The Right of Wrong

One of my favorite moments in the creative process is when I realize that something I am working on and have put a great deal of time, hope and effort into has a lot of problems. At first, it’s agonizing, but after I have berated myself, realized I’m not as brilliant as I think I am and generally crumbled, a wonderful sense of purpose spreads over me, and with all delusions of perfection shattered, I am ready to get in there and figure out what went wrong.

A few months back I wrote about an independent film I was making. Well I fucked a bunch of it up, most notably the third act, which lay there like a meaningless lump. What we thought was deep, was dull. A character that mattered to us on the page (my co-writer TJ and I) meant nothing to us on the screen. It wasn’t just that the scenes didn’t play, but that our thesis hadn’t come off. We knew it would be fascinating to watch us try to save an addict in the middle of our relapse. To see us pleading with him not to use drugs with drugs in our pocket. Now, that’s a cool and unique angle on a recovery movie and only we can do it because we lived it! Oh, were we wrong.

I sat there and watched the first cut, the hole in my heart getting wider with every frame. Reading a bad draft of a short story you have written is a drag, but at least it’s just happening in your head. Watching your story not work on screen happens everywhere. You don’t just read the falseness, you see it, hear it, live it. It’s the difference between witnessing a car accident and being in one. You write a bad draft of a novel or screw up a painting, you mop up the tears, get back in there and see what you can do. You fuck your movie up, you either live with it, or you find more dough so you can round up the troops and go back into battle. Dates, schedules, crew. Calls with producers, camera and lenses, insurance for the camera and lenses and I haven’t even mentioned the re-writing and having a story solution for what ails you.

The details of the re-shoots are not important, and though I have seen the dailies, which are good, I haven’t seen them assembled into the film, so we still don’t know. But what makes me happy is that we acknowledged our problems and came up with a plan, changing what could be changed and working with what couldn’t. It was like that show “Chopped” where you are given a box of ingredients you have to cook with-- You have two ex-addicts who are close friends relapsing after fifteen years clean. They have heroin in their pocket, a small stray dog that has fallen into their lap and the city of Los Angeles; now make a frittata out of it.

In situations like these, it helps to have almost forty years of experience writing screenplays professionally, and the reason professionally is important is not because you get paid, which is nice, but because you are forced to deal with notes. Whether it’s the producers, the studio or the director, you are endlessly being asked to solve problems and let go of what you thought was good and have gotten attached to. Luckily, I have always been more interested in finding new solutions than in defending what was there. This is not always a great creative quality. Stubbornness and fierce (if not maniacal) belief in what you’ve done can be huge assets in the arts, they are just not ones I was blessed with; but what I do have is an ability to think on the fly and work within limits. To tinker, mend and repurpose. I don’t care if it’s fixing cars or saxophones or being a surgeon or plumber; to understand why something isn’t working and know how to fix it is a joy. The setting of a broken bone as big a boon as growing a new one.

There is nothing more startling than the difference between the art we imagine in our head (the fantasy of what it can and will be) and the harsh reality of what it becomes the moment we are brave enough to attempt it, yet we need that initial gush of belief, similar to the faith and madness it takes to fall in love. Sometimes that love is deep, easy and lasting, but sometimes you’re in couples therapy after a month. You can break up with your partner, but you can’t break up with your movie, so you two better learn to get along. I’ve written a couple of novels and started three others and gotten a chunk of the way through before jumping ship. I don’t consider these breakups permanent and hope that one day we will get back together. But for me, movies are different. Movies aren’t boyfriends or girlfriends, they’re spouses you’ve been married to for twenty years and have three kids with and there is going to be a lot of wreckage if you don’t see it through. The first film I made, A Thousand Junkies, took four years to complete and when I showed TJ the first assembly he prayed that no one else would ever see the horrors he had just witnessed (he co-wrote and co-starred in that one as well). But I worked on it like crazy. We shot new scenes and scads of B roll, hoping it would be edited into A+ art. Figuring out what that movie needed and seeing it through changed my life, and we will see this one through too. I only hope we are half as pleased with it as we are with “Junkies” though I have made peace with any outcome (Not really).

But this isn’t just about making things right, it’s about the relief of fucking up. Fucking up as opportunity; as remedy; as balm. When my self-worth is on the line, I am an anxious creator, but as soon as my car gets a few dents in it, I relax and drive my jalopy right. Remembering that I can make mistakes and still be loved is a lesson I will be learning my entire life. That flaw and fuck-up are not a curse, but a blessing. A kind and nurturing voice whispering in my ear, “You blew it kid. Now, let’s get to work.”