Film School

by Steve Boman

  Pete and I met at Gustavus. We lived in the same dorm and had an English class together and that was that: we became friends. We had a grown-up, thoughtful friendship.

  For example, when we were in college, we spent the evening before our graduation visiting a few bars in little St. Peter, Minnesota. Then we went visiting the apartments of various friends. It’s a small town, St. Peter. I’m a little hazy on the details, but I recall shoving carrots into a powerful room fan and laughing hysterically as carrot shrapnel sprayed about the room. I remember challenging some locals in their muscle cars to a race, with me on foot. I recall us carrying glass syrup dispensers filled with whiskey, dispensers we had borrowed from a local pancake restaurant. We figured the cops would be hoodwinked by our clever trick. When we drained our “syrup,” we began conducting liberation raids into campus housing looking for more drinks. Sometime before dawn, we found ourselves at the entrance of the college, where a four-foot-high stone sign announces GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS COLLEGE. Spread out in front of the sign was a beautiful tulip garden, perfectly manicured and loamy in the warm May night. Pete and I both climbed up on top of the sign, and we leapt off and did belly flops in the soft, muddy earth. Then we did it again. And again. And again. It was like landing in water, the ground was so soft.

  Over the years, our friendship grew and actually matured a little bit. He went to NYU to study acting after college. I gave him an old leather motorcycle jacket I owned, figuring he would look like a New York toughie with it.

  I moved to southern Minnesota and worked as a reporter. I’d visit his family over the holidays. He’d come down to Rochester and hang out. Somewhere in the archives of Minnesota Public Radio, there is a story featuring Pete. I did a comic spoof talking to Santa Claus. Pete was Santa.

  Pete was a good actor in college, and it was clear he had that special something onstage. Right out of NYU he was hired by Carol Burnett to perform on her short-lived reboot of a comedy show. It wasn’t a fluke hire. He worked steadily in Hollywood and kept climbing the ladder. When Julie and I visited California so she could interview at Oxnard, we stayed at his house. Pete had been a lead on SPORTS NIGHT, Aaron Sorkin’s dramedy, but the show had been canceled, and he was looking at other gigs. One morning during our stay, he pulled me aside and said he just got word he was cast in a new series. It was called SIX FEET UNDER. It would be on HBO.

  Julie and I had just moved to California with our girls when they had the red carpet premiere for SIX FEET UNDER. Julie and I sat next to him as his face filled the screen of the Egyptian Theater in Hollywood. It was very cool and somewhat surreal to see your college buddy’s mug on the big screen—or on any screen.

  During the three years Julie and I lived in Ventura County, Pete’s place became a getaway pad. Sometimes I’d take the whole family, sometimes I’d visit myself. We couldn’t have been less ENTOURAGE-like. Pete and I played a lot of ping-pong in his awesomely huge living room. Swam in his pool. Went for runs. Talked. Went out for pancakes or Mexican food or sushi.

  That was it. We never went clubbing. Pete is a private guy, and he got where he is by working hard, and the last thing he wants is to find his face in the publicity beast that feeds on Hollywood mischief. When I was staying home with the girls and going a little stir-crazy, Pete came up and hung with the kids and me. After Annette died, I was feeling very low. Pete told me he’d take me out and “do anything I wanted.”

  He drove up to Camarillo and took me bowling and we had some beers. Then we went to In-and-Out Burger.

  Pete became a star. He was nominated three times for a best dramatic actor Emmy for his work on SIX FEET UNDER. He’s worked with a Who’s Who of talented people.

  In 507 I had been too busy to see him much. We touched base a bit. I didn’t want to look like I was trading on his celebrity. Now, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I just want to see my old pal. We meet for lunch that day. He approaches me with wide eyes. I tease him by giving him a jerky, Frankenstein-like hug. It’s defensiveness on my part, really. I don’t want to admit I’m scared. So I joke about it. Joking about mortality is a lot better than crying about it.

  I assure him I’m feeling good, that everything is back to normal, that I’m going to have heart surgery, and that I’ll be right back in the game. He treats me as if I’m going to break if he drops a napkin on me. I assure him I’m fine. He’s skeptical and worried, but we agree to spend a day on the set of his latest TV show, DIRTY SEXY MONEY.

  When I get back to USC, my bravado dwindles. I decide to move into a hotel near campus. Carl and Irene’s house is a disaster zone. The walls need to be torn out, and we’re in a heat wave.

  That night, I’m sleeping in my hotel room when I wake after a nightmare. I’m unsure where I am. My heart is pounding. I keep thinking I’m going to lose my ability to talk again, to read, to understand. The next morning I give myself another of my little pep talks—get going, Steve, and quit feeling sorry for yourself. I lace up my running shoes for the first time since I’ve been released from the hospital. I attempt to run around the USC campus. I can’t go more than a few blocks before I slow to a walk. My legs feel awful. They’re heavy as stones and painful. I knew from my ultrasounds that I had no large clots in my legs. My doctors said it is possible, however, that I have microclots in the tiny capillaries of my legs. If so, I’m going to jog them out.

  M

  y workload at USC is amazingly light in this first week. Dan is directing the first film of our 508 partnership. Other partnerships are already doing preproduction, but Dan hasn’t finalized his script. So until that happens, I do nothing. I’ve got a screenwriting class, too, but that’s getting off to a slow start.

  On Friday I meet Pete at the DIRTY SEXY MONEY set. It’s in the Paramount lot, a massive complex located in the heart of Los Angeles in a neighborhood that has seen better days. Driving through the gates of Paramount is to go back in time. Inside, it’s a beautiful place, with carefully trimmed shrubbery and employees zipping around in electric carts. Pete’s show is taping several scenes, one featuring a limousine dropping off two of the characters and another in an office featuring Pete and Donald Sutherland, another of the lead actors on the show.

  It’s a good day to visit because Pete has a fair amount of downtime between scenes. When I arrive, he gives me a tour and introduces me to various crew and the director and several of the actors—William Baldwin among them. Pete is eager to show me off. “This is my friend Steve,” he says to Baldwin. ”Do you know he just had a stroke?” Baldwin, like others, seems to think he’s joking. I’m standing there looking fit as a fiddle. “I’m not kidding, he really did,” Pete adds, thus launching us into a little session where I explain what the heck had happened. It is a funny little shtick, and the mood on the set is upbeat and happy. The show is just a few days from premiering and there is obviously a lot of enthusiasm by everyone in the cast and crew.

  Pete has his own trailer—a high-end camping trailer like you’d find at a nice RV park. We sit and talk in the velour chairs while the AC blows cold air and the crew preps the next scene. Pete is relaxed yet focused. He explains that part of his appeal to producers has been his work ethic. He says his reputation is of someone showing up on time and knowing the script and not being a drama king on the set. He says he takes pride in almost never needing a prompt on his lines. Today his scene is being reworked, and Pete’s not worried. He says he’ll memorize the material quickly, then focus on the acting. He’s unfailingly polite to everyone on the crew. He holds a door open for some crew members when we tour the set.

  We step out and grab a snack from the food cart, when Sutherland appears. I’m not a guy who gets very excited about meeting stars. I was lucky enough to interview a good number of VIPs as a reporter, including presidential candidates making the rounds in Iowa. But … when I meet Sutherland, I can’t help but be a bit starstruck. I try not to stammer as we shake hands. Whoa, this is cool! I think. This is the guy I watched in soooo many great films.


  Pete introduces me, again, as the guy who had a stroke. I wave Pete off, but Sutherland is interested in talking medical issues. We discuss various ailments, and we engage in a bit of medical ailment one-upmanship. He tells me about nearly dying of an infection in Europe decades ago. I counter about the time I had my ferocious bike accident that broke most of the blood vessels in my pecker. Pete stands back and grins. Sutherland is an intriguing conversationalist, and I’m glad to hold my own. For the last few days, I’ve been feeling my brain is slow and I’m not on my A game, but this afternoon the words flow freely and I’m relaxed and happy. We talk for quite a while, standing by the food cart. It’s clear by the behavior of the crew that Sutherland is treated like royalty, and I’m catching a few curious glances. I have to suppress a smile. They don’t know I’m merely a second-semester film student.

  A production assistant approaches and tells Pete and Sutherland they’re wanted in a meeting. They disappear. I walk onto the set and find the director, James Frawley, and ask him if I can observe. He motions to an empty chair next to him. “Sit there. You can watch all you want.” Frawley is a gentle bear. He’s extremely clock-conscious but relaxed. He’s been directing television shows since he got his start helming THE MONKEES back in the 1960s. He’s been working in the business for more than forty years! I watched reruns of THE MONKEES when I was a little kid.

  We’re joined by the script supervisor, and the three of us sit in front of the video monitors as Frawley directs Baldwin and an actress in the exterior night limo scene (even though everything is staged inside the soundstage).

  Baldwin flubs a line. He apologizes, then gets it right. The scene wraps. I’m surprised to find the “video village,” the spot where Frawley is, isn’t within eyesight of the set. Frawley communicates by intercom to the actors. I was expecting the director to be hovering close to the action, but time is money, and the soundstage has several sets, and moving the video village would obviously take time.

  After my extended conversation with Sutherland, I’m stoked. And I’m finding Frawley is a gentleman. He says he sometimes teaches at USC, and he offers me some pointers on camera placement. He also talks about the importance of keeping the energy up on the scene and not wasting time. I’m taken aback because here’s a guy who’s been on the job for forty years, and if he’s faking his enthusiasm for teaching me, he’s a good actor.

  I’m also enjoying this entry into the real world. My chief complaint with film school students is the interminable delays in decisionmaking. No such problem with Frawley. He’s wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. The only people he doesn’t rush are the actors.

  The next scene is set in DIRTY SEXY MONEY’s office set—a gorgeous sprawling office that “overlooks” New York City, thanks to a large hanging scrim of the Manhattan skyline. It’s a long scene with Sutherland and Pete. Sutherland plays the patriarch of a wealthy New York family. Pete plays an earnest young lawyer who is hired to mind the family’s business. Frawley rehearses the two for a few minutes. The scene revolves around Sutherland hiding information. When the rehearsal is done, the crew rushes in and marks locations and readies the lighting. The entire crew works like honeybees for a few moments, then the set is ready. It’s already approaching 7 P.M. on a Friday night. Pete and Sutherland take their places. Frawley says “action,” and through the monitors I’m watching a wide shot of my pal engage in a long dialogue with the great Donald Sutherland. Sutherland seems flat in the first wide shot, and the second. There’s a technical issue—a microphone boom drops into the shot. Frawley sets up reverses to be used in editing. Then Frawley goes in for close-ups of each. These are the money shots for both actors. Pete is Mr. Steady, and his performances are intense. Sutherland looks tired and somewhat irritable. Then Frawley focuses on Sutherland. Frawley shoots several takes, none of them memorable. The shooting started later than scheduled because of the rewrite and now Sutherland makes it known that he would like to be done for the day. There’s a sense of nervousness on the set. Pete looks fresh and isn’t fading at all. Another take is stymied because the sound boom drops into the shot again. Frawley quietly asks Sutherland for another go. Sutherland agrees and rather theatrically announces that this will be his last take. Then as we film, Sutherland lets loose. His flatness disappears. He’s suddenly—just like that!—commanding the scene. His blindingly white teeth grin and snap like a wolf’s fangs. He circles and looks ready to pounce. There’s so much more energy in this take. I sense Pete upping his game, too. The scene is one of conflict barely disguised, and I can feel the energy behind the video monitors. The quality of the take is head and shoulders above any of the others. It’s as if Sutherland is showing off: This is how it’s done, boys and girls. When Frawley yells “Cut!” there’s excitement on the set. But Frawley and the script supervisor quickly confer. They’re worried. Did the boom drop into the shot again? They look at me. I’d been watching the upper frame of the monitors like a hawk, just waiting for that boom to edge into the frame. “No boom,” I say confidently. Frawley smiles. “Check the gate,” he tells the camera operator. When he reports back that the camera gate is clean of debris, Frawley yells out: “Moving on!” The scene is done. The crew applauds. Sutherland heads for the exit.

  When I drive out of the Paramount lot, I’m riding high. The professionalism and speed were exhilarating. I got to watch one of the all-time great American actors engage in a verbal battle with my friend, another great American actor, and ride shotgun with a director who has four decades of experience on a set.

  For the whole day I forgot about worrying about anything. I didn’t search for words or have any doubts about my mental acuity. I didn’t doubt my brain. At one point, Sutherland came and spoke to Frawley and invited him and his wife to brunch. After Sutherland walked away, Frawley beamed and said to the script supervisor and me, “Not bad! I just got invited to brunch with Donald Sutherland!” I paused a moment, then noted patronizingly, “Yeah, well, he already asked me, but I couldn’t make it.”

  It was obviously an insubordinate comment coming from a mere grad student, but the timing and cheekiness appealed to Frawley greatly. He roared with laughter.

  It was one week since I checked into UCLA. I felt blessed.

  D

  an is still wrestling with his script. His ideas change by the day. His stories involve a whiskey-drinking young man wooing a young woman, and (often) an overbearing asshole father. The story changes dramatically from day to day. Dan keeps reassuring me everything will be fine. He has to have a script ready to start shooting in two weeks, which means finding actors, a location, props, etc. We’re both producing the film, but with no idea of what our film is, there’s no producing to do. Most of the other partnerships are already casting actors and scouting locations and preparing shooting sites.

  We meet with Pablo in the second week. Pablo is concerned we are falling behind. He urges Dan to finalize his script. After the meeting, I sit with Dan on a park bench on one of the shady lawns near the film school and ask him to “talk the story out.” I offer to transcribe it if that will help. He doesn’t accept the offer.

  Dan doesn’t share what he’s thinking. Every day we’re another day further behind. Dan keeps saying, “Don’t worry, it will all be fine.”

  The saving grace of the week is that we get our cameras. They’re well-worn sixteen-millimeter German-made Arriflex cameras. When the equipment is handed out, everyone in class is excited, and we’re all a bit intimidated. I’ve never used a film motion picture camera. It’s a throwback to the prevideo age. We learn how to thread film through the camera, how to make certain there is just enough slack in the film loop so as not to bind in the internal mechanism. I enjoy taking apart our camera. The Arriflex dates back decades—it’s older than I am—and it still keeps working, albeit not without constant tinkering by an elderly Russian repairman USC keeps on staff, who cusses and bemoans our general lack of any common sense.

  We are strictly limited in the amount of film we can shoot
. Our sixteen-millimeter cameras use one hundred-foot rolls, which gives us about two-and-a-half minutes of shooting per roll.

  For each film in 508, we are allowed eleven rolls of film, or eleven hundred feet of film. That’s only about thirty minutes. We have three weekends to shoot. The maximum length of the finished film is 5:40.

  This is the genius of 508. Because we’re no longer shooting video and we’re allocated a limited amount of film, we can no longer use the camera like we’re spraying water from a hose. We have a roughly five-to-one ratio of rough footage to finished product. This means we must budget our shooting time. The 507 days of shooting a scene over and over and over are long gone. Now we must plan carefully and shoot carefully.

  Many of my classmates are worried about the restriction. I like it, knowing it will keep us on a budget. Everyone, including me, is worried about getting an image back on film. Using film requires a leap of faith. Unlike video, there’s no way to check quickly if a shot worked. With film, we shoot it, then send it to a developer and get the dailies back a few days later. If anything is amiss—if the exposure is off, if the film wasn’t loaded properly, if there’s a hair or dirt in the camera, if the film got exposed to daylight while loading it, if the focus is off, if the framing is off, if the camera gets jostled, if there’s something in the background that’s distracting, if the actor has a booger in his nose—it all gets discovered days after the filming is done.

  And our cameras don’t cover for us. There’s nothing automatic with them. Everything must be measured before pushing the trigger. To shoot film, we need to determine the amount of light on a set using a light meter. Dan and I bought a good light meter for about $300, and we’ll find out how adept we are at using it. We must set the film speed, the f-stop, the focus manually.

  We’re shooting sixteen-millimeter, a smaller and cheaper film stock than thirty-five-millimeter, which is used in most feature films. The sixteen-millimeter film is sixteen millimeters wide, thirty-five-millimeter film is thirty-five millimeters wide, or about one-and-three-eighths inches. All film is projected at twenty-four frames per second. Our sixteen-millimeter stock has forty frames per foot of film.