Stephen Mitchell's Blog

I've had both good and bad experiences at the Cannes festival--last year I had to listen to someone's incessant anecdotes about working in a video store as the price for a ride down on the G5--but this year takes the cake. I find very few reasons to leave my (junior) suite but the festival can usually be counted as one of them and so it was that I made my way to a villa in Cap d'Antibes where I enjoyed a reasonable degree of seclusion from this, that and the other thing until I was convinced, against my better judgment, to attend a party on someone's yacht.

In spite of the hour, I knew I'd arrived early as the starlets still had their clothes on which meant that I would be required to make conversation with people until I could effect my exit once the official jambes en l'air got underway. It wasn't long before I was braced by a representative of the Turkmenistan film commission who importuned me about locating my next film production in his country. He showed me pictures of dungeons and modern torture facilities that he could place at my disposition complete with ex-KGB staff who could serve as technical advisors in addition to providing security for the production. I made the mistake of making what was taken for an expression of approval and, the next thing I knew, I was being hustled into the helicopter perched on the stern of the yacht and we went airborne in the direction of the local landing strip. Since my escort--not the film commission rep--spoke no English and sported a side-arm of considerable caliber, I allowed myself to be bustled onto a small jet bearing military markings which took off without awaiting clearance from whomever might have been authorized to give it.

It has been a long, long time since I have enjoyed such vast quantities of Beluga caviar and the Champagne that was laid on was without equal. It is probably one of the few times such offerings were served up in the rooms that I visited and I can only imagine what the previous guests were provided during their stay. I wonder if they, too, were offered such attractive tax incentives and service facility discounts, but I suppose we'll never know. By the end of the evening, which was actually the next afternoon, I was returned via ambulance to the military jet and whisked back to Cannes. Later, I loitered in the bar at the Hôtel du Cap and attempted to sell my newly acquired shares in the Turkmenistan film consortium to anyone who would take them.

I may think twice about attending next year.

There was a period when I spent time riding with an LAPD unit in various parts of the city--first out of Parker Center in downtown, then out of Van Nuys Division and later out of Venice. Each area had its unique qualities and each seemed to have its own proclivities. What a citizen might not even register as he or she passed through one of these areas pegged the needle when viewed through the windshield of a patrol car. The very presence of a black and white seems to create an energy shift in which all the players unwittingly identify themselves. If ever one has the opportunity to take the ride, my advice would be to jump at it.

I have a problem with most police fiction. I thought Eastwood and McQueen did excellent character work in Dirty Harry and Bullitt. My favorite literary cop is Hieronymus Bosch as written by Michael Connelly whose depiction of law enforcement most closely reflects the reality I observed while managing to be suspenseful and entertaining. It is what I tried to depict in my movie Bleeder & Bates, an experimental exercise in guerrilla filmmaking that we distributed directly on video, which portrayed a journeyman detective knee-deep in someone's hidden agenda that he might not survive. What most on-screen cops lack is the consequence of the young man's dream in conflict with the adult's pragmatic reality. Some are defeated and others are resolved. None are indifferent to the effect police work has had on them and they make for compelling characters in existential storytelling.

I found myself preparing to do a another film--what the French refer to as a policier, a cop drama--with Patrick Tanzillo, an actor who was also a friend. He had a great personality but knew nothing about policemen or their world. I decide to give him a glance. One night we went out together in his rather plain Ford Torino. I had recently issued a casting notice and had three canvas bags left by the postman full of envelopes containing actors' 8x10s and resumes. From these I selected a 5x7 photo of a an actor that did not have a name and talent agency logo printed on it. At about ten-thirty that night, we ventured forth.

Our first stop was Pink's Hot Dog stand on La Brea Avenue in Hollywood. Patrick pulled to the curb and we sat watching the customers lined up to buy their chili dogs. I held the photograph in my hand. It didn't take long before someone became curious and approached. "Good evening," I said before he could speak. "Have you seen this guy?" I held up the photograph so he could see it. "No, I don't recognize him," he said after studying the picture. "What's he done?" he asked me. "Don't know but I'd like to find out," was my response. Then he told me, "My cousin works Rampart Division." I smiled and said, "Sorry to hear it." He laughed and we moved on to our next destination.

Cruising slowly on 6th Street near Alvarado, we saw a couple of pedestrians. We gave them a good look as we went by and one of them called out, "Pigs!" Patrick was getting the idea. A little later down by Los Angeles and 8th, a fellow approached us. "Have you seen this guy?" I asked him. After staring wide-eyed at the photo for a few moments, he said, "Yeah, I seen him at the bus station about a half hour ago!" I thanked him and as we were about to drive away, I asked, "Have you ever done time?" He answered, "I done time but I made restitution." I asked him what was the charge. "Aggravated assault," he told me with a smile. "What did they wind that down from?" I asked. "Attempted murder," was the answer. I thanked him for his help and wished him a good evening.

Our last stop was on Sunset Boulevard near N. Beaudry Street. We pulled up to a bar that had saloon-style swinging doors like in a movie about the old West. Inside, there was a long bar to the right and pool tables to the left. The jukebox was playing Latino music. We entered and, by pre-arrangement, Patrick slowly walked the length of the bar, glanced into the restroom at the back of the establishment and slowly walked back to where I was standing at the entrance holding the photograph and comparing it to the faces that were staring at me. Patrick and I exchanged a few words before going outside and getting into the Torino. We made a U-turn and as we passed in front of the bar, most of the patrons were peering at us over the swinging doors wondering what the Hell had just happened.

As I left him that night, Patrick enthused that we had done more work that night than the police. It was an interesting adventure and gave him a viewpoint he did not have previously. The movie we ended up making wasn't a cop drama after all, but a love story, Woman on the Beach. Go figure!

Beyond the need to be able to memorize lines, the job of an actor is to attract the attention of the audience and hold onto it. In my book Action/ReAction, I looked at the 'component parts' of acting and distilled them into two major aspects--action and reaction with reaction being the more magical of the two.

The reaction is supremely important because it is during the reaction that the audience bonds with the actor and the character. They see that you are reacting and want to know what you are thinking. They will project their own thoughts into your performance and believe you are thinking the same thing they are thinking. This bonding mechanism is very important to understand if one wants to build a fan base.

Getting the audience to project their thoughts into your mind is subtle yet important. Let us not forget that one of the definitions of fine art is that it engages the thought processes of the audience.

The audience may not know why, but a performance that relies solely on the dialogue will appear artificial. A performance that includes these reactions will be seen as more intriguing and engaging.

Inspired by L'égoïste romantique by Frédéric Beigbeder, I wrote Ray D. Shosay's Journal: Dispatches from a (junior) suite in Paris. Ray became my (somewhat absurdist) alter-ego; a Hollywood screenwriter hiding out in the Hôtel Georges V in Paris. He is an insider's insider; an 'oblivious savant' of the first order. Here is an excerpt:

Every so often, someone comes to town knowing that I, like the Count of Monte Cristo, am imprisoned in my (junior) suite awaiting my destiny. On these occasions, I am called upon to venture out of the hotel (if they only knew what that entailed) and escort them to the better addresses in Paris, which often times are, in fact, the worst depending upon one's perceptions and inclinations.

Earlier today, I was accosted by a meteorically rising starlet with seven major flops to her credit (we have the same agent) interested in purchasing a diamond ring somewhere in the vicinity of the Place Vendôme. I agreed to the task on the promise from The Chad that my next multiple picture deal would not be cross-collateralized.

The joaillier saw right through my act in spite of the Patek Philippe on my wrist and affected not to recognize the actress, if I may use that term, whose beauty is of such an artificial nature that one is constantly surprised when she speaks.

Having selected exactly the right stone (a five karat yellow Princess-cut diamond) after only an hour and a half of viewing (during which she ordered in a snack from the Ritz), she attempted to get Françoise Hardy on the phone for an astrological opinion. Mercifully, Françoise was letting her calls go to voice mail.

About to finalize the transaction by handing over her black Amex, she let loose with, "This isn't a blood diamond, is it? That would be impossible." With a maximum of aplomb, the joaillier countered with, "As you wish, Madame, but it will be half the size for the same price." Thus ended further negative references to blood diamonds and we departed the store and each other; she in a state of short-term euphoria and I in search of a Bellini at the Ritz.

Interestingly, I've never heard anyone ask if they are getting blood gasoline at the pumps.

I met Vito di Bari who was an Italian film distributor at a film market in Las Vegas and struck up a conversation. What follows is an excerpt from How to Shoot a Feature Film in 15 Days (And Survive to See Profits).

When I had run out of small talk, I said to Vito, “I can make a police action thriller for [undisclosed, loss-leader, unbelievably bargain basement sum here].” “How can you do that?” he wanted to know. “I do it a lot,” I told him looking more sad than proud of the fact. “What would the film look like?” he asked which told me that he was either incredibly forbearing or had bitten off on a small piece of my implied proposition. Time to offer him a larger bite, I thought to myself.

“If you’ll come down the hallway with me, I’ll show you.” This was a nice trick to pull out of my hat, because it just so happened that my producer’s rep had a suite down the hall and there, one of the films they were pushing, was my latest movie Bleeder & Bates to be seen. I escorted Vito into the suite, exchanged brief hellos with my rep, appropriated a video player that wasn’t being used at the time and racked up my movie. As I did so, I noticed Vito studying the poster for Bleeder with its shiny, silver police badge, the Porsche Turbo (with Martini racing colors), two guys with guns and intent to kill and two women wearing what looked like Victoria’s Secret lingerie. This arrangement of images piqued his interest even further. We watched the opening of Bleeder.

After about ten minutes, Vito asked me to scan ahead to the middle of the film, which I did. There we watched another ten minute segment of the movie; possibly the sequence with the Porsche Turbo racing along Mulholland Drive was in this section. Then, he asked me to scan forward to the last portion of the film which we watched taking in the enigmatic ending where a police commander is shotgunned to death at the front door of his home by an assailant that is implied rather than identified. “Let’s talk,” was all he said.

We didn’t go back to his company's suite but, instead, found a sofa at the intersection of two hallways and began our discussion. “When could you start?” Vito asked. “In about three days.” I told him this knowing how crazy that would sound to him. It reminded me of a scene from the film Patton where Patton tells the command that he can pull out of battle and move his troops in a winter storm a hundred kilometers to another region and take up the fight again. Vito was just as incredulous as were those Generals listening to Patton’s declaration. Vito needed an explanation. “Vito, I founded a repertory company for film and television,” I began. “We have about a hundred actors at any given time whom we have trained and prepared for the roles we create for them in the movies we make. Think of us as a studio from the old Hollywood studio system with our own actors but without the overhead and real estate and operating as guerrilla filmmakers.” I added that it was my habit to write the script as we shoot the movie and went on to say that if we required three days to start, it was only because I needed a day to get back to Los Angeles. He began to see that I wasn’t quite as crazy as he at first thought. “What kind of film would it be?” he wanted to know. It will be very much like the one you just looked at; a thinking man’s cop drama looking at the relationship between crime, law enforcement and politics. If you liked what you just saw, you’ll like what I do for you.

If you didn’t, we should stop now. Do you have a story in mind, he asked. No, but I have a title—Dead Right.

Vito and I shook hands on the deal and he gave me his card asking me to call his office in Los Angeles so we could set up a meeting to formalize our agreement to
make this movie together. Coming away from the encounter, a friend pointed out that I had just made a deal whereby a distributor, whom I had never met,
would fund a film for which there was no script and which, in the real world, isn’t supposed to happen. It occurred to me that if I only did things that were supposed to happen, I would be selling life insurance in the San Fernando Valley. “I think he liked the title,” I told my friend

I published my first novel, Ignorance is Bliss, after I'd been making movies for decades and was in the habit of thinking visually for the screen. I knew that writing a novel would impose a different set of rules to be followed, broken or ignored entirely. Whereas a film is intended to be consumed within a relatively short period--ninety to a hundred and twenty minutes--a novel represents a way of passing time though not at the expense of making the reader wanting to turn the page in anticipation of what is coming next. One thing I teach actors is that the audience will remember what they didn't expect to see--I try to incorporate this dictate in my writing.

Here is an extract from Ignorance is Bliss:

Normally, Martin thought of walking distance as about three puffs on a cigarette. Any more than that and you'd gone too far. Nevertheless, he was into his second Pall Mall before it dawned on him that his car was either lost or stolen. The idea shocked him. The car, a 1959 Cadillac Sedan de Ville bearing Congressional plates, was not the sort of vehicle thieves would find enticing. In fact, nobody that knew him seemed to understand Martin's attachment to the relic. And, of course, he never bothered to explain that the first grown woman he'd ever seen naked drove such a car. Most people would likely see that as some sort of retrograde fixation, Martin being only thirteen at the time. She had been a friend of his mother and she drove a black-on-black convertible. The closest Martin could come to that had been the rose-colored Sedan de Ville.