Still Me

by Christopher Reeve

  During the first few months of 1996, the combination of being home with my family, working on these political issues, preparing for my appearance at the Oscars, and maintaining my health kept me extremely busy. Even though I’d decided not to go back into rehab for an all-out attempt to wean off the ventilator, I still breathed on my own nearly every morning. By February I could manage ninety minutes off the hose before becoming too exhausted to continue.

  Gradually Dana and I assembled a staff of nurses and aides to provide me with the twenty-four-hour care I needed and to allow us a more normal family life. A psychologist at Kessler once said to me, “Don’t turn your wife into your nurse or your mother.” We considered ourselves very lucky to be able to follow that advice; in many cases the patient’s spouse has to become the primary caregiver, and the stress on the marriage is intense.

  I was adjusting reasonably well, but in spite of all this activity I longed for some kind of creative outlet. In early April, Michael Fuchs, the former CEO of Home Box Office, came to the rescue. We had been friends since the early days of The Creative Coalition, when he lent his support to our fledgling organization and gave us office space in the HBO building. He had built HBO into the pre-eminent cable company by developing exceptional material, taking risks with his programming, and drawing talent away from films and the other networks.

  Michael joined my friend and former agent Andrea Eastman and her husband, Richard, for a social dinner with Dana and me one evening. He had recently been fired in a shake-up at Time Warner, HBO’s parent company. He had to leave a number of scripts behind, including one that was nearly ready for production called In the Gloaming. Michael knew of my interest in directing; in fact, I had been slated to direct Family Album for HBO several years earlier, but the executives and I could not agree on casting, so I bowed out and the film was never made. Now, even as he was being shown the door, he pitched Gloaming as an ideal project for my directorial debut.

  Colin Callender, the executive in charge of HBO films produced on the East Coast; Keri Putnam, his second in command; the producer Fred Zollo; and Will Scheffer, who had adapted the screenplay from a story in The New Yorker, all descended on our house in Bedford one afternoon in early May. I think they needed reassurance; I doubt any of them had ever considered hiring a vent-dependent, quadriplegic first-time director. Meanwhile, I had my own agenda: I had read the script, and while I liked the premise very much, I felt there were a number of problems that needed to be addressed.

  As soon as they were comfortably arranged in my living room, I launched the meeting by stating that I was grateful for their interest and felt that this would be the perfect project for me, both in terms of the emotional content of the story and the logistics of undertaking the production. (My experience at auditioning had taught, me that it helps to take charge.) Then I risked losing the job immediately by stating bluntly that I thought the script needed a substantial rewrite—the father lacked dimension, the mother-and-son relationship was inappropriately romantic, and there were too many clichés about the gay lifestyle. I half-expected the team would make a quick exit; instead, I learned later that my direct approach had given them confidence in me. Will Scheffer volunteered to start work immediately. After the executives left, we had a quick lunch, then turned to page 1 and began to revise. I was very grateful that he was so willing to consider my ideas. Many writers are defensive about their work, especially when they’ve already been told it’s brilliant.

  In the Gloaming is the story of Danny, a young man suffering from AIDS who comes home to die. His return has a profound effect on his family, particularly his mother. After a long period of estrangement, a new bond forms between them. His father and younger sister, who have never accepted Danny’s homosexuality, have a much more difficult time. During the last four months of his life, Danny helps to bring about healing and reconciliation in his dysfunctional family.

  The first important task was to reexamine Danny’s character. I felt that in the original script he was too sarcastic, bitter, and judgmental about his family. It seemed to me that a quiet dignity would make him much more sympathetic. Perhaps I felt a strong connection with Danny because of my own experience. After having nearly died twice, I felt no anger toward any of my relatives, even those with whom I’d had difficult relationships. I felt no need for “justice” or retribution. Issues in my two families that had troubled me for years now seemed much less significant.

  I suggested to Will that when Danny gets his mother to talk about her life in a series of conversations in the twilight, his motivation is to understand rather than to criticize. Our working relationship was deeply satisfying. Will seemed genuinely affected by all I had learned and experienced in the past year. We spent the last two weeks in May working together in Williamstown. By June 1 we had a script that we were both proud of, and we had no reservations about showing it to anyone.

  The rest of the summer was spent fighting the Casting Wars. My primary concerns were (a) to find first-rate actors, and (b) to create a believable family. HBO was sympathetic, but they also wanted to cast big-name actors who are seldom, if ever, seen on TV. For the first few days as we bandied names around, I hoped this wouldn’t be a repeat of my experience with Family Album. Many first-time directors are so eager to get their films made that they cave in on casting. I felt strongly that if directing was going to be my second career, I didn’t want it to begin with serious compromises.

  Whenever HBO and I reached an impasse, I offered to step down. We did agree that no one could play the mother better than Glenn Close. I reached her on location in Australia, and she accepted the part within twenty-four hours of reading the script. I was thrilled, but then I was asked to approach Gene Hackman to play the father. Notwithstanding his tremendous talent (and our friendship that dated back to Superman I), I simply could not imagine Gene and Glenn as a married couple. I tried to convince HBO that Janet and Martin had to be about the same age or there would be no logic to the story, and their reconciliation at the end would not be effective.

  The Name Game went on for nearly three months, more time than it takes to cast many big-budget feature films. After Glenn was cast there were endless discussions about every role with the exception of the one played by Whoopi Goldberg. I called her on the set of Ghosts of Mississippi to discuss the part and make sure she understood it was just a cameo. She asked only one question: “Am I a maid?” I replied, “No, you’re a nurse.” I offered to overnight a script, but she said it wasn’t necessary and signed on immediately.

  By late August I was fairly exhausted by the struggle, but we had signed up the perfect cast. I had gotten my first choice for every role. I was grateful that actors of the caliber of Glenn, Robert Sean Leonard, Bridget Fonda, David Strathairn, and Whoopi had decided to trust me, and was very glad I had sent them a polished script rather than a work in progress.

  The crew fell into place much more easily than the cast under the capable supervision of our line producer, Nellie Nugiel, who ran the day-to-day logistics of the shoot. I hired my cousin Nick Childs to be my assistant, which raised some eyebrows until the executives discovered he was more than qualified for the job; then they made him postproduction supervisor as well. Fred Elmes, a superbly versatile director of photography who had worked several times with David Lynch, loved the script and quickly agreed to join us. Glenn’s daughter Annie and my son Will were cast as young Bridget and Robert in the opening credit sequence—a little harmless nepotism. We found the ideal location, a house in Pound Ridge, just ten minutes from my home. Andy Jackness and his crew decorated it perfectly. By the third week of September everything was set to go.

  We began with a table reading of the script at our production offices in Bedford Hills. The night before I lay awake thinking of moments in my life when I’d been in a position of leadership. I remembered screaming at my crews during my racing days as a young teenager and the humiliation of the Seamanship/Sportsmanship Award. I recalled a couple of directors who ha
d frustrated me with their inability to communicate. I thought about Jim Ivory’s skill at being “in the moment.” I had learned how important it is to lead but also to get out of the way.

  Now it was my turn. As I wheeled into position at the head of the table, all eyes turned toward me. This was it. We had assembled an exceptional group of artists on both sides of the camera, and I eagerly looked forward to the gifts they would bring to our film. We turned to page 1 and began.

  The night before shooting Glenn threw a party for the whole company and made a very moving speech, saying that she was delighted to be part of this new adventure in my life. I felt tremendous warmth and support from everyone in the room. That night I was able to go home and sleep soundly instead of staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

  The next morning Nick drove me to the set in my van, making sure to arrive fifteen minutes early. (I made a point of being early every day so no one would worry about me.) Neil Stutzer, our accessibility adviser, designed a forty-foot ramp that extended from the sidewalk to the front porch. This was my entrance to the set, but it had to be taken apart when we shot exteriors, then reassembled so I could leave the house at the end of the day. Once I was inside I parked myself in front of a monitor; the script supervisor, my nurse, Nick Childs, the producers, and visitors from HBO would soon join me in what came to be known as Video Village.

  We began each day by reading the first scene to be shot as soon as the actors were made up and dressed. The crew was ready with the lighting because we set the actors’ positions each evening before going home. Working with the art department during preproduction in early September, I had gone into every room, both upstairs and down, to make decisions about the placement of furniture and possible camera positions. This involved lifts, ramps, and my occasional transfer into a seventeen-inch-wide aisle chair so that I could negotiate the narrow hallways. I had to be strapped in with my arms crossed, my knees tied together, and my head bound to the back of the headrest with tight Velcro straps so that I wouldn’t slump side-sideways out of the chair if I had a bad spasm. I often joked that looked like Gary Gilmore and suggested that they pin a big red heart on my chest and shoot me. Once I was strapped in I usually quoted his famous final words: “Let’s do it,” whereupon the grips would carry me upstairs or wherever I needed to go.

  When it came time to shoot, I could stay in my chair in front of the monitor, the mayor of Video Village. Fred Elmes had a viewfinder that transmitted directly to my TV screen from anywhere in the house or on the property. We used microphones and speakers so we could discuss camera angles and choices of lenses as easily as if I were next to him on the set. This technology is often used by able-bodied directors as well. Francis Ford Coppola is famous for directing actors from the inside of a bus, and I heard a rumour that Steven Spielberg directed some of the sequel to Jurassic Park via satellite linkup from his home on Long Island to the sound-stage in Los Angeles. I only used this technology because I had to; on shooting days we would have wasted a lot of time hauling me upstairs and finding an out-of-the-way place to put me. Also the whooshing of my ventilator would have distracted the actors and ruined the sound track.

  The mayor of Video Village.

  The set was very calm, and there were few distractions. I think that my being in a wheelchair helped everyone to focus on the work. Glenn came in one day with walking pneumonia. She should probably have been at home in bed, but she performed brilliantly as usual, using the time between setups to hook herself up to an IV drip of antibiotics. I remember Bobby Leonard saying one day, “You’re not going to hear many people complaining. It’s like, ‘I’m tired.’ Yeah? Well, see the man in the wheelchair? . . . It puts things in perspective.”

  I particularly enjoyed shooting the exteriors, because then I could wheel down to the set and be closer to the actors. One of my favorites was the scene in which Glenn as a young mom plays tag with her two children on the front lawn. We used this during the opening credits to establish immediately that she prefers the son over the daughter, creating a lasting jealousy. I asked Glenn to organize the game with Annie and Will and told Fred to quietly turn on the camera on a signal from me. But Will found a starting spot, put his hands on his knees, and waited. I called to him to start playing, but he shot back, “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Action’?” Glenn and the crew tried not to crack up, but it was hopeless. Will, now four, had learned that “Action” means start and “Cut” means stop, and he wanted to be directed properly. The concern I had about him being self-conscious in front of the camera was obviously unfounded. He even slowed down at the right moment so that Glenn could catch him and pick him up for a hug. He later confided to me that he could easily have outrun her, but he knew that wasn’t in the script.

  One of my most difficult challenges was to make sure that the father, played by David Strathairn, did not come across as a stock figure—stern, strict, and pompous. I also needed to convince Bobby Leonard that stillness is not boring; in fact, it makes the character more interesting; the viewer is intrigued and wants to know more about what’s going on inside him. I asked David to search for ways to be with his son instead of avoiding him. When he comes into the sickroom with Danny’s tennis trophies from high school, he should hope to be invited to stay. The result was an awkwardness that I thought was very effective, and even painful to watch. And as Danny resisted the temptation to challenge his parents or criticize their behavior too harshly, I witnessed the emergence of a courageous and dignified young man.

  Fred Zollo, our producer, and Glenn, Robert, and I discuss a scene.

  Many times the actors would come over to Video Village to discuss a particular moment or to make suggestions. One afternoon we were shooting one of the most important scenes in the film, in which Glenn comes into the sickroom for the first time. Following Whoopi’s lead, she learns to overcome her fear of touching her son and helping with his care. When we filmed the wide shot of the scene, I experienced a mild anxiety attack; Whoopi was clearly uncomfortable and having trouble with the business of connecting a catheter and starting an IV. She was only available for two days. We had already shot the easy scenes, but this one was absolutely critical and had to be in the can within the next four hours. After a couple of takes she pulled up a chair next to me to talk things over. I asked her if my nurse, Tracy DeLuca, who had cared for many AIDS patients, could help. Some actors would have been insulted by this suggestion, but Whoopi immediately took Tracy by the hand, and the two of them went off together.

  Glenn drops in for a visit between setups.

  Fifteen minutes later Tracy came back and gave me a thumbs-up. Whoopi took her seat at Danny’s bedside and asked if we could shoot right away. I decided not to reshoot the wide angle but to push in for the close coverage. As usual Fred was ready. We rolled the camera, and I said “Action” with no idea what to expect. That take was technically perfect, which was a great relief because Whoopi was now completely convincing. She had not only mastered the mechanical problems but had found the right way to respond to a grieving parent. I did one more take for protection and finished the day knowing we had just captured one of the best moments of the film.

  We finished principal photography in late October and celebrated with a lavish party at Luna, a New York City—style restaurant in Mt. Kisco owned by my friend and fellow TCC board member Susan Liederman. The next day I began to edit the film in our little office next to the Bedford Hills train station. David Ray, whose distinguished credits included editing A Bronx Tale for Robert De Niro and Billy Bathgate for Robert Benton, had already assembled a rough cut. I had been told by a number of directors, from Mike Nichols to Jonathan Demme and Dick Donner, that the first time you see the film put together, you come away depressed and wonder if there is any hope of fixing it. I have to admit that I had the opposite experience. Some of the scenes seemed choppy, and the pace and rhythm needed a lot of work. But as I watched it unfold, I was moved by the performances and once again felt ve
ry grateful for the talent and generosity of the cast and crew.

  David and I spent the next six weeks looking at every take, moving scenes around, featuring different characters at certain key moments. The Avid computer system we used allowed us to make immediate changes, a far cry from Stuart Baird’s cutting room on Superman, with its strips of film hanging everywhere waiting to be spliced together with tape. By the middle of November we were ready to show the film to HBO. We had cleaned up the soundtrack and added temporary music cues borrowed from a little-known Irish film that we had discovered after listening to nearly a hundred scores.

  The reaction was mixed. When the lights came up Fred Zollo said the film was ready for an immediate release; Bonnie Timmerman, our casting director and coproducer, was crying so hard she had to leave the room. I was pleased that the film “held”—no one squirmed in their seats or left to use the phone (which actually happens sometimes at these early screenings). Colin Callender was polite but left quickly for New York. The next day I received a memo from him describing the work as “a promising first draft” along with about ten pages of notes and comments. I found that I disagreed with many of them, so I decided the best course of action was to have David make the requested changes to see if they improved the film, rather than defend my choices point by point. Meanwhile Colin brought in another editor, Kathy Wenning, as a consultant. They had worked together successfully on a number of projects, and he trusted her implicitly. She had also edited several films for Merchant Ivory, including The Bostonians and Howards End, so I was glad Colin had chosen her. Perhaps I had ruined the film, or at the very least failed to make the most of it. A fresh look at the material by someone so sensitive and skilled could be helpful.

  Kathy began by looking at Colin’s version, then my original cut. I fully expected her to side with Colin, assuming that she had been hired to endorse his point of view. But after seeing both versions she recommended that we use my cut as the basis for the finished product. I was deeply gratified and reassured; after all, the work David and I had done closely followed the script, which had been admired by everyone involved in the project.