco was for me a great lesson in the gulf between what lawyers find irrelevant in some abstract sense, and what is crushingly relevant in practice to those of us actually trying to make and broadcast documentaries. I never had any doubt that it was “clearly fair use” in an absolute legal sense. But I couldn't rely on the concept in any concrete way. Here's why:
1. Before our films can be broadcast, the network requires that we buy Errors and Omissions insurance. The carriers require a detailed “visual cue sheet” listing the source and licensing status of each shot in the film. They take a dim view of “fair use,” and a claim of “fair use” can grind the application process to a halt.
2. I probably never should have asked Matt Groening in the first place. But I knew (at least from folklore) that Fox had a history of tracking down and stopping unlicensed Simpsons usage, just as George Lucas had a very high profile litigating Star Wars usage. So I decided to play by the book, thinking that we would be granted free or cheap license to four seconds of Simpsons. As a documentary producer working to exhaustion on a shoestring, the last thing I wanted was to risk legal trouble, even nuisance legal trouble, and even to defend a principle.
3. I did, in fact, speak with one of your colleagues at Stanford Law School. . . who confirmed that it was fair use. He also confirmed that Fox would “depose and litigate you to within an inch of your life,” regardless of the merits of my claim. He made clear that it would boil down to who had the bigger legal department and the deeper pockets, me or them.
4. The question of fair use usually comes up at the end of the project, when we are up against a release deadline and out of money.
In theory, fair use means you need no permission. The theory therefore supports free culture and insulates against a permission culture. But in practice, fair use functions very differently. The fuzzy lines of the law, tied to the extraordinary liability if lines are crossed, means that the effective fair use for many types of creators is slight. The law has the right aim; practice has defeated the aim.
This practice shows just how far the law has come from its eighteenth-century roots. The law was born as a shield to protect publishers' profits against the unfair competition of a pirate. It has matured into a sword that interferes with any use, transformative or not.
CHAPTER EIGHT: Transformers
In 1993, Alex Alben was a lawyer working at Starwave, Inc. Starwave was an innovative company founded by Microsoft cofounder Paul Allen to develop digital entertainment. Long before the Internet became popular, Starwave began investing in new technology for delivering entertainment in anticipation of the power of networks.
Alben had a special interest in new technology. He was intrigued by the emerging market for CD-ROM technology—not to distribute film, but to do things with film that otherwise would be very difficult. In 1993, he launched an initiative to develop a product to build retrospectives on the work of particular actors. The first actor chosen was Clint Eastwood. The idea was to showcase all of the work of Eastwood, with clips from his films and interviews with figures important to his career.
At that time, Eastwood had made more than fifty films, as an actor and as a director. Alben began with a series of interviews with Eastwood, asking him about his career. Because Starwave produced those interviews, it was free to include them on the CD.
That alone would not have made a very interesting product, so Starwave wanted to add content from the movies in Eastwood's career: posters, scripts, and other material relating to the films Eastwood made. Most of his career was spent at Warner Brothers, and so it was relatively easy to get permission for that content.
Then Alben and his team decided to include actual film clips. “Our goal was that we were going to have a clip from every one of East-wood's films,” Alben told me. It was here that the problem arose. “No one had ever really done this before,” Alben explained. “No one had ever tried to do this in the context of an artistic
look at an actor's career.”
Alben brought the idea to Michael Slade, the CEO of Starwave. Slade asked, “Well, what will it take?”
Alben replied, “Well, we're going to have to clear rights from everyone who appears in these films, and the music and everything else that we want to use in these film clips.” Slade said, “Great! Go for it.”[1]
The problem was that neither Alben nor Slade had any idea what clearing those rights would mean. Every actor in each of the films could have a claim to royalties for the reuse of that film. But CDROMs had not been specified in the contracts for the actors, so there was no clear way to know just what Starwave was to do.
I asked Alben how he dealt with the problem. With an obvious pride in his resourcefulness that obscured the obvious bizarreness of his tale, Alben recounted just what they did:
So we very mechanically went about looking up the film clips. We made some artistic decisions about what film clips to include—of course we were going to use the “Make my day” clip from Dirty Harry. But you then need to get the guy on the ground who's wiggling under the gun and you need to get his permission. And then you have to decide what you are going to pay him.
We decided that it would be fair if we offered them the day-player rate for the right to reuse that performance. We're talking about a clip of less than a minute, but to reuse that performance in the CD-ROM the rate at the time was about $600.
So we had to identify the people—some of them were hard to identify because in Eastwood movies you can't tell who's the guy crashing through the glass—is it the actor or is it the stuntman? And then we just, we put together a team, my assistant and some others, and we just started calling people.
Some actors were glad to help—Donald Sutherland, for example, followed up himself to be sure that the rights had been cleared. Others were dumbfounded at their good fortune. Alben would ask, “Hey, can I pay you $600 or maybe if you were in two films, you know, $1,200?” And they would say, “Are you for real? Hey, I'd love to get $1,200.” And some of course were a bit difficult (estranged ex-wives, in particular). But eventually, Alben and his team had cleared the rights to this retrospective CD-ROM on Clint Eastwood's career.
It was one year later—“and even then we weren't sure whether we were totally in the clear.”
Alben is proud of his work. The project was the first of its kind and the only time he knew of that a team had undertaken such a massive project for the purpose of releasing a retrospective.
Everyone thought it would be too hard. Everyone just threw up their hands and said, “Oh, my gosh, a film, it's so many copyrights, there's the music, there's the screenplay, there's the director, there's the actors.” But we just broke it down. We just put it into its constituent parts and said, “Okay, there's this many actors, this many directors,. . . this many musicians,” and we just went at it very systematically and cleared the rights.
And no doubt, the product itself was exceptionally good. Eastwood loved it, and it sold very well.
But I pressed Alben about how weird it seems that it would have to take a year's work simply to clear rights. No doubt Alben had done this efficiently, but as Peter Drucker has famously quipped, “There is nothing so useless as doing efficiently that which should not be done at all.”[2] Did it make sense, I asked Alben, that this is the way a new work has to be made?
For, as he acknowledged, “very few. . . have the time and resources, and the will to do this,” and thus, very few such works would ever be made. Does it make sense, I asked him, from the standpoint of what anybody really thought they were ever giving rights for originally, that you would have to go clear rights for these kinds of clips?
I don't think so. When an actor renders a performance in a movie, he or she gets paid very well. . . And then when 30 seconds of that performance is used in a new product that is a retrospective of somebody's career, I don't think that that person. . . should be compensated for that.
Or at least, is this how the artist should be compensated? Would it make sense, I asked, for there to be some kind of statutory license that someone could pay and be free to make derivative use of clips like this? Did it really make sense that a follow-on creator would have to track down every artist, actor, director, musician, and get explicit permission from each? Wouldn't a lot more be created if the legal part of the creative process could be made to be more clean?
Absolutely. I think that if there were some fair-licensing mechanism—where you weren't subject to hold-ups and you weren't subject to estranged former spouses—you'd see a lot more of this work, because it wouldn't be so daunting to try to put together a retrospective of someone's career and meaningfully illustrate it with lots of media from that person's career. You'd build in a cost as the producer of one of these things. You'd build in a cost of paying X dollars to the talent that performed. But it would be a known cost. That's the thing that trips everybody up and makes this kind of product hard to get off the ground. If you knew I have a hundred minutes of film in this product and it's going to cost me X, then you build your budget around it, and you can get investments and everything else that you need to produce it. But if you say, “Oh, I want a hundred minutes of something and I have no idea what it's going to cost me, and a certain number of people are going to hold me up for money,” then it becomes difficult to put one of these things together.
Alben worked for a big company. His company was backed by some of the richest investors in the world. He therefore had authority and access that the average Web designer would not have. So if it took him a year, how long would it take someone else? And how much creativity is never made just because the costs of clearing the rights are so high?
These costs are the burdens of a kind of regulation. Put on a Republican hat for a moment, and get angry for a bit. The government defines the scope of these rights, and the scope defined determines how much it's going to cost to negotiate them. (Remember the idea that land runs to the heavens, and imagine the pilot purchasing fly-through rights as he negotiates to fly from Los Angeles to San Francisco.) These rights might well have once made sense; but as circumstances change, they make no sense at all. Or at least, a well-trained, regulation-minimizing Republican should look at the rights and ask, “Does this still make sense?”
I've seen the flash of recognition when people get this point, but only a few times. The first was at a conference of federal judges in California. The judges were gathered to discuss the emerging topic of cyber-law. I was asked to be on the panel. Harvey Saferstein, a well-respected lawyer from an L.A. firm, introduced the panel with a video that he and a friend, Robert Fairbank, had produced.
The video was a brilliant collage of film from every period in the twentieth century, all framed around the idea of a 60 Minutes episode. The execution was perfect, down to the sixty-minute stopwatch. The judges loved every minute of it.
When the lights came up, I looked over to my copanelist, David Nimmer, perhaps the leading copyright scholar and practitioner in the nation. He had an astonished look on his face, as he peered across the room of over 250 well-entertained judges. Taking an ominous tone, he began his talk with a question: “Do you know how many federal laws were just violated in this room?”
For of course, the two brilliantly talented creators who made this film hadn't done what Alben did. They hadn't spent a year clearing the rights to these clips; technically, what they had done violated the law. Of course, it wasn't as if they or anyone were going to be prosecuted for this violation (the presence of 250 judges and a gaggle of federal marshals notwithstanding). But Nimmer was making an important point: A year before anyone would have heard of the word Napster, and two years before another member of our panel, David Boies, would defend Napster before the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, Nimmer was trying to get the judges to see that the law would not be friendly to the capacities that this technology would enable. Technology means you can now do amazing things easily; but you couldn't easily do them legally.
We live in a “cut and paste” culture enabled by technology. Anyone building a presentation knows the extraordinary freedom that the cut and paste architecture of the Internet created—in a second you can find just about any image you want; in another second, you can have it planted in your presentation.
But presentations are just a tiny beginning. Using the Internet and its archives, musicians are able to string together mixes of sound never before imagined; filmmakers are able to build movies out of clips on computers around the world. An extraordinary site in Sweden takes images of politicians and blends them with music to create biting political commentary. A site called Camp Chaos has produced some of the most biting criticism of the record industry that there is through the mixing of Flash! and music.
All of these creations are technically illegal. Even if the creators wanted to be “legal,” the cost of complying with the law is impossibly high. Therefore, for the law-abiding sorts, a wealth of creativity is never made. And for that part that is made, if it doesn't follow the clearance rules, it doesn't get released.
To some, these stories suggest a solution: Let's alter the mix of rights so that people are free to build upon our culture. Free to add or mix as they see fit. We could even make this change without necessarily requiring that the “free” use be free as in “free beer.” Instead, the system could simply make it easy for follow-on creators to compensate artists without requiring an army of lawyers to come along: a rule, for example, that says “the royalty owed the copyright owner of an unregistered work for the derivative reuse of his work will be a flat 1 percent of net revenues, to be held in escrow for the copyright owner.” Under this rule, the copyright owner could benefit from some royalty, but he would not have the benefit of a full property right (meaning the right to name his own price) unless he registers the work.
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