by Nell Scovell
The gala was a once-in-a-lifetime evening, but I was just as happy sitting alone with Arthur in his Central Park West apartment and listening to him tell stories. Arthur knew an astonishing number of artists, literally starting from birth since his older brother was celebrated photographer Irving Penn. At Black Mountain College, Arthur studied with Buckminster Fuller. Before Mike Nichols became a renowned director, he asked Arthur to direct “An Evening with Mike Nichols and Elaine May.” Arthur even knew Dorothy Parker.
“It was horrible how drinking destroyed her,” he once told me, shaking his head.
Arthur and I spent a lot of time talking about directing. It’s what he loved and he’d revolutionized the form. Now it’s a trope to shoot violence realistically and in slow motion, but Arthur pioneered that style with the ambush that ends Bonnie and Clyde. When I got my first directing assignment in 1998, one of my first emails went to Arthur with the subject line “Help.” I realize that asking Arthur to mentor someone making a Showtime Family movie was a little like asking Michael Phelps to teach your five-year-old how to swim. But if Phelps is willing, why not?
Oddly, what inspired me to become a director was not greatness, but mediocrity. In the years that I’d been writing and producing sitcoms, I’d worked with a hundred directors. Many were thoughtful and skilled, but a few bumbled their way through, barely knowing the script or planning the blocking. I drew my inspiration from their incompetence. As a director, I wasn’t gunning for visionary genius like Arthur, but I figured I could clear the bar of solidly mediocre.
After Sabrina, Viacom Productions wanted to find a new project for us to work on together. They asked if I had a movie premise that could later be turned into a TV series. Watching the young actors on Sabrina had sparked an idea: What if a washed-up has-been sixteen-year-old former child star had to go to high school for the first time? For her, it would be weird to be normal. Viacom liked the idea and made a deal for me to write the script. My one request: I wanted to direct.
We pitched Hayley Wagner, Star to Showtime executive Dominique Telson. She bought it and approved me as a first-time director. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that I owe my big break to an African American female executive. My timing was good to expand into a traditionally male field. During the 1990s, women were securing more leadership positions. Ruth Bader Ginsburg joined Sandra Day O’Connor on the Supreme Court. Ann Richards became Governor of Texas. Madeleine Albright was named Secretary of State. Like Sally Ride, the women’s movement was racing toward equality at mach speeds . . . until 1998 when President Bill Clinton’s dick brought it all to a screeching halt. (For more on this, please read my book Just the Swollen Parts.)
The technical aspects of directing scared me the most. Stu Bass, the editor on Sabrina, and I spent countless hours discussing blocking and camera placement. To me, preparation was the key, but Arthur cautioned me not to lock into all my shots before stepping on set.
“Welcome the felicitous accident,” he said.
Arthur urged me to resist the urge to shout “Cut!” when a fly bothers an actor or an actress struggles to walk in high heels. An itchy nose, an unstable gait can all lend a moment of tension or verisimilitude. Arthur also recommended that I get options. Once I had the take that I was looking for, he encouraged me to get the take that I hadn’t been looking for.
“Wait for the moment,” Arthur advised me.
“What moment?”
“The one you’re waiting for,” he said with a smile.
The film would shoot in Vancouver where the American dollar stretched further. I hated the thought of being away from home for six weeks. One consolation was that since leaving Sabrina, I hadn’t been working crazy-long hours. I’d taken a development deal with Brillstein-Grey and consulted on a few shows. Currently, I was working three days a week on the medical show Providence. As always, it helped knowing that Colin was capable of taking care of three-year-old Rudy and not-yet-one-year-old Dexter.
Vancouver was gorgeous and I quickly fell in love with its waterfront parks and cheap sushi. I lucked out that Viacom hired Richard Davis, a delightful, white-bearded Australian to produce the movie. Richard had decades of experience and was supportive without being coddling. He felt like a partner from the start. Still, I worried about being accepted by the rest of the crew.
“There are three things that Canadian crews dislike,” a friend in LA had warned. He ticked them off on his fingers. “One: American directors. Two: First-time directors. Three: Female directors.”
Triple threat, baby.
From the moment I stepped on set, I felt some pushback. The director of photography (DP) who’s in charge of the Camera Department, would sometimes roll his eyes at my choices for framing a shot. In one scene, Hayley was auditioning for a part in the school play. The DP thought the shot should be tight, focusing on actress Bethany Richards’ face. I asked for a looser shot starting at Bethany’s waist to catch her funny body language and fabulous outfit styled by Elizabeth Stewart. The DP kept pushing for tighter. When I finally insisted on the looser shot, he literally threw up his hands.
“That’s what she wants, so give it to her,” he informed the cameraman, then walked to the other side of the set.
Stephen Gaghan, screenwriter of Traffic and director of Syriana, once sat next to me at a Guild meeting and boiled down the experience of being a director. “You think you’ll get to be the dictator on the set,” Stephen said, “but really you’re the center that always has to give—the space that finds harmony.”
I struggled to find harmony that day, and I beat myself up that night. I knew it was a mistake to piss off the DP who has tremendous influence on the production. Fearing that I’d lost his crucial support, I emailed Arthur and asked for advice. He wrote back:
On my first Hollywood film, the crew drove me nuts with “this is the way WE do it” slowly and meticulously and phony. Implied “not like you TV parvenus who have no tradition, and just slop it.” I asked the DP to shoot with two cameras. He resisted. I insisted. He wrote on the clapboard slate for camera 2 “shot under protest.” The battle lines were drawn.
It was comforting to know that even Arthur, an experienced man, had wrestled with the same situation. I stopped beating myself up for insisting on a shot. That was my job. Still, I knew the movie would turn out better if those “battle lines” were erased. I wanted to get the crew more on my side, but how? Then I welcomed “a felicitous accident.”
Early in our second week, we were shooting near a pond when the skies opened up. Most of the crew headed back to the trucks to stay dry, but I decided to stay close to the set so I could jump back in as soon as the rain stopped. A small tarp had been set up nearby—not to shield humans but to protect the expensive equipment. I headed over, wrapping my purple Patagonia raincoat tightly around me. As soon as I ducked under the tarp, I realized I wasn’t alone. Harvey LaRocque, the A-camera operator, had stayed with his camera, watching over it like the captain of a ship. We exchanged nods as we’d done since the project started, never speaking at any length. But as the rain pounded away, I felt pressure to make conversation.
“Where are you from, Harvey?” I asked.
“A small town in Ontario,” he responded. “Parry Sound.”
“Bobby Orr’s hometown!”
Harvey reacted, startled.
“How’d you know that?”
“I’m from Boston. I grew up watching the Bruins.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
It was more an expression of surprise than a challenge, but since we had nothing better to do, I decided to rattle off the names of the Bruin players from that era. “Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, Johnny Bucyk, Wayne Cashman, Kenny Hodge, Gerry Cheevers, John McKenzie, Derek Sanderson.”
When I got to Dallas Smith, Harvey held up his hand.
“Okay! I believe you,” he said.
We both smiled. The sun didn’t break out at that moment (although in the movie version, it will), and from
that moment on, Harvey became my secret weapon on the set. When the DP and I hit an impasse, Harvey would try to bridge the gap, sauntering in to the set to offer an adjustment that brokered a compromise. Instead of a showdown, the process became collaborative, which is always better.
Connecting with Harvey helped, but I still felt like an outsider. Once, I saw a small group of crew members off to the side of the set, laughing. I headed over and as I neared, they clammed up.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It was nothing,” said a cameraman.
“Well, it looked like you were laughing about something,” I said.
A crew member pointed at another. “He was just telling a dirty joke.”
“Ooh, I want to hear,” I said.
“Not in front of a lady,” he demurred.
So I told the group a joke so disgusting that I can’t even repeat it here. From then on, the crew included me in their huddles. Once at craft services, a gaffer sidled up to me. “Have you heard this one?” he asked. “What’s the difference between a refrigerator and a woman?”
I had no idea.
“A refrigerator doesn’t fart when you take the meat out.”
It was a gross joke but a sweet moment.
Alyson Hannigan, Penn Jillette, and standup Paul Provenza, who dropped by the set. Note how bundled up I am compared to Alyson. It was so cold, but she toughed it out.
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
The Hayley Wagner, Star set found harmony thanks to a hard-working crew, strong producer, supportive studio, and focused cast that included Priscilla Presley, Meghan Ory, and Pam Grier. Even our dreaded night shoot turned out fine. It helped that I cast Penn Jillette to play the director of the zombie movie within the movie. Seeing an old friend’s face made a long night easier. Alyson Hannigan flew up during a Buffy the Vampire Slayer hiatus to play the star of the zombie movie. Channeling a self-centered diva was a stretch for Alyson who was anything but. Still, she seemed to have a certain actress in mind while playing the part.
I returned to LA to edit and happily reunite with my family. Our early-rising one-year-old was thrilled to have more alert company in the mornings. (I’m more of a morning person than Colin.) And no parent enjoyed driving their three-year-old to preschool more than I did that first week back.
Hayley Wagner, Star scored solid ratings when it aired in 1999 and Bethany Richards earned a well-deserved nomination for a Young Artist award. Viacom cut a trailer and the WB ordered a TV pilot. Sadly, the network wouldn’t approve me as the director. I turned again to Robby Benson who’d done such a stellar job on Sabrina.
Lightning didn’t strike twice and Hayley Wagner, Star didn’t make it to series. The success of Hannah Montana six years later made me think we were in the right ballpark on the wrong day.
The learning curve of directing was steep and I wanted to keep the momentum going. I met with my agents and shared my intention to find another opportunity right away.
“I’ll take any meeting,” I told the three guys in suits. “I’m open to anything. I just want to direct.”
The agents exchanged looks. I felt the chill in the room.
“You know, Nell,” one agent said. “The second movie is the hard one to get.”
That made no sense. The first was the hard one because I needed to find someone to take a chance. Now I’d made a film—a well-received, on-budget film. I had experience. We could build off that.
“How can that be?” I challenged.
The agents shrugged. “That’s just the way it is.”
I walked away, demoralized. Those agents never got me a single meeting for directing. Not one. Sometimes I blame myself for not being more aggressive and seeking out opportunities on my own. But directing is exhausting and to have to push to do it felt like being forced to run a marathon before you’re allowed to climb Mt. Everest.
In 2016, I wrote an Op-Ed for the New York Times about the lack of progress that female directors have made since the eighties. Despite all the programs to develop talent and mentor women and people of color, the percentage of diverse directors wasn’t rising. People insist it’s a pipeline problem. Instead, I dubbed it, “a broken doorbell” problem. Competent and talented women are right there on the doorstep, leaning on the buzzer, but no one is answering the door.
This fault lies in our culture’s misperceptions. Studies show that employers routinely perceive men as more competent than women even when the data doesn’t support the claim. For example, software code written by women is routinely rated as higher quality by male engineers . . . unless the raters know who wrote it. Once gender is identified, the raters devalue the female-generated work. Men applying for jobs also benefit from being able to openly acknowledge their success. Too often women are taught to downplay their success with statements like, “I got lucky” or “I had help.” Guess what? The men got lucky and had help, too. These double standards make it harder for women to be seen as capable of helming a blockbuster. The massive success of Patty Jenkins’s Wonder Woman may move the needle. Or not. The year after Kathryn Bigelow won an Oscar for Best Director, the percentage of women directing features actually dipped.
When employers hesitate to hire a female director, they claim it’s rooted in an aversion to risk. I see it as a surrender to bias. My agents’ warning about the second movie being harder to get became a self-fulfilling prophesy. It took eight years for me to get my next assignment.
Joey Plager is the kind of dogged producer that every writer dreams about. Long ago, Joey optioned Betrayals, a script I co-wrote with my sister Claire in the eighties. A cross between Sex and the City and Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, Betrayals revolved around five female college roommates who gather for their tenth reunion. Each roommate reveals a dirty secret that they’ve never told anyone, like committing adultery, going to rehab, insider trading. After the confessions, they hug and feel closer than ever. But when the five roommates return home, each receives a blackmail note. It’s clearly an inside job, but which of the five is the blackmailer?
After over a decade of dust gathered on the script, Joey swept it off and pitched the low-budget project to Susanne Daniels who was President of Entertainment at Lifetime. Susanne approved me as the director. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that a female executive gave me my second break. Still, there was a catch. There’s always a catch. The movie needed to go into production immediately, which conflicted with my current job as Consulting Producer on NCIS. We had two episodes left on the season, but my bosses let me bow out early. It cost me more money than I’d make as a director, but I was so excited to be getting another shot.
Production would take place in Vancouver (again) and the reality of low-budget movie-making hit hard. The French production company that was co-financing the project sent along their request that I shoot the movie “to look like Hitchcock.” The shower scene alone in Psycho took seven days to film. We had seventeen days total for the entire movie. I said I would try, but unfortunately, the Betrayals crew would have frustrated Ed Wood. There were normal mishaps and mistakes, like when the locations manager forgot to make sure the sauna we were shooting in had been turned off the night before. That morning, we opened the cedar door and felt a blast of heat. The DP declared, “It’s like a sauna in here.”
The heat fogged the camera lens so we cut the breaker and brought in fans. It took over an hour to cool down the set. Even then, it remained toasty. At one point, the makeup person had to wipe real sweat off the actresses before spritzing them with fake sweat. We wanted a lovely glow not a literal hot mess.
Before the shoot began, I worried that having five female co-stars would generate a lot of drama. That notion was sexist. The actresses were professional and completely supportive of each other. We had no rehearsal time, so they arranged to get together on their own and run lines. When we didn’t have stand-ins to help the DP light scenes, the actresses would pull double duty and remain
on set so that shots would look better. The six of us formed a tight-knit group in part because we felt under siege.
Kira Clavell, Elisa Donovan, Sarah Joy Brown, Jordan Ladd, Marissa Jaret Winokur, me.
Courtesy of the author
The DP was tight with the Canadian producer who dealt with the money and hired the crew. Together, they repeatedly tried to box me out. They asked for my storyboards—blueprints for how I planned to block and shoot each scene. When I shared them, they immediately started re-blocking the cameras, addressing each other while ignoring me. When I called the two on it, they laughed.
“We’re just so used to working with each other,” the producer said. “We’ve got a shorthand.”
At a loss, I shot another emergency email to Arthur. He responded immediately:
Nell . . . Close the gap right away. Don’t let them get control IN YOUR PRESENCE. You know, certainly, they will talk behind your back. That’s a given. But in your presence: you take charge. Don’t be stunned by these guys. Expect venality.
Second point. A storyboard is a license for all to direct. I hate them. It’s an open invitation to all the power wielders to beat you to the punch. If you must have it, keep it minimal, bare bones.
Third: Close down the field of discussion. Keep it specific. “Your concern is the sufficiency of EXT. Shots? OK let’s review those.” “Walk me through the movie.” Reframe that. Don’t let it be about shots. Talk tone, mood, atmosphere, the ineffable that distinguishes you, THE DIRECTOR. Sorry if this sounds paternalistic. Not my intention. The director’s role is mysterious, personal, and must not be reduced only to hardware and its function. There’s a quotient of poetry that is not describable. It’s in the doing. Love you, Nell.
This note still makes me tear up. I’m sharing Arthur’s words so that others can see how the best mentors go beyond offering practical advice. They also break down the psychology of the dynamic, which is usually only understood after years of painful experience. Finally, the best mentors inspire. “There’s a quotient of poetry that is not describable. It’s in the doing.” Nothing could have made me want to fight for my vision more than Arthur’s definition of the director’s role.
