The Little Film that Made the Difference
The little film that made the difference is the one that lost its voice; a film I made in 1964 about the San Francisco artist, Raimonds Staprans. It’s included in the collection not only because of the difference it made in my life but also to make amends for what I did to it.
In the 1960s, I was working on a Master's Degree in English (playwriting) at San Francisco State. A friend wanted me to make a film. I had no interest in making a film, although I loved films.
He pestered me, virtually challenged me and, finally, dared me to make one. I succumbed to his insistence. I bought an old 16mm camera and several rolls of film; also some used editing equipment and set out to make a film.
The subject I settled on was the San Francisco painter because I was familiar with and interested in his work. I’d seen it many times and had fallen under the spell of his unique color still lifes.
His paintings were shown at a gallery on Sutter Street owned by Fred Maxwell. Maxwell was both his agent and dealer; well known in the art world here and abroad.
This was to be my first, and as far as I intended, my only film. It turned out to be a film from which I learned some important lessons in life that have to do with more than filmmaking.
One day I introduced myself to Maxwell. I told him I was a fan of Staprans and planned to make a film about him. He gave me the painter’s phone number and asked me to keep him posted on the progress of the film. He was putting together a show of Staprans’ paintings, and thought it would be great to present the film at the opening; scores of people attend, and every painting usually sells. I knew this to be true because I had attended an opening and saw the little red dots pop up on the labels of painting after painting.
I contacted the artist and told him I liked his work very much and would like to make a film about him. He was interested in the idea and said he looked forward to the project.
I told him I would have to spend time with him in his studio while he paints; watch him at work and learn how he goes about making his paintings. I explained that it might seem intrusive of me, and distracting, but that I had to do so in order to come up with a concept for the film. He was totally generous -- open and supportive of my request.
I spent many days with him while he painted. I was the proverbial fly on the wall day after day, making photograph after photograph of him at work. All the while, I watched closely and captured images of him in action, studying his physical posturing before his canvases; how he paused now and then to visually appraise the application of a daub of paint or the striking of a line; and how he would turn his painting upside down to examine it from a different perspective; how he would stand further back, then close up again to re-check the canvas from yet another angle and, importantly, during another moment in the process of creating the work; in what was actually for the artist a different moment in time!
The overall feeling I came away with was that at the start of a painting, the blank canvas that Staprans faced was the antagonist, and that he was the protagonist in a suspenseful theatrical performance about to start; and that when a painting was finally finished, the two of them had become satisfied triumphant collaborators.
By the time I had what I needed, I felt I was part of his creative process!
I then proceeded to put a script together as well as some sketches that served as a simple storyboard for the film.
When the film was completed I contacted Maxwell. He told me the timing was perfect. He asked me to attend the opening and bring along a projector and screen. But first, he wanted to see it at his office as soon as possible; in fact, he was as excited to see it as I was to have it seen!
Spoiler: He was utterly appalled and coldly disapproving of the film.
“You made a black and white film with no sound? About a painter? Five minutes long at best? With weird flashes of color scattered all over the place!
Keep in mind that Fred Maxwell hadn’t commissioned the film; hadn’t contributed a dime to its making. Judging from his hostility toward the film and toward me, one would have believed he’d financed it.
“It’s not what I call a film. I can’t show it.”
And he didn’t.
My big mistake, from which “the difference in my life” derived, was in the next step I took: I went back to the editing bench and removed all the so called “weird flashes of color” that offended him.
I did so for all the wrong reasons: to get him to like my film; to approve it; to praise it; to give it his blessing; and to have it shown at the opening!
I’d removed every flash of color. In doing so, I literally robbed the film of its voice! It no longer said anything, nor did it have anything left to say.
Suddenly, I had to speak for it. That’s what I’m doing right now!
Those “weird flashes of color” were the essence, the soul, the concept and idea of the film; they were the first thoughts from which the film was born. The flashes of color furnished the language of the film: its grammar, vocabulary, syntax and context.
The rhythm -- the music, it's beat -- everything important about the film as well as that of the artist himself at work resided in those flashes of color. This was where the thematic visual narrative style of the film was established!
The flashes of color were actually miniature sequences of synchronized intercut one-second-long extreme close-ups of the tip of the artist’s brush just as it applies a daub of paint in the exact color invented for the respective painting he was working on at the very moment – in the moment. Then, the brush lifts from the canvas as the painter’s brush simultaneously leaves the canvas in the black and white shot as the artist continues to work on the painting.
In addition to these thematic intercuts of color, several others involved shots of meditative and contemplative moments in the life of the artist away from the canvas, outside his studio. These too went by the wayside.
By the end of my re-cut, I had literally stripped the film of its life, of its self!
This brings me back to Maxwell’s objection to the silence of the film. For this film, perhaps for this film only, the silence was exactly what I needed in order to tell my story. I wanted to communicate the incommunicable: the inexpressible.
I needed silence in order to accomplish this.
I believe silence can be more than mere absence of sound; I believe it can act as a multi-dimensional metaphor; a window through which we are able to see what is otherwise obscured by sound, by noise.
By removing the heart, mind, and soul of the film, I had abandoned not only my vision but also my self-respect.
In the end, both Maxwell and I disliked the film equally, but for different reasons. Fortunately, I had shown the original version of the film to Staprans before I’d abandoned it. He liked it as much as I did.
I never again betrayed a film I made; I never turned my back on one.
I attended the opening of Raimonds’ show, sans film. I was lucky to actually purchase a painting before the last one sold. It wasn’t my first choice; that one was snapped up by actress Kim Novak. However, the one I bought was one I liked as well. I’ve kept it to this day.
The differences the Staprans film made in my life turned out to be sensible and practical. I learned to be my first and only audience from start to completion of all projects I take on, and to work as hard and for as long as it takes to satisfy that audience.
Also, I learned to welcome criticism, suggestion and inference put forth about my work, as long as it’s sincere; and especially if it’s informative and inspiring; if it helps clarify or presents new perspectives on my original thoughts and ideas. And I thank the person or persons for their kindly and well-meaning thoughts.
Most importantly, I try and make sure I never do the right or wrong thing for the wrong reason. I remind myself that there is nothing that everyone likes, nor is there anything everyone dislikes. We are different from one another; we don’t always think alike.
This is a vast truth to my way of thinking; it applies to more than films. It applies to people, places, and things; to ideas, beliefs -- politics, religions, and “tastes.”
It also reflects upon what we think about those we hardly know as well as on those closest to us – loved ones and not-so-loved loved ones. It extends to Shakespeare and symphonies; and to the Bible -- or, more correctly -- Bibles (plural!); too sacred works of all kinds, from all cultures and all faiths.
For example, the Torah; the Koran; the Bhagavad Gita; Buddhist scriptures, including Tibetan Tripitaka and the Book of the Dead; the Taoist text, the Tao Te Ching; to the Shinto work, Kojiki; to various Shamanistic writings, and too dark and secret forbidden tracts.
The truism reaches to such phenomena as power; control; wealth; success and failure; stardom and fame; even to life itself – to that of others and, sadly, sometimes, to the life of one’s self.
It’s futile to make anything in order to please anyone, especially everyone. Do hope others find something in your work that’s interesting, informative, entertaining, witty and/or humorous; and wish that what is found doesn’t distract from, contradict, trivialize or jeopardize it; or, worse, ignore it.
The making (and unmaking) of Raimonds Staprans turned out to be a fortunate mistake. By chopping up my film I took the wrong road, but it turned out to be the right one after all. Like the one in Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” it “has made all the difference.”
Years later, when I became the filmmaker I never intended to become, I was approached by someone who had known and worked in some capacity with Bruce Lee, whom I’d admired and whose career I had followed.
He asked me to make a film about Lee. During our discussion, it became clear that what he had in mind was a film about himself and his influence on Lee as a martial artist. He wanted a documentary in which he would appear on camera and act as the narrator, accompanied with documentary footage of Lee that he had somehow acquired.
I told him I had no interest in making a documentary film about Bruce Lee, or any type of film that focused on Lee’s outer self; that I was interested only in Bruce Lee’s inner life.
He was persistent and tried to lure me into his vision of the film. I declined and suggested he either write a book or seek another filmmaker.
The film I would have made would have focused on Lee’s philosophy; on his purpose in life; on his mind in relation to his martial arts; on his use of body language to express what he had to say about existence; yes, what he had to say, but without the use of speech; instead, in-text -- quotes from Lee himself – expressed at the same time in his true art form: action.
The Bruce Lee film was the best film I didn’t make.
It was inspired by Raimonds Staprans, the little film I did make.