When You’re Strange has finished its two screenings at the LA Film Festival. Many of you have written in with your comments and reactions which I greatly appreciate. Early word seems to be that the film was well received. I could not be there but I wrote a brief statement which was read before both screenings.

In addition, a separate screening was held for Johnny Depp and a number of others, including John Densmore. Johnny Depp’s reaction to the film was strong and positive. He appeared deeply moved and expressed gratitude at being asked to contribute.

Jac Holzman was also at this screening. Holzman is the founder of Elektra Records. He first saw the Doors at the Whisky in LA and is solely responsible for signing them and introducing them to the world. His influence guided the Doors throughout their career. He nurtured them, encouraged them and fiercely protected their desire to make the music exactly the way they wanted.

After the screening he wrote me a letter. I’m copying it here not because I want people to see another “positive” opinion of the film. When I first started work on the film I was almost paralyzed with terror at the enormity of the task that confronted me. Not only did I have to discover something truthful in myself to say about this brilliantly complex band, I had to find a way to put that on film.

Holzman’s words, coming from someone who knew the Doors with infinitely more intimacy than I ever could, are actually more of a relief than anything.

Tom - I saw the screening over the weekend and was just knocked out. There have been many attempts at a Doors film AND so many abject failures that I had despaired of anyone getting it “right.” And by “right” I meant just letting the band and their music hit a contemporary audience full blast.

I have lived with The Doors for 43 years and understand that the sheer power and danger of the group had to come out through their music even more than in live performance footage. You got that just right. In the context of all the music that flowed into the mighty rock ‘n’ roll tributary, The Doors still excite, chill, inform and challenge the listener.

The canny addition of the HWY material as context-within-context, the intense editing without showiness, sound mixing , Johnny Depp’s subtle phrasing and solid narration all fuse into one of the great films about music and the crazy, driven people who have no choice but to create it. Pondering the movie later I realized what guts it took for Ray, Robbie and John even to get on a stage with Jim. Only the best and most committed musicians could have made that work.

When You’re Strange viscerally plugs into that tremulous period when The Doors represented the furthest edge to which one might aspire without actually getting arrested. I’ve alerted my associates at Warner Music Group about the June 30th screening in New York. I’ve told them this is a “must see” music movie.

Jac

I wrote earlier the director is the captain of the ship. I did not mean Captain Bligh. But you’d be amazed how many people say the main reason they want to be a director is so they “can tell people what to do.” Certainly valid. Although it might help to keep in mind that most people who operate under this principal have been assassinated.

Directing is not telling people what to do. It is setting up an environment where everyone feels valued and inspired to give you their best work; from each member of the crew to all the actors, including extras and stand-ins. The director’s vision is not a license to treat people like shit. Tyranny only makes people miserable. They start to hate their jobs and contribute less and less until they’re doing only the barest minimum to keep from getting fired.

Some directors refuse to even talk to the crew. They think it weakens their power to be seen interacting with the “workers.” To me the crew is the backbone of the entire film. Making a film is hard work. The hours are long, the food is terrible and the pay (if any) is crap. Add to this a director who is condescending and worse, unconcerned about how his actions are affecting the crew and the mutiny knives quickly begin to sharpen.

Directing requires you to be firm, clear and honest. It requires you to be in control. But that doesn’t mean disrespecting the people you’ve hired to help you. Each of them has something they can contribute to the film. You weaken nothing when you encourage them and treat them as equals. In fact, when everyone is working this way–working for the film–nothing can stop you. 

The set is actually a direct reflection of who you are. It shows exactly how you deal with people; how you deal with fear, disappointment and conflict–all in a very public arena. Fear is the most universal emotion for any director. It is also the most universally denied. Everyone has felt it but no one wants to admit it. This is because we live in a culture that instantly equates any kind of confusion or self-doubt with weakness.

The fear is usually an inner voice screaming, “I have no idea what I’m doing and everyone can see it!” Sometimes this is true. The best thing you can do at these moments is stop and acknowledge you’re confused about something. If you can’t untangle it by yourself see if someone on your team can help you. The worst thing you can do is lock yourself behind a wall of rigidity. This is a false security. It actually weakens you, no matter how loud the tantrum you throw. It shows everyone that you’re not honest, that you can’t see yourself. It immediately makes people wonder what else you are not seeing. It makes them question if a drunk, or a blind man is steering the ship.

The director’s vision goes far beyond the artistic and the self. You also have to see everything that is going on around you. One day on Delirious it was taking an unusual amount of time to get a shot of Buscemi. No one seemed to know what the delay was. Then I noticed the boom operator muttering to the sound man through her microphone. She tried to find another position with her boom but gave up and walked away in exasperation.

I went over and asked the sound man what was going on. “It’s Camera,” he said. “There’s so many lights we can’t get a position for the mike without throwing a shadow on Buscemi’s face.”

I drew the DP aside and mentioned this to him. He said, “Oh, OK. No problem.” He killed one light, the boom operator found a good spot and we rolled a minute later.

This also reveals how crucial communication is on a film set. Everyone needs to know what’s going on. And again, it all starts with the director. That’s why you have to be as clear as possible with what you want. From the moment you walk on the set you’re bombarded with thousands of questions. You have to answer them. The generator driver wants to know if his truck is in the shot. You can’t just say “I don’t know” and walk away. I mean, you can but you might end up with a screwdriver flung into your back.

No power can be run and no lights can be set up until the generator is parked. If you really don’t know if it’s in the shot, I’d suggest explaining that. Just say, “Listen, I’m not exactly sure what the actors are going to do here. We may end up seeing that side of the street. To be safe you should park the genny around the corner.” I guarantee the genny operator will be much happier to hear this than a frenzied scream to move hours after everything is set up.

People want to be able to do their jobs. It makes them happy. It doesn’t make them happy if they have no idea what’s going on and they’re convinced no one else does either. Creating this kind of clarity is another part of the director’s vision. Every department is waiting for the green light that sets them moving in a real direction. This momentum is what drives the film forward.  It needs to be built and sustained, from the entire film to the smallest shot. Everything falls apart the moment the camera stops. Everybody starts tweaking, talking, eating Oreos. Part of your job as director is to gather everyone together again. Re-form. Re-focus. And with calm, clear determination get the camera rolling again. 

Of course a good Assistant Director and Line Producer will help. But it is the director’s vision that is the truly lasting glue. People need to know and understand what it is. They need to believe in it and commit themselves as a group to achieving it. You want to allow people to take pride in their work but, you also need to make sure they’re not on a solo mission. The Production Designer’s desire to get a swanky, high-tech set on his reel may be conflicting with the real needs of the film. Unfortunately, this self-interest happens a lot. Some of it is innocent; some isn’t.

One night, on Johnny Suede, we were setting up one of the final shots of the film. The scene required an intense emotional commitment from Brad Pitt. As I watched him prepare in a corner of the set, I could see him building the personal investment he knew he needed to bring to the scene. I told the DP I was ready to shoot. He said, “10 minutes.”

20 minutes later he was still tweaking. I glanced over at Brad still sitting quietly in the corner, his eyes closed in concentration. The DP again said he needed 10 minutes. 15 minutes later he was still tweaking. I finally asked the gaffer what was going on. He informed me the DP was running cable 20 blocks down the street to light the side of a building that was barely visible through the window Brad was to be seated at. I stopped the cable run immediately. I called Brad over and we started shooting. Although we only had half the time I’d wanted Brad’s preparation held and he blossomed in the scene.

The DP got a little sulky but the way I see it he’s lucky I didn’t hit him with a crowbar. What was best for the film at that point? A useless fragment of ornamental lighting or an actor’s performance with the potential to illuminate a crucial emotional moment?

This is why it is truly a miracle that any film gets made. Thankfully, the moments of real collaboration and creative interaction are so powerful they keep you alive. And they keep you coming back for more.

When I was 23, I moved to NYC and started classes at NYU Film School.  As the months went by I kept waiting for the day when I would actually learn something. I knew the art of directing could not be taught. I knew the faculty was doing their best to provide the basic fundamentals of filmmaking but still, something was missing.

Some of it had to do with my classmates. They were mostly guys, all with goatees and backwards baseball caps. One freaked me out by coming to class one day with his hat so far backwards it was actually forwards. This cutting edge spirit was reflected in their films which were strictly divided between stories of film students trying to get pizza delivered to their dorm rooms and lovesick, guitar-playing mimes in Washington Square Park.

After 3 years I walked out with an MA in Directing and the profound sense I had no idea what I was doing.

These words are an attempt to make up for that. They come after 7 films and 25 years as a NY independent filmmaker. They are not meant to be gospel. They only reflect what sometimes works for me. Some may find them simplistic. In some ways they are nothing more than common sense. They are however based in reality and an apparently endless cycle of falling down and getting up again. If one or two aspiring filmmakers find some value in them then at least I won’t feel so bad about paying all that tuition.

The Director’s Job is Everything.

Many people have come up to me over the years and said, “I really, really want to be a film director.” The first thing I ask is, “Why?” This isn’t meant to be sarcastic. It’s a real question. If you’re looking for the Path the answer to this question will help you because being a film director requires the immediate acceptance of two facts:

1. There is no Path.

2. The Director’s job is Everything. 

I’ll start with #2 because #1 requires much stronger medication.

In 1998 I wrote and directed, Box Of Moonlight, starring John Turturro and Sam Rockwell. The film was an attempt to break out of the gritty urban cinemascapes I’d been working in; to re-examine the small town America I knew as a kid. Much of the script was about the simple pleasures of jumping naked into a quarry, sleeping outside at night and getting arrested for throwing tomatoes. But, for some reason, it was one of the most grueling shoots I’ve ever been on.

Everything went wrong. On the first day of shooting the crane fell off its tracks and it took 6 hours to get it back on. The rain, the long hours, the bickering of the crew and the actors all started blackening my spirit. All the minutia of chaos began to infuriate me. The camera department forgot to order film. As a result we had to shoot long night scenes with tiny left-over rolls of film.

Another scene required Turturro to walk barefoot along a rocky path. During the take I saw him stumble and flinch but he finished the scene. The moment I said cut, he erupted in rage. He’d broken his toe. He was incensed no one had cleared the path of pebbles and sticks. Much of his anger was directed at me which only further darkened my mood. All I could think about was, ”What the fuck does this have to do with directing?”

My wife came down to visit. She immediately noticed my state of mind and said, “Your mood is affecting the entire film. You are the captain of the ship. That means everyone is looking to you. If you’re in a bad mood they all feel it.”

The day she returned to NYC she left me a drawing of a stick figure on a tiny boat with the words, “Captain of the ship” penciled on it. As much as I appreciated it, in my mental state the waves she’d drawn looked enormous, as if they were going to wash me overboard at any moment.

That day we were filming underwater in an outdoor swimming pool. Turturro, Rockwell, Catherine Keener and Lisa Blount had to jump into the water over and over. The day started out sunny but quickly turned cold and gray. The actors were wearing only bathing suits. At one point I looked up from the camera and saw them all huddling together; wet, sullen and shivering.

I asked the 1st AD to hook up a heater. He said we didn’t have one. I went to the wardrobe department (sitting in hats, scarves and parkas) and asked for some coats. They said there were none. I asked for sound blankets. They were all damp and muddy from the week of rain. Then, for some reason, an idea hit me. I asked the gaffer to get the biggest light out of the truck and set it up beside of the pool. In a few minutes it was up and blazing.

Usually the hot light is your enemy. It makes shooting in small, enclosed spaces stifling and unbearable. But, here it was my salvation. The four wet actors stood right in front of the lens, the steam from their bodies rising up into the cold air. After a few moments, they were laughing and joking with each other. It slowly dawned on me; setting up that light was part of the job. It affected what ended up on film as much as any direction or creative decision I’ve made.

The director’s job is Everything. This needs to be accepted completely; without bitterness or resentment. And that’s where it gets tricky. Because at these moments all you really want to do is beat the shit out of somebody. It’s not difficult to understand why. The pressures of filmmaking are intense, especially on a low-budget film where there is no money to re-shoot, re-cast or hire a new DP. Everything crucial to the film has to be attained in that insanely brief shooting period. If something goes wrong it affects the film. If a crew-member’s attitude creates friction on the set it affects the film. If an actor shuts down it affects the film. And if the film is only half-realized that affects how and if it is seen, which directly affects your chances of making another one.

So, yeah; things can get a little tense. If you’re reading this thinking, “I’m much more interested in the director as the medium cool, genius auteur,” then all I can suggest is that you stock up on sunglasses, leather goods and triple nicotine no-foam macchiatos and start writing the remake of Fantasy Island. Because this conflict between art and human nature is real and has existed on every movie set I’ve ever been on.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve tried to wear sunglasses to work many times. Unfortunately I can’t see the monitor through them. After 12 hours they really start to hurt my nose and I always end up losing them or stepping on them. I’ve also found this image of the mysterious, uber-cool Director is just that; an image. Most directors, including myself, are in a constant state of doubt, fear, ecstasy and confusion all at the same time. Unfortunately, there are very few guidelines on how to deal with it.

Your only option, in the midst of the chaos, is to somehow stay creative. Stay excited. Stay curious and open to discovery. If you lose one moment to your own negativity or despair, you’ve given in. You are the captain of the ship. Everyone is looking to you for guidance, even when you feel lost, defeated and absolutely alone.

I have some thoughts on how you can prepare yourself. Stay with me. Just remember: the director’s job is to do whatever it takes to keep the film going, to keep everyone excited and committed to the miracle–capturing something alive on film.

Notes From Winter

January

1.16.09.
7:06 am.
Newark.
The flight to Sundance is over-sold. The plane is jammed with ski-bums and half the NY independent film scene. Bad news; I got stuck with a middle seat. Good news, I got an exit row so at least I can stretch my legs and sleep.

Just discovered exit row seats don’t recline. But the window seat beside me is vacant so at least I’ll get some elbow room. There is a delay as the crew waits for the last passenger to board. I notice he is so fat his paunch simultaneously knocks the heads of people on both sides of the aisle. He takes my window seat. 

As he struggles with his seatbelt he apologizes profusely for forcing me and the woman next to me out into the aisle.  He asks the stewardess for a seatbelt extension. I close my eyes, thinking, “4 1/2 hours…4 1/2 hours.” And the plane hasn’t even pushed back yet.

Just then the stewardess returns. She says she can’t give him a seatbelt extension because he’s in an exit row. Since he is required by law to buckle his seatbelt he has to move. He switches seats with a very skinny guy and I take my first real breath in 10 minutes. My new seatmate is a music critic for the NY Times. But he signals he’s deaf and won’t be talking for the entire flight.

1. 17.09.
10 am.
Park City, Utah.
The town is clogged with agents, managers, publicists, actors, directors, journalists and tourists with cameras; all stepping with tense caution over the iron-colored ice while searching for celebrity in every passing face. I do the morning press with Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger; I’ll be with John Densmore in the afternoon. The first interview goes well. Ray is hyper but eloquent. Robby is quiet, slipping in brief comments that send out ripples of meaning. Both are highly complimentary about the film.  It suddenly penetrates my jetlag that I’m actually sitting with 2 members of The Doors talking about a film I made about their lives.

At the next interview I notice a small keyboard set up across the room. I nudge Ray with a wink. “Why don’t you play something?” “Yeah,” he laughs, ”you know how many times I’ve heard that in my life?”

I leave the room for a moment. Someone starts playing the piano intro to “Riders On the Storm.” I turn and see it’s Ray. Robby is standing beside him strapping on an electric guitar. He checks his volume, then slips into the music. Around the room people’s jaws are dropping. As the song builds Ray’s eyes close, his head goes back. Robby studies his fretboard, a faint smile touching his lips. At that moment they both look 20 years old.

4 pm.
In the middle of an interview with Densmore. He’s sharp and gracious. He’s also the only thing keeping me awake. About 25 other interviews are taking place in the room around us. The jabber is deafening. John gives Oliver Stone some professional respect but then, when asked about Jim his voice takes on a deep, quiet reverence and I see Morrison suddenly come alive in his eyes.

The camera crew leaves. Another one quickly sets up. A short, thick-set blonde from Australia announces she hasn’t seen any of my films; including When You’re Strange. I express puzzlement as to what we’ll be talking about.  “OK,” she sniffs, “tell me about your films then.”

John drifts away. A wave of drowsiness almost crushes me to the floor. “I do mainly porno,” I hear myself say. “I specialize in threesomes, usually girl-on-girl but sometimes girl-on-hamster-on-girl.”

The blonde stares at me. I stare back.

1. 18.09.
Three Kings Road
8 pm.
A dinner is going on for the film. I am not there. I am standing on the road in front of my housing unit waiting for the bus. It is a free bus. It comes every half hour.

It’s 5 degrees. The street is dark and absolutely still. The cold has already made it through all three of my coats. Above me the obsidian sky is glittering with millions of stars. I take a breath. The whole night sky rushes into my throat, the stars tickling into my lungs like tiny fragments of ice.

Footsteps down the road. Three kids emerge from the darkness; a girl and two guys. They’re about 17. Only the girl is wearing a hat. The guys wear jean jackets, unbuttoned, and no gloves. They want to know if this is the free bus going into Park City. I tell them it is and ask if they’re going in to the festival. They say no. They’re from a town 20 miles away. They drove their snowmobiles over the mountain, parked them down the road, and are heading into Park City to hit a few bars. They take note of the street sign so they can find their way back.

No bus comes. We keep talking in the bitter cold. They’re all Obama supporters. I find this surprising in such a conservative state. One of the kids, a little taller and somewhat aloof says simply, “No brainer, dude.”

His regal attitude is explained a moment later. “He’s stiff,” his friend says, “because he just crashed a snowmobile into a tree a week ago. He shouldn’t be riding tonight.”

“Why?” I ask.

“He broke his back,” the friend answers. The tall kid lifts his jacket and reveals a tensed metal brace encircling his entire lower torso. I ask how it happened.

“Too many beers,” he replies with a soft chuckle.

A long moment of silence. The girl puts her arm around the guy with no broken back. Far down the road, the bus slowly appears; the lights of its interior making it look like some enormous phosphorescent sea creature floating through the darkness.

10:30 pm.
Finally made it to the dinner. Japanese restaurant. Note: sake and high altitude induce a rush only slightly less intense than Super-Ultramega Blue Krystal Meth. I realize this only as I leave the restaurant and try to cross the street. It takes me a while but I make it.

Sting had been at the premiere. Word came back that he’d really liked the film and wanted to meet me. He invited me to a party which is why I’ve crossed the street. At the door a sour-looking publicist checks her list then tells me to step aside. I do. While I wait she lets three people behind me in. It takes me a moment to realize she will not, as I had imagined, be looking at another, more detailed list with my name on it. Just then one of her assistants mutters, ”Move over,” and pushes me.

I’m already pressed back against the railing with nowhere to go. I look down at her hand still clenching my forearm and a rush of blood fills my head. ”Get your hand off me,” I say, shaking her hand off. In a speed that amazes me a security guy appears. “Alright, man. You need to leave; immediately.”

Although I’ve been studying boxing for 3 years I’ve never actually hit anybody. Something in this jerk’s tone makes me realize this could be the night. I’m thinking, “Go with a jab to the nose because it’s going to be really hard to get anything into a right with all these coats on.” I’m just about to let one go when someone hugs me from behind. It is Sting. He’s laughing and shaking my hand and telling me how great it is to meet me and thanks for coming and how much he loved When You’re Strange. As he leads me inside, the publicist, her assistants and the security guard all find a way to magically disappear while not moving.

I stay 15 minutes. Sting is warm and generous in his affection for the film but I’m still jittery. I can’t help thinking that if he’d come 5 seconds later I would have met him flying headfirst down the stairs.

The free bus has stopped running. I start walking. I keep wondering if those three kids ever found their way back to their snowmobiles parked somewhere up the road in the darkness.

1. 20. 09.
3 Kings Road.
9:30 am.
I call my wife back in NYC. She listens to my litany of complaints and disappointments for a few minutes before interrupting me. “Tom, do you even know what’s going on right now?”

“What do you mean?” I return, not a little defensively.

“Turn on the TV. ”

She hangs up. I turn on the TV. On every channel Barak Obama is giving his inaugural speech.

4 pm.
Something odd is happening. No one believes the footage of Jim Morrison is real. 10 minutes into the 1st screening a distributor walks out cursing, furious that we’d used a “re-enactment.” I find him later and explain nothing was re-enacted. It really is Jim, from his own film called HWY. This makes the guy even angrier, as if I’d played another trick on him.

But the disbelief persists. At the next screening I introduce the film and state very clearly that all footage in the film is real. I explain that it is from Morrison’s film HWY in which he plays a bearded loner hitch-hiking through the desert. I ask the audience to repeat after me, “There are no actors or re-enactments in this film.” Laughing, they do.

After the screening I answer a few questions. I make the point again; “Everything in the film is authentic. Nothing is re-enacted. Do you see?”

“Yes!!” the audience returns. A woman raises her hand. “I understand there are no re-enactments,” she says. “But in the desert scenes why did you use an actor to play Jim Morrison?”

The “actor” Jim Morrison playing Jim Morrison in When You’re Strange.

11:30 pm.
Some hotel ballroom.
I go to a party thrown by a large Hollywood talent agency. Someone had an in. It wasn’t me. Nonetheless it still takes 20 minutes to get in the door. It is dark, deafening and jammed with thousands of eager, absolute strangers. 10 minutes later I turn to leave. Behind me a cluster of 9 young agents perch on a U-shaped couch. Though facing each other none of them make eye contact. In the darkness they all lean over their blackberries, the tiny screens casting an identical pale blue light on each of their rapt, oblivious faces.

1. 22. 09.
Festival shuttle van.
8:45 pm.
I leave the mountain for a screening of When You’re Strange down in Salt Lake City. The festival has provided a young driver, a volunteer. The moment we begin our descent a startling sense of relief passes through me. On the interstate I see a religious license plate with the initials: WWJD? For a moment I think it stands for What Would Jim Do?

The theater is sold out. The vibe is completely different from the festival crowd. The first words out of my mouth bring an unexpected burst of applause; ”I can’t tell you how good it feels to be down off that mountain.” 

The film plays well. I take questions for almost an hour afterwards. Someone asks me what I learned from making the film. After thinking for a moment I respond,  “The Doors, especially Morrison believed in complete artistic freedom. I learned that if you believe in something the only thing you can do is fight for it, as hard as you can.”

On the 50 minute ride back up the mountain the driver begins recalling his favorite Simpsons episodes–in minute detail. He finally stops after number 32. My eyes close in the welcome silence. Then he starts all over again with King of the Hill.

1. 23.09.
Temple Theatre.
11 am.
My last screening of the film. The theatre is in an active Jewish synagogue lent to Sundance for the festival. I wait in the lobby, hearing the last 5 minutes of the film through the closed doors. I am alone. Everyone else from the film has already left town.

When the screening ends I take questions from the audience. Afterwards a middle-aged couple corners me by the door, describing a documentary their nephew made 12 years ago about blind tattoo artists in West Virginia. A young woman waits quietly a few feet away. 

“I really liked your film,” she says when the couple walks off. She looks down then glances up with a pained smile. “My father was a big Doors fan. He really loved them.” A slight tremor goes through her. “I’m sorry. I have no right to lay this on you.”

“Lay what?” I ask, half wary and half concerned by her increasing emotion.

Again she looks down. When she looks up this time I see her eyes are welling with tears. “He died last week.”

I take her hand. She squeezes back hard, the tears coming stronger. “I’m sorry,” she says again then gently withdraws her hand. Ducking her head she slips swiftly through the crowd.

After a few moments I step outside, still staggered by her sorrow. Snow is piled in crusty, 5 foot drifts but the sun is warm and soothing on my face. I walk to the edge of the parking lot and squint against the sun. Two parking attendants sit right on the snow, smoking and talking quietly. Something in the slush at my feet catches my eye. It’s the poster for When You’re Strange. I pick it up. Knowing the absolute futility of my actions–there will be no more screenings at Sundance–I re-attach the poster to the metal pole it had fallen from.

February

2.05.09.
JFK.
6:30 pm.
Leaving for Berlin in an hour. I’ve done this enough times to know the drill: the “night’s sleep” of about 2 hours on the plane is merely a weak attempt to disguise the fact that you are landing at 3 in the morning. I’m on a long walk between terminals, each step bringing me closer to the pending blur of sleep deprivation. The disorientation has already begun. Someone has stopped in the middle of the corridor and is staring at me; one face asking for recognition out of thousands of strangers.

It’s Geoff Gilmore, the head of the Sundance Film Festival. I’d seen him only 3 weeks earlier when he introduced me at the premiere of When You’re Strange. But seeing him here in an airport hallway throws me.  He’s flying to Dublin for a few days before starting his new job. After 25 years he is leaving Sundance to take over as head of the Tribeca Film Festival. The news is significant. All of my films have gone to Sundance, all with the support of Gilmore.

We embrace in the middle of the corridor then he steps onto a moving walkway and disappears.

7 pm.
Delta Gate 47C.
Someone taps my shoulder as I wait to board. Note to self: why is my first thought always that I’m going to be arrested? I turn and see Steve Buscemi. He’s with his wife Jo, and their son Lucian. Steve’s got 3 films in Berlin and we’re all on the same flight. Filmmaking is a constant rhythm of people coming together and pulling apart yet somehow with Steve each separation and reunion finds us exactly where we left off. Every time I see him it feels like we just walked off the set of Living Oblivion; as if only a week has passed. Of course, more than a week has passed; Lucian hadn’t even been born yet. Now he’s 16.

8:30 pm.
Delta Flight 1609.
Somewhere over the Atlantic.
Knock back some wine during dinner hoping to knock myself out for sleep. Thinking about Berlin. It’s one of the big 3 European festivals, along with Cannes and Venice. Just Densmore is going; Ray and Robby are touring. Several of the producers will be there. They’ll make the announcement that Johnny Depp is doing the narration. He heard about the film out of Sundance. He’d been my original choice many months ago but now his interest and his schedule are finally in sync.

The search for a narrator has been tough. At one point an offer was made to Jack Nicholson; a great actor but my sense is that a younger voice is needed; someone to help bridge the 40 year time gap. We tried several musicians but the narration is tricky. It can’t just be read. We need to feel that whoever is speaking has an emotional investment in the words and believes what he is saying.

Which is why I’m glad Depp is doing it. Mainly I will be happy to get my voice the fuck out of there.

I finish dinner and go to sleep. Two hours later I wake and eat breakfast with a pale blue dawn breaking outside the tiny window egg.
 

2.06.09.
Berlin.
Hotel Movenpick.
2 pm.
Drag myself into the shower after sleeping a couple of hours. The jetlag crush is definitely kicking in. More than once I discover myself standing and staring at the wall. The day outside is cold and colorless, so familiar from the other times I’ve been here that it is almost comforting. My first trip was in 1979 with Jim Jarmusch and his first feature, Permanent Vacation, which I shot. I stayed with a German friend, Christoph, in his loft in Kreuzberg. Christoph played bass in an art-punk band. He was constantly rolling cigarettes, into which he crumbled soft, dense chunks of Moroccan hash.

Not surprisingly we were stoned most of the time. He showed me the Berlin Wall. He told me I could ride the subway without paying as no one would ever ask for my ticket. 5 minutes into my first free ride I was arrested by two German transit cops and would have gone to jail if I hadn’t immediately paid the $40 fine. Christoph thought this was pretty funny.

He gave me a big nugget of hash as a going-away present. Still buzzed, I tossed it into my suitcase and locked it. It wasn’t until 9 hours later when I was moving forward in the US Customs line at JFK that I realized this might not have been too smart. Ahead of me the cops were opening every suitcase. I broke out in a sharp, prickly sweat thinking of that thick block of hash just sitting there on top of my socks and underwear. It did not help that I could actually hear Christoph laughing. I was so paralyzed with fear that I could barely mumble ‘thanks’ when for some reason the cops just waved me through.

2.07.09.
Berlin Cinemaxx 8.
10 pm.
The first screening is a good one. A sold-out house of around 400. A sharp contrast to the Sundance premiere where the theater was smaller and more remote, lost in the night snowdrifts like some all night 7-11 in Siberia. Here the screen is huge and the film lives up to it. It’s a bigger than life story and needs to be presented that way. Afterwards the team files down for questions. Densmore gets a huge round of applause. One of the producers breaks the news about Johnny Depp. It is now official. As the audience applauds I see a thick trickle of blood flash on the producer’s neck. He’d lost the handle to his razor that morning and had shaved by holding the cartridge in his fingers.

2.08.09.
Berlin Grand Hyatt Hotel.
11 am.
Another full day of press. It’s all very relaxed and informal. The whole group sits around a table and the journalists come in one by one. The questions are directly mainly to me and Densmore but anyone who feels like answering weighs in. I don’t mind. I’m hovering in a jetlag-no sleep fog that is not entirely unpleasant. My standard routine is reliable and working: double espressos every two hours until 8 pm and then an immediate shift to alcohol right up to bedtime.

Had a late dinner last night at my friend Dimitri’s, a filmmaker from once-Soviet Georgia now living in Berlin with his wife and 2 sons. When I left at 2 am I was not only plastered but utterly bewildered about how to get back to my hotel. Dimitri sent his oldest son Davidov to guide me on the several subways I needed to take. Davidov obliged cheerfully although the round trip would take him over 2 hours.

As we made our way through the crowded stations, getting on and off trains, I walked behind, focusing intently on Davidov’s Spiderman backpack. In the cars, on the platforms, in the corridors almost everyone was drunk. Clots of people, mostly young men, staggering, laughing, yelling, shoving each other into walls while openly gulping from bottles.

“Drinking in public is legal in Germany,” explained Davidov as we boarded another train. In the corner a group of young men and women bleated out an apparently endless drinking song. “Is better to keep it in the open, I think,” Davidov said with the infinite wisdom of a 13 year old.

2.10.09.
Berlin PlexxiCine 4.
11:30 pm.
My last screening in Berlin. Once again, the entourage has left before me. My flight out is at noon tomorrow. Another sold-out screening. My friend Christoph comes, with his ex-girlfriend, his new girlfriend and the new girlfriend’s girlfriend. The film plays very well. Alone on stage, aided by several scotches at dinner with Christoph, I loosen up with the audience. I’ve discovered it is best not to wait for the first questions but to start by asking questions of my own. People answer and quickly become used to the sound of their own voices.

An older guy (an American) in the very front row says, “I don’t have a question. I just want to say this is one of the best fuckin rock docs I’ve ever seen!!” I take the mic from him and look out at the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I deeply apologize for my father’s language. If I’d known he was going to be here I would never have come.”

The questions are clear and genuinely inquisitive. I enjoy the give and take until a young woman asks, “I know Morrison had a death wish and I would like to ask what you think about that.”

I had just finished explaining what I set out to do in the film; to drag off the dusty cloak of myth, superstition and legend about Morrison and show him as he really was–as a real human being. I take a breath and respond.

“I tried to avoid making assumptions or generalizations about Jim’s behavior. Mainly because there is very little documentation to back it up. Jim’s own sister says there was no real problem with him and his father. Everyone else says the two were locked in a primal power struggle. Sure, Morrison did some wild, disturbing things. But are you absolutely certain they weren’t part of the role he had created for himself? I don’t happen to believe he had a death wish. But, the only one who truly knows the answer to that question is Morrison and he’s not here. Look at him in this film; he’s laughing, playing, goofing around with the band.”

“I think he had a life wish,” I continue. ”Certainly he was very troubled and there is no question he was a severe alcoholic. But, my sense is that he lost his way and fell off the edge.”

I see the woman’s face harden. She doesn’t like my answer. Neither does a man across the aisle. “You can say what you like but it is obvious to me and many, many others Jim did have a death wish.” The man wears a gray goatee, wire-rimmed glasses and his voice is tense with disdain.

“Are you a psychiatrist?” I ask carefully, both alarmed and curious.

“No,” he answers after a short pause. “I’m an animal yoga instructor.”

3 am.
A bar somewhere.
Christoph and I go out for a drink with all the girlfriends. I look at my watch and realize I have to get up in 2 hours. I have another scotch. Ellen, the ex, is very upset because strangers stop her on the street to tell her she looks just like Karl Lagerfeld. She’s wearing a 3-piece men’s suit with a tie, large sunglasses and her frosted blond hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail.

We drop the new girlfriend and her girlfriend off at another party then Ellen and Christoph drive me back to the Hotel Movenpick. The front door is locked. Ellen has to get out and read the instructions for punching in an entry code which she does effortlessly even with her Lagerfeld sunglasses on.

I sleep for an hour and am jolted awake by the wake-up call at 7am.  My festival liason gives me a box of chocolate-covered pretzels as a going-away present. As soon as she’s out of the car I give it to the driver.

8 am.
Berlin Tegel Airport.
I sit in a heavy stupor as the minutes drag past. Everytime I look at my watch the strain on my eyeballs makes me almost pass out.

But the trip has been successful. Offers for theatrical distribution are in from Spain, England, France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Scandinavia, Greece, Poland and Japan. Other offers are coming. More importantly, my faith in the film has been stengthened; and re-validated.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. My first thought is a question: do I have any hash on me? It’s Buscemi, with Jo and Lucian. They’re on their way back to NYC. I never ran into them once at the festival. Lucian says he too has been up all night, googling the history of Berlin. He gives me a cd from one of the three alt-rock bands he plays in, called Fiasco.

8:30 am.
Delta Flight 1607 to JFK.
I sit for so long staring at the seatback in front of me that the male steward eyes me several times in concern. I’m so exhausted I can’t move. Finally the steward stops. He leans closer with an almost doctorly frown and asks, “Are you going to be alright?”

Not, “Are you alright?” but “Are you going to be alright?”

That’s when I realize I really need to get my shit together. “Oh, yeah. I’m good,” I reply with what I’m hoping is the smile of a person who’s really got their shit together. I slip Lucian’s cd into my laptop. It’s the only music I have. The neo-surf-on-acid snarl of Fiasco crawls snakelike into my brain. After 5 songs I finally fall asleep.

I’m back from Sundance. Maybe some of you know I took a few bodyshots there; some 2 x 4’s to the head and an almost hilarious number of sucker punches from the press. But, you know what? I’m still standing. They’ll never knock me down.

How many critics know one of Jim Morrison’s favorite blues singers was a cat named Arlen Condrell? Not too many, I bet. Arlen was in a band called The Bottom Feeders. He died penniless in Chicago at 47, in 1961. In one of Morrison’s notebooks I discovered this fragment of Arlen’s lyrics:

Go fuck yourselves, my petty friends.
Go fuck yourselves, said he.
Get busy with your sweaty hands
Cuz you sure ain’t fuckin me.

I can appreciate Morrison’s appreciation. I left NYC and relocated to LA for over 9 months to write and edit this film. Some people, knowing literally nothing about me, have accused me of only being a “director for hire.” Well, hire this; I’ve been working on this film for nothing since May, 2008. If anyone thinks I’d go through all this just to make a piece of shit then all I can say is,

Sing it again, Arlen.

I apologize for nothing. I’m not sorry some critics didn’t get it. That’s their problem, not mine. Sure, some of the rancid, hissy-bitchy press is annoying. But, it’s not going to stop me and it’s not going to stop this film from being seen and appreciated by people open enough to make up their own minds.

The most obvious sign of a useless review is one that refuses to identify anything that is good in a film. And I can say without question there are many successful things in When You’re Strange.

Using rarely seen footage of an obscure Doors concert, and a scratchy audio tape, my editors and I create an 8 minute scene that puts you right in the seats at the Miami Dinner Key Theatre. It, like many other scenes, plays entirely without narration. It is an amazing sequence; especially since the only thing that exists from that pivotal moment is this audio tape and a few b/w photos of Morrison.

The film uses outtakes from Morrison’s own film HWY and creates a character who becomes the spirit of Morrison wandering throughout the film; as if he’s searching for the meaning of the Doors, and of himself. There are moments watching Morrison here that are intimate and disturbing. John Densmore told me it moved him to tears.

If a critic isn’t honest enough to point out the things of value then I trust nothing they say. It simply shows they are blind in one eye and bloodshot in the other.

To the fans that are chewing over these “reviews”, re-posting them over and over, saying things like, “This is definitely affecting my reaction to film,” all I can say is, why are  you perpetuating this horseshit? Why are you wallowing in this pit of negativity?

“You’re all a bunch of slaves! Lettin’ other people tell you what to do!!”
Jim Morrison. Dinner Key Theatre. Miami, Fla.

True Doors fans know that the critics tore the band apart when Waiting for The Sun was released. The fans didn’t listen to the critics then; they supported their band and bought the album, leading the Doors to their 3rd gold record. This refusal to blindly accept the opinions of others is what I respect most about the Doors, second only to the great, dark beauty of their music.

You want to trash the film? Then do it based on your own reactions, not the hysterical squealings of others. Maybe it isn’t the greatest film ever made about the Doors. Maybe it doesn’t prove once and for all that it is actually Jim’s face on the Shroud of Turin.

But, there is much that it does do. I know there are a lot of devoted Doors fans out there. I respect your great passion for this great band. Instead of strangling it in the crib perhaps you could show the film the respect of simply giving it a chance.

The one thing I underestimated is how personally the Doors music affects people. Everyone feels it is talking directly to them. They feel like they own it, that it belongs to them. I feel this myself and I never intended to violate that in others. I never wanted to tell anyone what to think. My only intent was to let the film tell the story. I used too many words. I’m fixing that. But, the words I used are true. I got them directly from Ray, John and Robby.

At Sundance, Robby came up to me and said, “I just want to thank you.”

“For what?” I asked.

He looked away for a moment then said quietly, “For letting people know I wrote “Light My Fire.”

This film is for all the people out there who didn’t know that.

It’s for all the people who knew that and appreciate that I felt it was crucial to point it out.

Anyone who thinks this information is useless can go fuck themselves. And I mean that in the nicest, most sincere way possible; exactly the way Arlen Condrell meant it.

That exchange with Robby was deeply rewarding. Nothing I’ve read or heard since will ever take that away from me. I’d rather have that moment with him than any “good” review. The fact is, there were a great many positive reactions to the film at the festival.

Unknown to me, Sting was in the audience at the premiere. He loved the film and was very moved by it. The reason I know this is that he found me a day later and told me so himself. It wasn’t his celebrity that impressed me. It was the fact the appreciation was coming from another musician.

The audience at the screening in Salt Lake City applauded after the film. Almost all of the 300 people stayed for the Q & A which was enthusiastic and 100% positive. Jim Southwick, manager of John Densmore’s website was at the screening.

“The first thing you are struck with is the clarity and brilliance of footage so many of us have seen in varying contexts. Scenes that were once a dull backdrop are now being presented in a vibrant movie style. The concept of using this footage for the beginning soundtrack is completely unexpected and from a point of creativity - I thought brilliant.

There is a scene with Jim that really struck me as to his innocence, his playfulness, and his humanness. We finally get some decent billing on the musicians that were as much a part of The Doors as the vocalist. I felt the movie was a success in its concept and in its execution. Sure it has it flaws. Timelines are not always completely accurate. When the 90 minutes was up, I wasn’t beat up and I felt the substance of the movie could actually be appreciated. Finally, it seemed a story was being told and not fabricated.”

Kerry Humpherys, editor of The Doors Collectors Magazine, was also in the audience.

“The 90-minute film consists of a plethora of vintage clips sewn together to make a cohesive patchwork that tells the story of The Doors in a way you have never before imagined. You may have heard the Doors’ story before, but this movie visualizes the experience in a way that has to be seen to be believed.
 
As the film begins, the viewer is treated to some of the unseen footage from Morrison’s HWY that was provided by photographer, Paul Ferrara. For many years, there has been a stranglehold on all of the HWY footage, but DiCillo broke through those barriers and provided us with nothing less than high definition on the big screen. I was blown away after five minutes and it just got better.”

I understand how possessive fans are about the Doors but I am astonished at how destructive that ownership can get. Ray, John and Robby share my astonishment. They all endorse and embrace this film. It is their story. They told it to me. Do you think I’m even going to consider some second-hand, soft-soaping, cyber dickhead telling me it is not valid?

No, I’m not. Can the film be better? Yes, and I’m working on it. But, can these “experts” really think they know the story better than the band themselves? Perhaps they feel the Doors’ lives, their souls and even their  identities belong to them as well.

What a bunch of shit. No one owns the Doors. But, clearly there are some out there who will never allow the Doors to be what they are; human beings.

“When You’re Strange” is director Tom DiCillo’s first doc after six fiction features, and he’s done a great job pulling together lots of previously unseen footage of Jim Morrison. In fact, DiCillo is the first filmmaker ever to make Morrison seem like a real person who was very insecure, troubled, and haunted. The film is one of the few that offers anything new or revelatory on the pre-digested Doors myth, and should garner a nice sized audience when it’s finally released.”
Roger Friedman, Fox News

This film was never meant to be the eternal encyclopedia about the Doors. It was never meant to solve all the rumors and myths. Its sole intent was to use only the original footage to allow the audience feel the band, and their time, as they were. And out of this, hopefully develop a new myth; one of respect and admiration for them all as musicians, as artists and as individuals.

There is no hidden shit here. The emotional core is right there on the screen. Clearly, that truth is affecting people. The film premieres in Europe next month at the Berlin Film Festival. There is strong activity from foreign buyers and real interest in a US theatrical release. Soon fans can see it for themselves and open their own Doors of perception.

By the way, this just in.