Just as my brain recovers from the trip to Deauville someone sneaks up from behind and thwacks it with a giant tennis racket. As a result it lands in San Sebastian, Spain about 7 hours before me and stubbornly keeps its distance. The 5 days there play like a slightly damaged DVD with only flashes of coherence breaking through.

This shot from the hotel window does a little bit to help convince me I was there.

The modern structure is the Kursaal, the festival’s 1800 seat theatre. Beyond it is the Atlantic Ocean. The waves are long and sloping and can get massive. Even on a cloudy, rainy day there are at least 100 surfers in the water.

San Sebastian is considered the smallest of the A-List festivals just after Cannes, Berlin and Venice. It gets the big films and celebrities (Tarantino and Brad Pitt were there the day before I arrived) but there is none of the attending bullshit. This gives the festival the rare combination of both glamor and intimacy.

My friend Pepe Colubi arrives from Barcelona. He’s a free-lance journalist and novelist. He’s following me around for a day doing a short piece for the Spanish daily El Pais. Pepe lived for a year in LA in 1983 and is still severely addicted to California surf culture (among other substances). In the hotel lobby he shows my wife Jane and me how to drink an iced double espresso. Pour the hot espresso into a glass of ice. Quickly drink the hot-cold concoction in one gulp. Wait three seconds for the caffeine rush that hits like a snort of coke.

A woman walks up to our table, points at me and exclaims, “Gilipollas!” I’m about to thank her when Pepe informs me this is Spanish for a part of the human anatomy where the sun seldom shines. When she staggers back against the wall I realize she is drunk. She lurches in for another round of invective before hotel security arrives and escorts her out.

The caffeine buzz and and a shot of scotch get us across the street and into the theatre. To my amazement it is almost full; at least 1300 people have shown up at 4:30 in the afternoon.  The film plays to almost complete silence. But, again as in Deauville, no one walks out. At the end a huge, lengthy ovation so passionate it startles me.

The press conference afterwards starts quietly. My brain had not informed me it was taking the day off. It’s not until a journalist asks me what I learned from the film that something stirs awake in me.

“I learned that it is OK to believe so strongly in something that success is irrelevant. The Doors music has never been heard in a commercial. I am hugely inspired by that; especially today when literally everything is for sale.”

Or something like that. You can fast forward through it here.

Afterwards a quick photo session on the promenade just above the beach. Behind me the waves are incredible. In the afternoon sun the water looks like blue jello. All I can think about is getting in it.

Jim Jarmusch is at the festival with his most recent film, The Limits of Control. He and Sara Driver come to the screening of When You’re Strange. At dinner afterwards they both express how much they were impressed by and moved by the film.  I’ve known Jim since 1976. Although we both live in NYC sometimes years go by without us seeing each other. Here in San Sebastian, 4000 miles from home, we sit and talk and it is like nothing has changed. He shows me and Pepe a card trick with no cards.

There is an unusual press event the next morning. In an indoor studio a line of tables has been set up on a fake street set. A number of filmmakers are seated at these tables as if we are at an outdoor cafe. An audience sits before us. Some guy is playing cocktail music on a piano. I’m not sure if it’s my hangover, the jetlag or what he’s playing but the gooey, lite-jazz coming from the piano is beginning to induce dizziness and nausea.

The show is filmed live. The host, a very well informed Spanish TV journalist, goes from table to table doing lengthy interviews with each filmmaker. I’m number four. This gives me time to observe that there is something oddly absurd about this complete stranger coming up to tables at an “outdoor cafe” and just sitting down uninvited. I guess this is what prompts my response when he sits down beside me and asks, “So, Tom DiCillo, When You’re Strange. What can you tell us?”

“Well,” I say, “What I can tell you is that the service at this place is terrible. I ordered a beer two hours ago and I’m still waiting for it.”

The audience laughs. They get the joke. Clearly I had not ordered a beer because it is not a real cafe. But the host’s laugh is tense and uneasy. He says he will take care of it and then explains that the guy at the piano has been playing Light My Fire for 45 minutes. The news floors me. All I can think is thank god Ray Manzarek is not here to hear it.

Two minutes later, to my horror, a real beer is set upon my “table.” The audience applauds. Of course the expectation–even at 9:30 in the morning–is that I drink it.

I raise the glass and take a sip. The audience applauds again. I smile grimly and set the glass back down, exerting great effort not to show the effect the beer has gurgling and fizzling down into my empty stomach.

I had honestly thought it was a good line.

That night a drunken Basque woman crawls out from beneath my bed and stabs me in the teeth with a cocktail swordfish. I open my eyes and I’m driving north in the rain on the New York Thruway. When You’re Strange is showing in 6 hours at the Woodstock Film Festival.

Festival co-founder Meira Blaustein had seen the film at the LA Film Festival. She liked it so much she immediately phoned me with an invitation. And immediately, I said yes. Woodstock has emerged as one of this country’s most unique and exciting festivals in the 10 years since Blaustein founded it with her partner, Laurent Rejto. Because of their profound commitment to film the festival attracts impressive attendance from actors and players in both the independent film world and Hollywood.

The festival headquarters is in an old bar/coffee shop just off the main street. There is a quick request for a radio interview. Just before we go live the producer urgently reminds me not to say “the  F word.”

“I thought this was Woodstock,” I mutter.

“This is a Republican funded radio station.”

During the interview all I can think about is the F word. Will I say it? Should I say it? Did I just say it? Finally the interviewer wraps up by asking, “So, what’s next for you with this crisis in independent film?”

“Well, I’m seriously contemplating opening a lingerie store.”

He stares at me. “Women need lingerie,” he says finally. Behind him I see the producer wince as if in agony.

I stroll through the town. An odd feeling comes over me as I pass folk art galleries, Tibetan jewelry stores and health food bakeries. I stop in front of a store selling tie-dyed clothing and pot paraphernalia. Richie Havens singing High Flying Bird comes through the open door. A sign above it reads, Hippies Welcome. Kevin Corrigan walks out. He was in Living In Oblivion and Delirious. He’s at the festival with two films. He’s also a huge Doors fan and had turned me on to a CD of a rare Jim Morrison interview that I used in a key scene in When You’re Strange.

We share an embrace before he’s gone, rushing off to a screening of one of his films. 

BMI hosts a dinner for musicians and films about music at the festival. I meet Michael Lang, the founder of the original Woodstock music festival. Barbara Kopple, a filmmaker I greatly admire is there along with Leon Gast who made the brilliant documentary When We Were Kings.

At 10 pm I’m driven to the theatre for the screening of When You’re Strange. The parking lot is jammed. The woman who is driving me finds a spot then says quietly, “I’m not sure if you’re into it but I feel compelled to ask; would you like to sample a bit of Woodstock organic homegrown?”

Now, here are the facts: in 10 minutes I have to stand up in front of 500 people and introduce the film. Then I have to do a 25 minute Q & A after the screening. With that in mind I turn to look at this woman driver. She’s a little older than me and attractive in a soft, pleasantly plump sort of way. Her long black hair is pulled back in a thick ponytail. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses reflect the light from a slowly passing car. As she smiles she suddenly reminds me of my highschool art teacher.

It is of no consequence whether I do or do not inhale but I will say this; that night I give the best introduction to the film I’ve ever done. In fact, when I slip into my seat filmmaker Richard Linklater surprises me by leaning over and whispering, “You nailed that one, dude!”

Watching the film with the Woodstock audience is truly enlightening. Most of them have lived through the events in the film; the rise of the Youth Movement, the anti-Vietnam War protests, the drug experimentation and the belief in tolerance and acceptance for all Americans–men and women. Every time these themes are addressed in the film the audience applauds, laughs or yells at the screen. And they all move to the music.

At that moment I realize what I’d been feeling walking through town–a surprising sense of familiarity. These ideas had a huge impact on me when I was 17. They formed a large part of my consciousness, especially the belief in artistic freedom and the rejection of automatic obedience to Authority. For the first time I realize how deeply ingrained these ideas are in the film.

Afterwards, an amazing response comes from Leon Gast. He puts his hands on my shoulders, looks me directly in the eye and says, “You had me from the first second. And you never let go.”

In the morning I speak on a panel called Music In Film. It is hosted by Doreen Ringer Ross from BMI and ends up being that rare public discussion that is both informative and entertaining as hell. It is interesting to me as I tell a very heavy story about my nightmares with an ego-ridden composer that I am the only one not laughing.

Again, you can wander through clips from the panel here.

I stick around afterwards to listen to a panel on The Crisis In Independent Film. The panelists are all key players in the independent film world. I am extremely anxious to hear what they have to say. The stock market crash has had a devastating effect on the community. Every filmmaker I know is talking about how awful things are. Nothing is being made. Five independent studios have folded in the last year. Only films with huge bankable stars even have a chance of getting financed. With two new scripts just entering the development stream, yes, I am very curious to hear some advice from the front lines.

Despite my genuine respect for all the panelists I start to get the sense that nobody really knows what’s going on. There is a lot of talk about “new models, out of the box creative financing, the great power of the new inexpensive media and the unexplored value of the internet.” But no one talks about how to get a film in front of an audience. Then, one panelist drops this bombshell,

“The theatrical release now has a diminished importance, occupying only one small layer of a many-tiered marketing campaign for a film.”

All the panelists agree.

My brain starts cramping. I’m just as much a realist as anyone else but what is a film without a theatrical release? The entire concept of cinema was born out of theater and public performance. The first narrative films were really nothing more than filmed plays. No one, then or now, would ever have considered putting on a play for an audience of one. That experience is generally called reading a book. Film began as a communal experience. Going to the cinema in large, sweaty clumps of humanity was the way film became scorched into the massive public consciousness and became Bigger Than Life.

It was not until the introduction of the VHS tape that individual, personal ownership entered the equation. Now people could take the film home and watch it on their TV’s. Now an ancillary market sprang up for revenue after the theatrical release. Home video was born. A completely different way of watching a film emerged. Alone. By yourself. On a pale, 2-foot screen next to the radiator.

How is this a victory or a way to survive the Crisis? To me it is a tragedy of gargantuan proportions. It means the only films that will screen in theatres will be the spectacle films; the “high-concept” lobotomizers about robots, 3D mice and the end of the world.

Somehow though, I walk out into the daylight inspired. I don’t think people are going to let the theatrical experience become extinct. Seeing the audience’s reaction even to the Doors film convinces me of that. There will always be a fierce and passionate desire for people to gather together in groups and allow the art of cinema to do its magic. It will be harder to get an independent film into a theatre; there is no question about that. But, I’m excited about it. It’s like the wild west again. 

No laws, no rules. Anything goes. Anything can happen.

I go back to my room and pack. The festival had arranged for me to spend the night in the guest room of someone’s house deep in the woods. The owner’s car is in the driveway but no sound comes from the house. A light fog settles in outside the window. This is me in the room.

This is me not in the room.

This is more of a News Update than a specific post. It may also serve to remind people I’m still here. Been kinda busy.

The developments on When You’re Strange are good. I can’t go into much detail because there are several scenarios being played out, all with their own positives and complexities. But, the jist of it is this: there is serious interest from US distributors for a theatrical release. In addition, several offers have come in from France; again for a theatrical release in that territory. Once one major international territory commits it should pave the way for other offers.

My understanding is that some decisions will be made this week. As soon as I know anything definite I will post it. Believe me, I’m waiting for news as anxiously as everyone else.

The film has been invited to the Deauville International Film Festival in France in early September. It looks like the whole gang is going over for the event. Deauville is right on the Normandy coast where the first waves of US infantry landed on D Day. It’s a great festival, focusing primarily on American films. I have been there with 4 previous films and Living In Oblivion won Best Picture there in 1995.

It is a significant festival to premiere the film in France at. The French have developed a strong affection for The Doors and especially for Jim who is buried in Paris. With a French distributor in place (hopefully) the festival can be used to jump-start the French theatrical release.

That’s it. That’s what I know.

Creating an energized, productive set begins long before you ever get there. It starts with the people you’ve chosen to join the team. Making a decision about who to hire is never easy. No matter how carefully you consider someone you never really know if the Production Designer you’ve just hired is going to show up one day and reveal themselves to be a total whackjob.

Here are some guidelines that have helped me occasionally. They are not foolproof but at least they may give you a place to start. They refer mainly to low, or no budget films where there is no money to buy talent or allegiance.

Your goal is to hire the most talented, dedicated person for the job. On a low budget film your only lure is your reputation as a director or the script itself. It won’t be the money. But, you still have the right to expect the best. You have the right to believe that intelligent, talented people are out there who just might take the job because they’re interested in you and the project.

It is crucial to be able to discern the level of that interest. You should expect the highest. You do not want someone working for you, no matter how talented, who is not completely inspired by you and the film. This brings up a very common dilemma. Should I hire the genius who is partially inspired, or should I go with a lesser known talent who would cut off their arm to do the film?

I still find the decision a complicated one. But I’ve come to realize that passion and commitment ultimately outweigh talent–especially when it is accompanied by neurosis. Every time I’ve hired someone based on their stature or reputation it has come back to haunt me. Every time. I’ve found that it doesn’t matter how talented someone is; if they feel like they’re doing you a favor by taking the job you will ultimately get screwed.

Note to any hirees reading this: if you’re not willing to commit yourself to the job 100% don’t take it. Do yourself and everybody else a favor and spend the 8 weeks cleaning out your refrigerator or smoking opium or both.

On Delirious I had a number of experienced Location Managers to choose from. One of the last people I saw was a young guy who’d only worked as an assistant LM. He was a little nervous at the meeting and kept referring apologetically to his meager resume. After 20 minutes of talking to him I gave him the job. It took only a few days of pre-production to realize his commitment to the film was complete. Every time a location fell through he found me a better one. On the rare instances that he made a mistake he worked triple time to correct it. He ended up being one of the best people I’ve had on any of my crews.

Maybe I was just lucky. There is a huge risk factor when you hire this way. No amount of enthusiasm will make up for incompetence. This is where your ability to talk to people, to get inside them, to really make a clear judgement of their potential becomes so important. Do they understand what you’re trying to do with the film? How do they work with other people? How do they communicate? Why do they really want the job? Go ahead and ask these questions. You’ve got nothing to lose. The more direct you are the more chance you have of avoiding disaster.

Talk to people who’ve worked with the person you’re considering. If another director has had a good experience with them they’ll be happy to pass that information on. Most directors, knowing how destructive a bad choice can be, will tell you the truth. Listen to it.

Fellini talked about the concept of “willingness” in a documentary called I’m A Born Liar. He said if everybody working on the film is willing, then no problem is unsolvable. Willingness means that everyone is unified in their commitment to the film and is open to doing whatever it takes to find a solution. There are no rules; no regulations or restrictions. Only possibilities.

I have experienced this willingness many times. It is unbelievably powerful. I’ve also experienced the opposite and only at those times have I ever said to myself, “I never want to make another fucking movie.”

On Box Of Moonlight, I stepped away from a composer I’d been working with for three films to hire Devlin Z, a well-known musician who’d scored some big independent movies. I gave him complete freedom. Twice a week I’d go down to his apartment and listen to what he’d written. I was alarmed to hear that the music was consistently dark and sour.  Nonetheless, I kept encouraging him, keeping my comments positive and supportive. One night, sensing he was in particular need for stroking, I called Devlin and said,

“I appreciate the effort you’re putting into this and the score is going to be great.”

“I know it is,” he said. “But it’s hard for me. My music is a gift. It’s my gift. It just comes out of me and it’s really, really difficult to just give it to you.”

I was a little confused and at this point slightly annoyed by his narcoleptic moping. “Are you saying you’re returning the $80,000 I convinced my producers to pay you?”

“No!” he sniffed, furious that he even had to hear something so idiotic.

The music began sounding more and more like it was written by a suicidal junkie nodding out at the piano. Three weeks later, just after the final mix, I realized I had to jettison Devlin’s entire score. The film shut down for two months while my original composer re-scored the film for almost nothing.

If someone ever uses this “gift” phrase to you I’d appreciate it if you slapped them for me. Their contribution is not a gift to you but an equal collaboration that benefits you both. If they don’t understand that fire them immediately.

The more you depend on someone and the greater their creative responsibility the greater the potential for conflict. That is why the two most volatile relationships for the Director are with 1. your lead actor, and 2.  your Director of Photography. In most cases you can’t make the film without either of them. In most cases they’ll make sure you know that.

The next most potentially disruptive relationship is between the Director and the Production Designer–again because you need their eye. After that, it’s between your Director of Photography and your Production Designer. They tend to hate each other and take great pleasure in making each other’s lives miserable, especially when they are competing for your approval. I will discuss each of these Conflict Areas in future posts.

Oddly, I have never had conflicts with Costume Designers. Jennifer Von Meyerhauser was my Designer on Double Whammy. One night we were shooting late, racing to finish a scene that involved a 12 year old white kid named Ricky. We were shooting in the depths of Newark, New Jersey, in a bombed out burger joint we’d restored for a day of shooting. The place was going to be demolished in the morning. Cut-off shooting time for Ricky was 1 am and the Child Welfare rep was on set to make sure. At 12:57 there was still one crucial shot I needed. The rep emphatically denied my plea for more time. The crew began taking down the lights. I was devastated.

Suddenly Jennifer came running up holding the hand of a young African-American girl who’d been watching us shooting. Jennifer had asked her to try on Ricky’s costume–jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt–which all fit her perfectly. I quickly changed the shot so it would only shoot her from the waist down. The crew threw the lights back up. Everybody was yelling, racing against the clock. I showed the young girl where she needed to walk and screamed Action!

She was so caught up in our mad frenzy she literally ran through the set like a startled rabbit. I called her back, apologized and calmly explained that she needed to go much slower. This was hard for me because I was fighting a fierce spasm of exhausted hilarity. The next take was perfect and we made it out just in time. We paid the girl and I thanked her so profusely I know she thought I was insane.

Every time I see that part of the film I think, “Look how crazy making a film is. Those are not the legs and feet of a little white boy named Ricky, but the slender limbs of a sweet, brown-skinned young stranger whose willingness saved my ass.”

CHRONIC

After the financing fell through on Box Of Moonlight for the 3rd time I got an email from one Fred Knimble. Fred had a production company based in South Africa that was looking for low-budget independent films. I sent him the script. He loved it. My producer Marcus Viscidi and I quickly worked out an option agreement that gave Fred and Uberlight Productions sole rights to the script for 8 months. During that time Fred and his partner in Los Angeles, Daryl Pelts, would attempt to raise 6 million dollars. Marcus and I were ecstatic. We’d never had that much money to make a film.

Over the next few months I spoke to Fred and Daryl many times on the phone, discussing casting, schedule and locations. Marcus actually met Daryl at a Dairy Queen in Malibu and was sufficiently impressed to get over having to drive all the way out there from West Hollywood.

Raising the cash was more difficult than Uberlight expected. But as soon as one French film fund faded away they called us with news that some Swiss money was pending. After 4 months they’d only raised $300,000; all from the sale of Fred’s grandmother’s jewelry. I wasn’t sure if she died before or after the sale but weeks later we were informed this money had been spent on “capital investitures.”

The warning bells were waking the neighbors at this point. At 7 months we got a surprise offer from Savior Films, another production company that had 5 million dollars already in the bank. Marcus and I informed Uberlight of the new offer but assured them that if they raised the 6 million in this last month of their option we would stay with them.

Fred and Daryl were upset. They were “inches away” from securing all the money from Brazil and wanted a 2 month extension on the option. Marcus and I courteously declined. Three days after Uberlight’s option expired we signed a deal with Savior. I never felt happier. The next day Uberlight sued us.

Savior immediately canceled our deal, saying, “We’re not investing money in a film stuck in litigation. Clear it up and come back to us.”

Neither Marcus nor I could afford a lawsuit. So, we had to go to Uberlight and ask what their terms were. Though they hadn’t raised a dime they insisted on full producing credits with Savior, and 2 million dollars to cover their expenses. Savior instantly rejected this and retreated even further with their 5 million dollars.

Despite numerous personal appeals Uberlight would not budge. I was entering my 5th year of trying to raise the money for this film. To see it actually sitting there in the bank and not be able to touch it was driving me insane. As the days went by my mood plummeted. At any moment my hands would clench, sometimes as if gripping a machete, other times as if firing a machine gun.

Then, one night around midnight my phone rang.

A woman spoke in a soft, hesitant voice. She said she was Daryl’s sister-in-law and had some information for me about “the lawsuit.” She was about to tell me when she stopped. “I can’t, I can’t,” she murmured. “It’s my sister’s husband.”

I wanted to reach through the phone and grab her by the neck. Instead I just played the guy who is really depressed and troubled but nonetheless is deeply understanding of family bonds.

“I understand completely,” I said.

She stayed on the phone. Apparently Daryl had said something very nasty to her sister, “making her feel like nothing; you know? Just nothing.”

I said I knew the feeling. She agreed to meet me in the morning.

The rendezvous point was a Dunkin’ Donuts on 23rd street. I walked in and there she was, sitting alone by the window. She was about 30 but she looked 50. I couldn’t tell what it was but there was something slightly damaged about her, like a pie someone had poked their finger into. Her name was Reena. She spoke for an hour.

She started with Fred Knimble. The reason he was in South Africa was because he was wanted in Maryland on drug-trafficking charges and if he set foot in the US he’d be arrested immediately. She even knew about the grandmother’s jewelry money but cleared up where it had been spent; on some very good coke.

When she got to Daryl her voice tightened. She hated him for what he was doing to her sister. The two had split up a year ago and now Daryl was living in a shack on the beach just south of Malibu. This explained the location for the meeting with Marcus. She said it really was a shack; plywood walls and plastic sheeting for the ceiling. He got electricity by tapping into a street light and spent almost all of his time surfing porn on the internet. I almost asked her how she knew this.

Then she told me on her own. One of the reasons her sister had left Daryl was that, ”He was a chronic–” She paused and gazed at me with eyes murky with mascara and anxiety. They seemed to be encouraging me to finish for her.

“Gambler?” I offered.

“No.” Another blinking silence. “Masturbator,” she finally stated.

“Chronic?” I repeated like an idiot.

“Yes. All day. Every day. You’d never see him without a box of kleenex.” Marcus hadn’t mentioned this.

As disturbing as it was, Reena’s information gave me everything I needed to simply ignore the lawsuit from Uberlight. As I thanked her profusely she lay a damp hand on my wrist. Then she squeezed, very softly. Another long look, but this time I could almost swear I saw something different in the raccoon eyes. And it confused the hell out of me. She’d just saved me, I admit that. But did she expect me now to somehow “thank” her? Right there in Dunkin’ Donuts?

I eased my hand free and gave her what I felt was a very grateful smile. I told her I was deeply indebted to her and if there was anything I could do to help her she should just let me know. She placed a box of cd’s onto the table. “For you,” she said. “It’s all me, singing and playing the harmonica. I think my songs would go really well in your movies.”

“Wow, Reena, thanks,” I said. “I’m always looking for new music.” I slipped out the door just as she was about to take my hand again.

Uberlight’s lawsuit quickly evaporated. A week later we signed the deal with Savior. Two weeks later Savior went out of business.

Whacked but fact. Every word.

File Under: Raising The Money.          Subcategory:  The Family Jewels.

Moral: When you’re looking under every rock for the money be prepared to meet a few slugs. I should have been more vigilant in checking Uberlight’s credentials. I was so desperate to get the money I never noticed they hadn’t produced a single film. But, I was smart enough to get something in writing. Always insist on it. If a financier gets pissy about a deal memo or a contract walk away. I know that sounds terrifying especially if they claim to have the cash but trust me, they will respect you more. A written agreement is standard operating procedure and only chronic chicken chokers will balk at it. I did listen to Reena’s music. It was awful. But I felt so grateful (and guilty) I kept the cd’s for almost 5 years before re-gifting them. Every now and then some errand takes me by that Dunkin’ Donuts on 23rd street. It will forever be accompanied by the sensation of a heavy, moist hand laying upon my wrist.

I’m happy to report MovieMaker Magazine has invited this blog to appear simultaneously on their online site www.moviemaker.com. For my regular readers the only change you may notice is more posts. I will continue writing exactly as I have done for the past 2 years. However, some of the new posts will confront independent filmmaking in more detail; writing, acting, casting, directing, sleeping, editing, dealing with distributors–everything from the agony of success to the thrill of defeat.

To the hugely supportive and patient Doors fans, don’t worry. I will continue posting every development of When You’re Strange. In the meantime, you may glean something from the filmmaking posts. I promise you they will contain the same level of honesty and idiocy I have heretofore attempted.

Here is the 1st in a new series of posts under the general heading of Whacked But Fact. These are actual incidents that have happened to me. They will appear when I remember them. For legal reasons and for physical safety, name changes are obligatory.

SABOTAGE
On Johnny Suede, I spent a long time looking for a good director of photography. It was my first film and I wanted it to reflect what I believed was a vision unique to me and my brain. After many months I chose Vic Nesbitz. He was young, smart and had a reel that showed a strong, original eye. He also had some great ideas and I encouraged him to keep them coming. He was aware that I’d shot a few films as an accidental cinematographer and I didn’t want him to feel pressured or restricted by my experience. He actually knew much more about light and color than I did. So, I let him know I was more than happy to put the visual responsibilities in his hands. He seemed to appreciate this.

Two weeks into filming something odd began happening. Shots came up in dailies that were out of focus and had faces half out of frame. I mentioned this to Vic. He shrugged and said he’d take care of it. The shrug worried me. The errors continued.

One afternoon we had a break during a scene by the Hudson River in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Vic and I were standing at the camera waiting for a light to be set up. Something out on the water caught my eye. A rusting freighter was moving up the river. The low angle of the sun cast the ship in rich, golden light, highlighting its peeling red and white paint. Behind it, the bristling NYC skyline lay in deep shadow.

I quickly motioned to Vic. “Let’s get a shot of that freighter. I could use it as a cutaway in this scene.”

As I watched the ship gliding past in the shaft of light I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. Then I noticed Vic hadn’t moved. Thinking he hadn’t heard me I said even more quickly, “Hey, Vic. Get me a shot of that freighter.”

This time Vic moved. He turned the camera on and put his eye to the eyepiece. It may have been my first film but it wasn’t my first time on the set. Something was definitely strange. But as I watched him pan with the ship until it disappeared I thought, “Well, that was weird but at least I’m getting the shot.”

The next night the shot came up in dailies and there was an instantaneous gasp from the exhausted group of us watching. The shot of the freighter was astonishingly beautiful. For about 1 second. Then the camera jerked forward, reframed and jerked again. For the duration of the shot the camera never stabilized, rendering it completely useless.

This time I was not so polite to Vic. He said he didn’t understand what I was so upset about. When he shrugged, I finally fired him.

Three months later. I’m in the editing room. I’m stuck on this same scene by the river. I need a cutaway. In a desperate fit of wishful thinking I convince my editor to pull up the shot of the rusting freighter. Hoping against hope, we watch it again.

Again, we see there isn’t a single usable piece. I pick up the phone. I call Vic. I say to him, “Vic, you shot more than a third of this film. Your name will appear in the credits. People are going to ask why I had two cinematographers. I need you to tell me right now, what the hell were you doing?”

There is a momentary silence. Then I’m stunned to realize Vic is crying softly. Finally he speaks. “You’re right, Tom,” he whispers. “I was so jealous of you directing your first movie that I was intentionally sabotaging it.”

Whacked but Fact. Every word.

File Under: Hiring Your Crew. Subcategory: What the fuck?!!

Moral: Because this business combines money, glamor, art and fame it attracts people that are 84.6 % of the time, certified nutjobs. Always, always talk to people who’ve worked with the person you’re considering hiring. But I got something out of Vic. He was one of those DP’s that loved all his equipment, almost like a fetish. He dressed in black and wore his meters around his waist like high-tech automatic weapons. I heard a few years later he was claiming to be the inspiration for the eye-patched cinematographer I named Wolf in Living In Oblivion. No. I didn’t steal the eyepatch idea. That was mine. What I took was his leather vest, half-finger gloves and beret which helped add just the right touch of gay motorcycle cop I felt was crucial to Wolf’s character.