My project for a 2007 documentary filmmaking course I took was titled "Mission to Nicaragua." The picture above was taken in the Acahualinca city dump (I'm holding the video camera). Acahualinca is a place where entire families make a living by collecting anything they can sell, including glass and scrap metal. It is grueling, dangerous work, and children join their parents searching through the mountains of refuse many hours each day.
After I returned from the trip, Irvin Kershner reviewed some of the videotape I'd captured, and he was disappointed. To help me prepare, he had lent me a book he had used to learn how to direct but he hadn't had time to go over what images I would need before I left for Nicaragua.
Many of the interviews I'd videotaped were indoors, in medical offices. "Those shots could've been taken anywhere, here in California, down the street," he said. I was devastated as he told me how to take the viewer into a location, how to film establishing shots, and how to structure better onscreen interviews. The Nicaragua project was over and I had returned home. The meager video clips our medical team and I had worked so hard to complete were all I had. That night I called Wendy Apple, who was teaching the course, and I've never cried more bitterly. I determined never to make the same mistakes again.
Over the next few weeks, the students showed their rough cuts in class and many of them made excuses. There were dozens of reasons their projects weren't better--there had been problems with locations, their equipment, the time of day, lighting, sound. Finally Wendy had had enough. "I don't want to hear any more excuses," she said. "Who's the director? You're the director."
From that moment on we listened as Wendy and the directing/MA student who was assisting her, critiqued our work. Who was the director? We were the director and we began to use what we had captured, imperfect as it was, to tell our stories.
Earlier this year, a colleague told me stories about one of his friends who works in one of the most highly paid professions. He wanted to try something new, and decided to become a director. He was convinced that he could make it happen using his own willpower, intelligence, and resources.
This year he completed two projects which he was certain would launch his directing career. No one works harder than he does, and few have the resources (both money and contacts) that he does. When I heard that he was planning to submit one of his shorts to a major film festival, I waited to see what would happen.
A few weeks ago I heard the most recent update. It was as if I were sitting in Wendy Apple's documentary filmmaking course again--neither project had turned out very well. Next came the reasons (excuses). I couldn't help it, I repeated Wendy's line. "Who's the director?"
Screenwriting is the most challenging writing I've attempted. But even while working full-time and being determined to live a balanced life (family, relaxation and fun, too), I can't get enough of it. And what makes me feel the most comfortable about it? "Who's the director" (of each story; each new project). There's no time for excuses. I will make it work, and that's what makes it worth it.
NOTE: These entries are inspired by the final assignment for "The Business of Writing for Screen and Television," a School of Cinematic Arts' course taught by Frank Wuliger. Hoping to help his students become working screenwriters, he asked us to create a personal, five-year road map into the industry.
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