Rebels on the Backlot (60 page)

I understand your situation and I don’t disagree with the dangers. And I will defer to whatever decision you make. The only thing I request is that you don’t ask me to do a
screenplay that has been edited to keep from angering a group of people that may be dangerous. But it’s your call and I’ll back your decision.

Thanks,
George  

Letter to David O. Russell before the shooting
of
Three Kings
, October 1998

David,
Just wanted to send you a quick note.

First, to say how excited I am about this project.

I know it’s a year of work for you. It shows.

I also wanted you to know I’ll do the best I can to work with
your
process.

It’s not how I work.

That doesn’t mean it’s wrong, it’s just new to me.

So I’ll give you all I got.

You won’t win on all of’em because I’m also doing the show
[E.R.
]. And you’re going to have to understand. If there’s something I can’t do, you can bet it’s because I’m working.

Now there’s something you can do for me. Get me the script. I need time to work on it. To break it down. It’s the most important thing you can do to help my performance. The sooner I get it the better I’ll be.

I know you’re getting worked from every angle but see what you can do.

Thanks,            
George             
(TV’s Dr. Ross)         

Letter to David O. Russell during
Three Kings
shoot,
c. December 1998

David,

When we started this film, you said you were going to break me of habits. And at every step of the way, from my voice to my gestures to my interpretation to my slurring words, you have made it your mission to change me of my bad habits.

Now it’s my turn. Since I’ve logged around six thousand work days on a set and you’ve had in the neighborhood of 110 days, I’m going to give you a few pointers.

You said to me that you do a film every three years and that you don’t have a TV show to fall back on. For the record, neither do I. You told me how I overacted on the show by pretending that the boy was far heavier than he was. You’ve chastised the crew in full vocal glory: yelling at props, yelling at the camera car driver, telling Tom that a shot he set up “sucks.” You have created the most havoc-ridden, anxiety-ridden, angry set that I have ever witnessed.

And here’s the joke of all jokes. I still don’t think you’re a bad guy or a bad director. I think you are a horrible communicator. You don’t always know what you want, but you know what you don’t want. O.K. Make that clear. We’ll all help you get there. In order for this to be a creative process you have to allow others to have input. Or start making animated films and do all the voices yourself.

You ask me to trust you. Based on what? I took this dive with you, head first. I told you I’d work your way—which has been the most difficult process I’ve ever seen. And the one
and only
thing that I insisted on was a completed or near completed script. Which you promised me I would get. Instead you did just the opposite, rewriting long monologues the night before. The only thing hindering my performance is the inability to feel confident with the material.

You asked what Soderbergh (sic) did to “break me of my bad habits.” I told you he gave me a great script and room to investigate. And when I got out of line he suggested better alternatives.

I’m not fighting you every step of the way because I’m unwilling to take a risk or try something new. I’m fighting you because
you
don’t know what
you
want. Or at least are unable to communicate it. And that leaves me very uneasy.

Let’s be clear on one thing. You didn’t get Clint Eastwood or Mel Gibson or Nick (sic) Cage. You got me. Be glad. Because they would have walked long ago. You use me when you need me—working the budget, the film processing, even to keep them from pulling the plug. But when it’s time for my input the answer is no. Every time. The irony is, I don’t have to take it. I do because I believe very strongly in this film. And I believe you can make it great.

You have no understanding of how difficult it is to do broad new dialogue, long speeches, while trying to concentrate on every hand gesture and tonal change. It’s like patting your head and rubbing your stomach nonstop for four months. The result of which is not a full performance.

You have an angry, frustrated set. You humiliate the script supervisor who’s doing
a miraculous job, and after I tell you why she was hurt you just say “She’s not going to make it.” No apology (sic). An extra has an epileptic seizure in the middle of
your
set. I’m on the ground with him and you go back to see replays of takes. This is your set. Even if you’re not interested, fake it.
You
set the tone. Otherwise people on this set feel like tools that you use to get an end product. A product that will open and close and go to video. It may be received well, it may even be a hit. And three years later you’ll start the process all over again. And what do you say to those people when you wrap this film, “Thanks for taking all of my shit, but we might have made a great film?”

You do this once every three years. The rest of us do it every day of our lives. And the set is our home. Our family. The confusion that you bring and the subsequent anger and blame that you display—because we don’t understand what you want—makes this family and this home the worst I have ever experienced.

So I’m now asking you to do what you ask me to do every day. Read this. Understand what I’m saying. Don’t be defensive, so that some part of this letter seeps into your psyche. I’ve listened to you. I’ve worked very hard at pulling down barriers so I could give you the performance that you want. Understand that I
not only
want what’s best for the film, but also what’s best for everyone involved. And you will be shocked at how much better and how much harder this crew will work for you.

First, you have to communicate better. If you change your mind, which you always do, you must have the patience to let the crew catch up—new props, wardrobe changes, lighting changes, and so on.

Give yourself more freedom. Delegate some control to department heads and trust that they will do what you want.

Open the door to a creative process. Allow the performers to be included. Not just listening and looking for ways to dismiss it.

I know you don’t think it, but my ass is just as far out on the line as yours. So let’s go back, and let’s make a good film, a film that we can all walk away from with pride and something more than a videocassette that sits on our shelves collecting dust.

So I’m holding out my hand and offering you an olive branch. And to take it, all you have to do is reach.

George

Letters courtesy of George Clooney

The following article was largely researched in the summer of 2003, during the writing and research of
Rebels on the Backlot,
as David O. Russell filmed his follow-up to
Three Kings,
titled
I
Huckabees.

David O. Russell had developed something of a reputation. The screenwriter and director of
Flirting with Disaster
and
Three Kings
had become known for smart, wildly original movies, and for attracting top actors despite relatively modest budgets. But he was also known for alienating some of those actors while shooting (most notoriously when he and George Clooney ended up in a fistfight on the set of
Three Kings).
For his next movie,
I
Huckabees
, Mr. Russell was determined to chart a happier course. This seemed fitting, since one of the movie’s themes would be the very possibility of human happiness. Billed as an “existential comedy,”
Huckabees
, which had its debut at the Toronto International Film Festival, may be one of the oddest Hollywood releases in recent memory: a jumbled, antic exploration of existential and Buddhist philosophy that also involves tree-hugging, African immigrants, and Shania Twain.