Coppola on Writing

Francis Ford Coppola (Photo ©Tom Hyland)

I recently transcribed an inteview I conducted with Francis Ford Coppola about ten years ago at a lunch in Chicago. The main purpose of the lunch was to introduce some of the newest releases of his wines from his estate in Napa Valley; I did talk with him about his wine business, but of course, wanted to know more about his work as a director and writer.

Most interviews from a decade ago tend to be dated, but much of what Coppola has to say here about writing for film is timeless. Thus I thought I would share sections of this interview in this post. I hope you enjoy the discussion - just remember to keep in mind this interview is from 2001.

Tom Hyland: So you’re slowing down with filmmaking lately?

Francis Ford Coppola: No, I’m making a very major transition. I’ll tell you a quick story and you’ll probably understand what I mean. When I was a kid, I was sort of the Boy Wonder of the theater department at Hofstra when I was an undergraduate.

I ran it beyond the faculty in a way. I had all the keys. I directed all the shows. Did you see Rushmore, the movie with Bill Murray? I was like that kid, but as a result the faculty always had a hard time with me. Basically I discovered that the shows were financed by student activity funds, and therefore the clubs could control whether or not the faculty got to direct them. I wanted to direct, so that’s what I did.

I found that I was in this fabulous position, but I was flunking my Shakespeare class. I was directing one Shakespeare, but the test was on the one I hadn’t read! I remember writing a paper on some Shaw play that I really hadn’t read… remember those days when you wrote a paper on something and you just sort of wrote it all around and you’d embellish it?

It came down to it that I realized if I didn’t do something drastic, I wasn’t going to graduate. So I switched and became an English major to get out of the grasp of the drama faculty, because I was such a counter force to them.

In an ironic way, I went into the wine business the same way I went into English, because the studios can’t touch me. We’re a big company, we could finance a movie. So what I’ve done is I’ve stepped out of there… they control everything, the five companies.

I’ve sort of eluded the control of the studios because they have nothing to do with the food and wine industry. They control everything else. If they want, you can get the distribution, you can get a good vision; they can make all kinds of trouble for you. In an ironic sense, I’ve sidestepped them. Although I didn’t do it deliberately, I began to see the parallel of college. And beyond that, when I say I’m trying to make a transition, is that always throughout my career, I really wanted to write original material for film. That’s why I like The Conversation better than my other films, because they’re adaptations of books.

I’m sort of getting myself back in the ability to sit down and write. Really I have been writing a major film, as though it were a novel with the same time and care that one would write a novel. In the movie business, very rarely someone comes out… it’s not like a new film like Ibsen wrote a new play or even, if I may say, Shakespeare was going to write a play or someone was going to write a book, it’s always an adaptation of something else.

That’s because the whole system works in a way that discourages that. Number one, you don’t get the time. To write a novel, sometimes people spend ten, twelve… well, how long did it take to write War and Peace?

After this tour, after June, I’m just going to be a writer. I’m not going to talk to anybody. If you want me to do what you want me to do through the year, I’ll do it in one week. I’ve done this only once before in 1994, but I wanted to clear the board so I could… you know, I know guys who are novelists, it’s amazing. You call up them up and the wife says, ‘Oh John is working. Even we can’t talk to them.’ But when I’m working, ‘oh yea, there he is, go over there and do that.’ Wait a second, doesn’t anyone respect what I’m doing?

Every writer I know will develop a daily pattern and they’ll know that when they go to the garage or wherever they go, they’re not going to be talked to or they’re not going to answer your calls.

TH: What about writing for the screen? You’re talking about writing a novel.

FFC: Well that’s an interesting thing because I have thought over many years that I would like to write a novel or write a play. But I really came to the conclusion that the cinema is an exciting format and one in which people have only touched 10% of what it can do. Certainly the way the system is now where companies control it, you don’t even get the chance to ever venture out of that because you can’t get a movie financed today.

TH: How did you get the idea for The Conversation?

FFC: It was a conversation I had actually that had to do with how the technology was changing their dilemma. I was talking with a friend of mine that there was this long microphone and you would have a sight and you could hear what someone was saying. And I thought, wouldn’t it be interesting if you had a story about this couple having this conversation and every once in a while you wouldn’t hear because someone walked in front of them and the conversation was totally ordinary. But then you realized that someone went to great lengths to record it and you started think, ‘My god, I wonder what is really going on.’

So it was a little film, a personal film and I  only got to make it because I said I’d make a second Godfather.

TH: With Tucker, I loved the scene where Preston Tucker is making a slide presentation to auto executives and talking about safety in car crashes. He has photos of people going through the windshields and at the same time, he is serving these exectutives rare roast beef for their lunch.

FFC:  That’s a true story, that really happened.

Do any of you work for the Chicago Tribune?

TH: I write for the Tribune.

FFC: The reason I mention it is because Col. McCormack (former publisher of the Tribune) got into a Tucker with his cowboy hat and it sqiushed the hat on his head and from that moment, the Tucker was dead!

Text ©Tom Hyland, 2011

The Best "Best Pictures"

Awards season in Hollywood has gotten underway; the Golden Globes ceremony following the announcements of several critics' associations on the best pictures and performances of the year. Soon it will be time for the Academy Award nominations to be revealed (January 25) followed by the Oscar awards themselves on February 27.

This means that the blogosphere will soon be alive with all sorts of posts about the Academy Awards with subjects ranging from the new nominations and who will win to famous omissions from previous years. No doubt the tone of many of these will be highly critical of the Academy for their selections.

To be sure, I've been puzzled at some of the results over the years - who hasn't? - but for today, I'd like to focus on the positives. Sometimes the Academy gets it right, so over the next few weeks, I'd like to point out some of the best awards in my mind. I'll cover categories from acting to music to editing; for this post, I'd like to name my choices at the best 5 selections of Best Picture over the course of the Academy's history (the first Oscars were awarded for 1927/1928 film seasons.) To only select five is a bit of a daunting task, so I'll list them in chronological order.

Casablanca (1943)
Is there a more beloved movie ever to emerge from Hollywood? Everyone knows the story of Rick (Humphrey Bogart at his most suave) and Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman at her most beautiful) and how their lives and loves become intertwined again in Casablanca during the Second World War.

This is classic Hollywood filmmaking at is best, from Arthur Edeson's vibrant black and white photography to the superb art direction and set decoration of  Carl Jules Weyl and Georges James Hopkins - who could forget the look of Rick's Café Americain?

Of course, the screenplay by Howard Koch and the Epstein brothers, Julius and Philip, is a certified classic, combining intrigue, romance and illicit deals; the characters they created were among the most living, breathing, complex you've ever seen on the screen. And that's not just the two main stars, but also lesser roles such as Capt. Renault (Claude Rains) an of course Sam, the piano player (Dooley Wilson) - who could ever forget those two characters? Michael Curtiz contributed the most elegant direction of his career, but in reality, this is a film that lives in our memory thanks to the contribution of dozens of extremely talented craftsmen - clearly this was supreme evidence of the whole being greater than the sum of the parts.


The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
This drama about soldiers returning to the uncertainties of home life shortly after the end of World War ll certainly touched a nerve at the time of its release, but the fact is that this marvelous film has not lost any of its emotional appeal some 65 years later. William Wyler's subtle direction and an excellent ensemble (especially Frederic March, Dana Andrews, Teresa Wright and of course, Harold Russell) were among the highlights of this film along with Gregg Toland's famously celebrated deep focus photography. The  scene where Andrews climbs back into the cockpit of a plane in a junkyard is only one of several heartbreaking moments in this film. As beautiful a tribute to the American soldier as has ever been made in Hollywood.

Teresa Wright and Dana Andrews in The Best Years of our Lives 

On the Waterfront (1954)
A great film from director Elia Kazan and screenwriter Budd Schulberg about life in the longshoreman's union in the mid-1950s, from the dull, everyday routine of the work to the criminal activities of the union that decides who will work each day. This is one of the finest on location shoots ever and Kazan has commented often about the brutally cold days during the film's shooting. The sparse, moody black and white cinematography of Boris Kaufman (he won the Oscar for his work on this film), adds greatly to the realism of the drama's setting. The acting - especially from Marlon Brando - but also from Eva Marie Saint, Karl Malden and Rod Steiger, is miraculous.

Of course, everyone remembers the climax with Brando getting up from a bloody battle with the union honchos as well as the scene in the taxicab ("I coulda been a contender"), but for me, several of the quieter scenes in the picture are even more memorable, such as the one in which Brando tells Saint that he was indirectly responsible for her brother's death. This is filmed near the water's edge and we can only hear a few introductory words, as the whistle of a tugboat drowns out most of Brando's dialogue. It's a superb scene from an outstanding film.

The Godfather/ The Godfather ll (1972/1974)

Each of these films won the Best Picture Oscar, so I am combining them. Francis Ford Coppola gave us an epic, the likes of which we had truly never seen on the screen, be its graphic (but necessary) violence or its internal look at crime family politics. The stunning images in these works - the horse's head in the bed and the brutal murders at a tollbooth - are only two of the most memorable in screen history.

This was another brilliant combination of multiple talents, especially those of Production Manager Dean Tavoularis and sound designer Walter Murch. Marlon Brando left us with one of the screen's most imitated roles as Vito Corleone and what a wonderful ensemble of Al Pacino, James Caan and Robert Duvall, as well as Robert DeNiro as the young Don in the second part of this film (actually predating the first film, in terms of chronological order). Almost 40 years on, the two films are riveting entertainment and epic filmmaking at its best, as the small details of everyday lives are never overshadowed by the vastness of the subject matter. 

Unforgiven (1992)

Clint Eastwood had been winning over the critical mass for almost a decade with his meticulously crafted Westerns, but it was with this film that Hollywood finally admitted that he was a truly gifted filmmaker. This study of how a former killer has to return to his former ways is a moralistic Western that never preaches, but instead challenges us to examine the demons in our own lives - how would we react in a similar situation?

This was a tribute to classic Westerns of the past and at the same time, a remarkably fresh examination of the genre's myth. Beautiful photography by Jack Green and first-rate editing by Joel Cox (an Oscar winner) added to the film's excellence, but at the heart, it was the combination of a brilliant script by David Peoples and Eastwood's masterful storytelling (he won his first Best Director award for this film) that set this film apart. 

Olympic Visions Realized: Bud Greenspan 1926-2010

Usually when a critically acclaimed film director dies, the blogosphere is filled with tributes to that individual. But there's been precious little written about the recent passing of Bud Greenspan who passed away on December 25, so I'd like to remedy that, especially as I believe he was a supremely gifted storyteller who left us with several outstanding sports documentaries, the most famous of which were about the Olympics.

There were a few famous Olympic documentaries (most notably Leni Riefenstahl's Olympia in 1936) before Greenspan initially tackled the subject in 1964 with Jesse Owens Returns to Berlin. This moving work was honored as one of the most human stories in sports ever told on film and instantly linked him with the Olympics. Several films about the games followed over the years - he became the official Olympic documentarian - the most famous of which were  The Olympiad (1976), a 22-hour series on the history of the Olympics and 16 Days of Glory about the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. That title became synonymous with Greenspan who would go on to craft several more films with the 16 Days of Glory name, including looks at the 1988 Winter and Summer Games (held in Calgary and Seoul), the 1992 Summer games of Barcelona and the 1994 Winter games in Lillehammer. He continued making Olympic films until the Torino Winter games of 2006.

I've seen excerpts from several of his films and am catching up on more this week as Universal Sports of NBC is broadcasting a number of his works from January 1-9, cleverly titled 9 Nights of Glory. The first thing you notice in these films is the photography, as Greenspan amassed an army of cameramen to cover each event. Given the massive amount of film he could work with in the editing room, there were a myriad of camera angles to go with and as you can imagine, the finished product offered us some pretty remarkable views of the competitions. There were the telephoto shots at the end of the 100-meter dash or 110-meter hurdles that compressed the race into a frenzied mass of bodies (admittedly done before), but there were also lovely shots one didn't often see, such as an isolated shot of relay runners waving their hands in an effort to urge on their teammates or a tight focus on a balance beam just before a gymnast made a move.

But while the visuals were bringing you in, it was Greenspan's feel for the hidden stories of the athletes that made his films so compelling. In the Los Angeles 16 Days film, the director captured the most famous participants and their gold medal pursuits (such as the performances of Edwin Moses, Carl Lewis, Mary Lou Retton and Sebastian Coe), but his most deeply felt sections of the film dealt with lesser-known athletes who persisted, yet often failed in their attempt at Olympic glory.

The initial story in the Los Angeles film (after an introductory montage of the opening ceremonies) was classic Greenspan. It dealt with Dave Moorcroft, a British long-distance runner who had set the world record in the 5000 meters just two years earlier. He was expected to be the favorite for the race in 1984, but over the previous two years, he was beset with injuries that affected his performance. The most serious of these was a pelvic disorder that made it severely painful for him to even run.

This condition would come and go and as things turned out, he suffered through it the day of the gold medal race. Greenspan isolates the race of Moorcroft as we watch him drop back farther and farther as the race proceeds; all the while we hear sound clips of the runner and his wife commenting on the fact that they knew he could only make his way around the track instead of competing for gold. Moorcroft was determined to finish the race without being lapped by the leaders near the race's end and this race within a race as filmed by Greenspan is as mesmerizing as the one run by the medal winners.

It's this Olympic spirit of competition and never giving up that Greenspan captured so well in his films. In the Los Angeles film, he also gives us the enthralling story of Japanese judo wrestler Yashuhiro Yamashita, who was expected to win a gold medal quite easily, given his four year undefeated streak coming into the games. But in his second match, the wrestler injured his right leg and he admitted that he might actually lose. Greenspan trains his cameras on Yamashita leaving the ring as he hobbles along for everyone to see; sure enough, his opponents in the next two matches attack his injured leg and it's through sheer persistence - and the dream of a gold medal - that allows him to continue wrestling. It's a touching story and one with a wonderful message.

There was also a brief segment on a rowing competition that is among the most creative sequences I've ever seen in a sports film. Greenspan decided to film this without the benefit of any narration or even identifying shots of what particular race this was; the only sound in this segment is a hauntingly beautiful theme of Lee Holdridge, who composed the stirring score for this work. Who wins the race - indeed even who is competing in the race - is not as important as the race itself, is what Greenspan is saying in this sequence. Indeed, we focus on the little things that makes up this race, from the rowers carrying their boat to the water to the tight images of the athletes moving their oars in perfect harmony. Among the final shots are the reactions of the winners as well as the losers; it is the latter athletes that react in a stronger fashion as having spent every ounce of energy in their efforts to medal, they hang their heads or scowl in disgust over their failure - in this way, they are seen in a lonely, very human light. This is a thing of beauty and after seeing this brief segment, you may never think of the sport of rowing in the same way.

To me what made Greenspan such a wonderful filmmaker was that he realized that sport is as dramatic and as unpredictable an experience as anything in this world. Put these sporting competitions on a stage as big as the Olympics and that drama is increased tenfold. The narratives are there and it was to Greenspan's credit that he found so many little stories - as captivating as the more famous ones as shown by the television coverage at the time - to concentrate on in his work. Few of us, no matter the endeavor, can emerge as the best, so perhaps it was proper that Greenspan focused his cameras on the individuals that fought an uphill battle that while often unsuccessful (at least in terms of winning a medal), displayed the human spirit at its finest.

We should be thankful that Bud Greenspan shared his visions with us over the course of almost 50 years. I, for one, can't wait to watch more of his Olympic documentaries over the next several days.

A Few Words on "Grit"

To start with, I did see the 1969 version of True Grit when it first played in theaters. Considering I was 13 at the time, I only recall a few things from the film, such as the title song performed by Glen Campbell, John Wayne with his eyepatch and Kim Darby as Mattie not using a single contraction in her speech (come to think of it, that's a decent amount to remember after 40 years, I guess.)

So I went into the Coen brothers' remake of this film with open eyes; I could judge this film on its own. My verdict? Outstanding photography, a very good screenplay, but only so-so direction. This is certainly watchable, but except for the last 30 minutes or so, hardly compelling. After seeing the film, you wonder why the brothers bothered remaking this particular piece of work.

It's a pretty straightforward piece of entertainment, at least in terms of the Coens (straightforward for Hollywood these days is usually pretty lame, so I at least give the brothers credit for giving us films that don't insult our intelligence). By now, everyone must know the storyline of how 14 year-old Mattie Ross turns to US Marshall Rooster Cogburn (cranky, lumbersome Rooster Cogburn) to find the man who killed her father. I do like the way the screenplay is organized here as first we are introduced to Mattie (wonderfully played by 13 year-old Hailee Steinfeld) and her stubborn ways (nicely spelled out in a lengthy scene where she negotiates a fee for her losses) and then to Cogburn (Jeff Bridges in a typical charming performance) and his rough and tumble manners (the initial view we have of Cogburn is on a witness stand; his answers and muffled delivery are a nice insight into his character).

But after this opening, things tend to move along from point A to point B in a fairly conventional manner. That might work for some film makers, but one would hardly make the argument that the Coen brothers are conventional. The plot lines are all eventually tied up, but I expected more, especially visually. I say that even as I marvel once again at the remarkable work turned in by director of photography Roger Deakins, who has been the filmmakers' cinematographer since 1991. Is there a more accomplished cinematographer working today? Certainly no one captures low light photography better than Deakins and this visualization is exactly what this story of revenge and murder call for. It's also interesting to see the desaturation of colors in the outdoors scenes, certainly a change of pace from the usual brightly lit skies of a typical Western.

The last half-hour of this film is captivating, as the direction improves, especially in a visual sense. The scene where Rooster takes Mattie for medical help on horseback is quite remarkable; under a star-filled sky, the two characters take on an otherworldly identity. This is one of the most memorable images from any film by the Coens; it's a shame that they couldn't provide more moments such as this in this film. (There is also a marvelous shot of the couple on horseback that leads into the nighttime action, as we see them in silhouette under the setting sun.)

Given the theme of redemption, you understand why the Coens became involved in this project. But at the end of the day, you wonder what drew them to this particular work. It's got it's moments and it's always a pleasure to look at, but it just doesn't have the inventive moments of their best work. They've shown their own true grit often in the past - too bad more of it isn't on display on this occasion.


P.S. I'm quite certain that Roger Deakins will once again be nominated for an Academy Award for his work on this film. If this does indeed happen, it will be his ninth nod - he has yet to win an Oscar. He will, I am happy to report, receive the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Society of Cinematographers (ASC) in 2011.

I am also predicting an Oscar nomination for Hailee Steinfeld for Best Supporing Actress - she truly deserves it!

Two Sides of the Same Coin

"Sometimes it's easier living a lie." - Carl Hanratty (Tom Hanks)

Living a lie is the primary theme of Steven Spielberg's wonderful 2002 film, Catch Me If You Can. On the surface level, this dramatization of how teenage Frank Abagnale, Jr. became one of America's most wanted con men of the 1960s, is about the big lie he lived for several years. But on a deeper level, the film is concerned with the lies between a father and his son, a wife and her husband, a mother and her son as well as a law enforcement officer and his wife and daughter. Ultimately this film has a rather dark message that family values are often hollow and lead us to a road of deception - at the end of the day, how do the lies we encounter in our family lives change our behavior?

Interestingly, the two main combatants of the story, Abagnale (Leonardo diCaprio) and Hanratty, the FBI agent assigned to catch him, have the most honest relationship in the film. Their bond is based on several factors, not the least of which is that neither one can stop what he is doing - Abagnale passing bad checks and impersonating a doctor, lawyer and airline pilot with Hanratty obsessively pursuing Abagnale across the country and even into Europe.

While Hanratty initially treats this case like others he has been involved with in the past, it becomes much more than everyday work for the agent. He soon deduces that Abagnale's behavior is not necessarily prompted by the need to make money and stay a step or two ahead of the law, but in reality to try and save his father from prison. His father had IRS trouble and when his plush suburban house is repossessed, he must move his family into a rather modest apartment. Soon, his wife, bored with her surroundings, cheats on him with one of his friends, no doubt punishing her husband for his lack of success.

Divorce soon follows; this is a shattering moment for the young Abagnale, who is forced to choose which parent he will live with for the remainder of his life (he selects his father, of course, whom he greatly admires). This is a beautifully edited scene by Michael Kahn, as shots of a confused Abagnale in the apartment are intercut with images of him wildly running down a street, away from the family chaos and toward a train station that will offer him a journey that will take him to situations he never imagined.

Abagnale uses his wits to manufacture phony checks and then pass them, making several million dollars illegally. His motive at first is to help his father pay back his debts as well as achieve a better life, but he soon realizes that his father is becoming more distraught as well as a bit unstable. He treasures his father's love and though his father never really abandons him, their relationship becomes frayed.

Missing his father's attention, Abagnale turns to Hanratty, via a series of phone calls, many of them on Christmas Eve. These scenes are among the most touching and deeply felt in the film, as they show the isolation of the two characters, with Hanratty often alone in his dark office late at night and Abagnale by himself in an anonymous hotel room or at a bar. Abagnale contacts Hanratty, not only because he needs someone to talk to, but because he respects his honesty as an authority figure. Hanratty soon welcomes these calls, not only as they help him track down Abagnale, but also as he feels a connection to the teenager; the relationship between his former wife and daughter having been greatly diminished.

In one of the most revealing moments of the film, Hanratty tells Abagnale over the phone that he (Abagnale) called because he had no one else to talk to on Christmas Eve. Hanratty laughs at this and is proud of this sudden discovery, but for Abagnale, this is an affirmation of his loneliness and it scares the wits out of him. Spielberg gives us a reaction shot of a clearly dazed Abagnale that is beautifully composed, with half of his face covering the top of the frame with the phone (out-of-focus) in the bottom half. John Williams' mournful cue, performed here as a saxophone solo, perfectly communicates Abagnale's isolation; this is a turning point for the criminal, who suddenly realizes how his life is not presenting the true freedom he so greatly desires.

Spielberg has always surrounded himself with some of the best technical talent in Hollywood and that craftsmanship is brilliantly on display in this work. Janusz Kaminski, who had become the director's regular cinematographer since Schindler's List (1993), has given us a complex pallette, ranging from the muted browns and yellows of the Abagnale apartment to the kitschy, glowing yellow and orange of Miami and the south in the mid-1960s. Costume designer Mary Zophres performed marvelously here, capturing a large range of looks from the dull colors of corporate world suits to the bright pastel shades of the stewardess uniforms. Kahn's editing keeps this 140 minute film flowing beautifully.

John Williams, who had been composing music for Spielberg's films since Jaws (1975), delivered one of his most distinctive scores that recalled the jazz influences of his early years; the opening theme is a jaunty one featuring saxophone, vibes and even finger snaps! Coming from a composer who wrote so many famous blockbuster themes for full orchestra, this more intimate sound is a nice change of pace. Additionally, the opening theme perfectly suits the wildly inventive animated title sequence that recalls the great title designs of Saul Bass in the 1950s and '60s. (This opening is worth watching in its own right; it was designed by Nexus Productions. I saw this design parodied a few years ago on an episode of The Simpsons - how many title sequences have been so honored?)

There are several excellent performances; Hanks is especially good as the humorless FBI agent who has to put aside his no-nonsense approach for awhile if he is to finally catch his prey; his Boston accent is flawless and you can tell he must have thoroughly enjoyed himself on this film. But it is Christopher Walken as Frank Abagnale, Sr. who steals the show here (he was nominated for a Best Supporting Actor for this role). Walken beautifully underplays his role, moving from self-confidence to utter dismay at his poor fortune in life. So often the actor has gone over the top in his on-screen portrayals and given his image as a unique, slightly oddball individual, no doubt many directors let him do as he preferred. It is to Spielberg's credit to a certain degree that Walken reined things in for this role.

As for Spielberg's direction, it is as subtle and and self-assured as he had delivered to that date (and perhaps since). He is able to find small moments of humor (such as the shot of dozens of model airplanes in a bathtub or the scene where Hanks does his laundry) and glides his camera across sets effortlessly. There is plenty of irony in this story (drying a forged check in a hotel Bible, for example) and the director again communicates this with much less bravado than he had displayed in the past. His direction of the scene when Abagnale is arrested at his mother's new home on Christmas Eve (again, that night!), while Nat King Cole's rendition of The Christmas Song is heard on the soundtrack, is quite touching and sensitive, without the maudlin one might have expected.

Catch Me If You Can is often a light-hearted piece; certainly the mood is often humorous, especially in the middle of the film when Abagnale falls in love with a nurse (innocently played by a young Amy Adams) and then tries to impress her socialite parents. Despite the feel-good way the story resolves itself, this is hardly a film with a joyous message. The repeated shots of Abagnale tearing off a label off various ketchup, soda and champagne bottles point to an unmasking of the truth. Placing a logo on a check will give the appearance of reality, but it is of course, a lie.

The two characters are presented in much the same way - the surface level tells us one thing, but their inner truth reveals something else. In the case of Abagnale, the supposed joy and power of conning others succumbs to a cry for help, as deep down he wants to be caught (hence the retention of his first name Frank for all of his phony identities). For Hanratty, the solemn edge he brings to his work is a mask for the unease and loneliness he feels every day (he cannot bring himself to laugh at his partner's jokes). Catch Me, reads the title, but who is that person?


Photos ©Dreamworks

Goofs on Goofs

goof

verb

1) to blunder, make an error, misjudgment, etc.


noun

2) a foolish or stupid person


One of my favorite websites - and I'm guessing one of the favorite of many film bloggers - is imdb.com. I use the site for many reasons, whether it be checking the filmography of an actor or director or finding a lot of valuable information about a particular movie, as to when it was released, the complete cast and crew as well as images from the film. Often I find myself watching an old film at home and then see a character actor whose face is familiar, but whose name is not. I immediately go to the site and look up his or her name. That's a neat benefit of this site and one can then follow up and see a list of other films this actor appeared in over the course of his or her career.

There are other features on imdb.com and some I love - such as the trivia section as well as memorable quotes - but there is one section that drives me nuts. That is the "goofs" section, where mistakes in a particular film are pointed out. Some of these mistakes are in continuity, while others are visual, such as a microphone being visible in part of the shot or an historical error, such as current automobiles in the background of a scene set in the 1930s or '40s.

This listing of mistakes is supposed to be all fun and games and let's face it, this has been going on for years, even before the internet was with us. Books have been written about film gaffes, so this is nothing new. Yet it's never been as detailed as this, which of course comes as no surprise, given the sensory information overload we deal with via the internet (as well as media outlets) these days. So of course, every possible mistake is singled out for a listing.




Except some of these mistakes really aren't mistakes at all. I noticed this the other day when I saw this listing for a few of my favorite films. Let's start with L.A. Confidential. Here is an actual entry from the goofs section on the site:

At the end when Ed Exley received his medal, he walks Lynn outside. When they are walking outside to the car, Ed doesn't have his medal throughout the end of the movie.

Ok, you've caught the filmmakers in a continuity error here. While it's possible that Exley removed his medal, he'd realistically have no place to put it (it's a large medal worn around his neck), so this is most definitely a mistake. Congratulations, you caught this one.

But then we have this gem:

When Jack Vincennes finds Matt Reynolds's body, there is a close-up shot on Matt's face. In that shot you can clearly see that the vein in his neck is still moving.

I went ahead and watched that scene several times and have yet to see this. Seems to me this is a very realistic shot of a dead man. But if they say they saw it, they must have seen it, right? Perhaps some wishful thinking here?


No movie escapes the wrath of the people looking for goofs, not even a classic such as Chinatown. A few trivial mistakes (such as the sound of the 1930s police siren!) are written about, but here's one that boggles the mind:

When Gittes is driving through the orange groves, the sign says "No Trepassing." "Trepassing" should be spelt "Trespassing."

Did the person who wrote this ever think that the sign was written that way on purpose? That the misspelling of the word "trespassing" as "trepassing" was deliberate to show that the individuals who took care of the orange groves were farmers and perhaps not that well educated? This is listed on the site as a "possible deliberate error by the filmmakers", so the site does realize this, but why even list this at all?




Then there are the goofs for the film Key Largo, the classic Bogart/Edward G. Robinson film directed by John Huston. Now this is one of my favorite films and I've probably seen this at home more than 20 times. I love the film (obviously), but watch just about any film that often and you're bound to notice a few errors, such as the string supporting the model palm trees in a hurricane or the length of Robinson's tie in several continuous scenes. These are pointed out on the site, so they've done their job.

But consider this one:

Describing the summer heat in the Keys, Mr. Temple says that it will cool down in November: "The thermometer will drop to 100 (F, about 38C)", implying that summer temperatures are consistently above 100. This is incorrect. The climate is humid, but the adjacent waters moderate the temperature. Average summer high is 87F (31C). According to the Keys official tourism website, "The hottest it's ever been in Key West is 97º F (36º C), and that was way back in 1880."

Ok, you've done your research on this, good for you! But come on, this is a movie about a gangster taking control over guests at a hotel, it's not a documentary about the climate of Key Largo. When Mr. Temple says that the temperatures will cool down to 100 F, it's a line the audience or viewer can idenitfy with; in other words, it's extremely hot during the summer. Would you rather have him say, "The thermometer will drop down to 87 degrees"? Imagine that line and how it would sound! Please, lighten up here will you?

Finally, the critique I couldn't believe I was reading:

The hurricane passes by unrealistically quickly.

Approximately two minutes of the film are scenes of the height of the hurricane. Apparently whoever wrote this wanted 15 or 20 minutes of hurricane footage. Note to this individual - this is a movie - it's not actual footage of a hurricane! Do you criticize Spartacus for only taking three hours to cover the slave revolt? We all know that took years, right?

Also, did the person who wrote that the hurricane paased by too quickly notice that dissolves were used in the editing? In case you don't know film grammar, a dissolve is used to denote a passage of time. Thus the two minutes of screen time showing the hurricane actually represents a much longer time, perhaps 20 or 30 minutes.

One thing to remember here is that the people who watch these films for goofs (I'm convinced there are people who deliberately look for mistakes) are watching on DVDs, where they can freeze frame or watch at half speed. That's just a bit different than watching this movie in real time in a theater or even at home. Do you think that the filmmakers of the 1940s or even the 1970s knew that their films could one day be watched in this manner? I compare this to baseball umpires who have to instantly judge a bang-bang play at first base and rule safe or out. Watching on tv, we get the luxury of seeing the replay, as often as three or four times, slowed down to a freeze frame. It becomes a little easier this way, doesn't it? The umpire doesn't have this option and it's amazing how often they get it right.

So can we stop this over analysis of every detail in every film? Can we instead focus on what's truly important, such as the film's themes or whether the screenplay is well written and the acting is special? To the goofs who write about goofs in movies, here's a suggestion - get a life!

A Study in Kindness

Lilith (Dir. Robert Rossen, 1964) is a film that deals with the world of mental illness in a most remarkable manner. Unlike too many works that have focused on "lunatics" screaming and acting in an angular way, this film quietly examines how a young female patient changes the life of a wet-behind-the-ears therapist. It's an intelligent film that hasn't received the attention it deserves; it's one of Rossen's most challenging films and it's one of his finest.

The story begins as a young man named Vincent Bruce (cooly played by Warren Beatty) looks for a position at an East Coast mental institute. This is not a location with dungeons and dark settings, but one located amidst the splendor of a lovely forest; this setting is meant to act as a settling influence for these patients, many of whom are diagnosed as schizophrenics.

Vincent has recently returned from the service and is, as many movie characters are at the beginning of dramas such as this, "trying to find himself." But lest you think this film is going to repeat so many clichés, strong writing (one of Rossen's strengths, he adapted the screenplay from a J.R. Salamnaca novel) presents us with a marvelous story as Vincent meets Lilith (Jean Seberg), a beautiful woman in her mid 20s, who appears very normal and rather quaint on the outside, but is a bit of a devil on the inside.

One of the things I like about the screenplay and the way the story unfolds is that we are not told in specific detail why Vincent wants a job as a therapist, especially as he had had no experience. "They'll train me," he tells his grandmother at dinner, in one of the many quiet, relective scenes of the film. It is at that point we learn that Vincent's mother died. A scene soon after has Vincent meet his old flame Laura (Jessica Walter) who is now married (we assume she married during his time away in the military). So we are going to follow a young man, clearly uncertain of who he is and what he wants to be, try and learn about his identity by studying mental patients. I like this conception and it's well managed throughout the film.

Though he has no experience dealing with mentally ill people, Vincent uses his kindness as a way to their soul and it's this quality - and the ease in which he does his work - that makes him a success at his job. He is able to win over Lillith's trust and soon takes her on adventures outside the institute's grounds, where the two of them become more emotionally attracted and attached.



Lilith is not schizophrenic, but rather a nymphomaniac, something we learn over time. Her initial love scene with Vincent is quite erotic, as they embrace near a stream, just a few yards from other patients. Their encounters become more passionate over the course of the film and Rossen films these scenes in a highly charged emotional, yet quiet, manner. Their final love scene is a stunning moment in the film as it takes place in her highly claustrophobic room at the institute. Rossen films the scenes in extreme closeups and there is no music; the only sounds we hear are breathing and other utterances by the actors. At one moment, Lilith lets out a quiet hiss like that of a cat in heat; she is on the prowl here with Vincent lurking next to her. Their kisses here are deeply passionate with tremendous raw energy, much like that of two animals. This scene in particular is aided by the stark black and white photography of Eugen Schüfftan, whose overall work here is excellent in expressing the gray moods of the characters.

Lilith is also carrying on an affair with Yvonne (Anne Meacham) another female patient at the institute. Lilith is also the object of the affections of Stephen (Peter Fonda), a tender, but confused patient; she leads him on, but is clearly not interested in his passions. In one peculiar scene midway through the film, Lilith kisses a young boy of no more than nine or ten years of age when she cannot pay him for a treat he is selling. The young boy is quite happy to kiss her, but she then whispers something in his ear and he pulls back, clearly embarrassed by what he has just heard (thankfully we don't hear what she says, so we can use our imagination). It's a subtle touch that helps us understand how mischievous - and clearly troubled - Lilith truly is.



Jean Seberg's performance in this film is marvelous. It's quite a surprise to see her on screen here, especially if you are used to her pixie haircut and baby face, as witnessed in previous films such as Saint Joan and Bonjour Tristesse. In this film, she has grown into a marvelously beautiful young woman with her glowing eyes and long, blonde hair (she is especially beautiful in the first scene she has with Beatty, wearing a pretty summer dress with an attractive floral pattern). While she admittedly was frightened by her inital experiences on screen, she developed into a talented actress and she gives a very special performance here. This is the type of role that could easily slip away into parody, but Seberg is always cool and under control here, even in the one scene where she vents her anger at Beatty. Her performance is among the many high points of this film and it's not a stretch to say that the film largely succeeds because of her presence.

(It is a shame that she was not given more challenging roles such as this, as she was a gifted actress, as the French had discovered a few years earlier, when Jean-Luc Godard cast her in his film Breathless (1960). She would never have similar acting challenges again after Lilith; tired of the inconsequential roles she was given, she soured on her career and sadly, committed suicide in 1979, at the age of 40.)

The film ends on a troubling note, as Vincent must face the consequences of his actions. The film's final shot and line are memorable in summing up the subtle path this film takes in its efforts to take us into the minds not only of the mentally ill, but the so-called sane individuals (we, the viewers) as well.


Postscript: Lilith was the final film of Robert Rossen, who had one of the more unusual Hollywood careers. An exceptional screnwriter (The Roaring Twenties, The Sea Wolf), he turned to directing in the 1940s and became a success in both fields, most notably for All the King's Men (1949) and The Hustler (1961). Both of those films dealt with the downfall of a man and how that decline came via a woman's charms. While the downfall of Vincent in Lilith - due largely to his interaction with the title character - is not as rapid as that of Willie Stark and Eddie Felson in these other two films, it is nonetheless, just as emotionally shattering.

Final note: Rossen was twice called before the House Un-American Activities Committee, in 1951 and 1953. At his second appearance before the commmittee, he divulged more than 50 names of former or current Communists. Because of that, his name was removed from the blacklist in Hollywood and was able to continue to make films. As mentioned before, Lilith was his last film, He died in 1966.

I've often wondered why Elia Kazan, who gave the same committee names at his appearance in 1952, has been vilified by some in Hollywood for his willingness to name names, yet Rossen who did the same thing, has been spared this criticism.