by Steve Hakeman
So here we are, sitting in the funky, collegial confines of the Vaudeville Mews on a freezing February evening. We’ve already seen five of six projected screenings of short films by members of the Iowa Scriptwriters Alliance and the Iowa Motion Picture Association. The sixth and final offering, “The Power of Love,” is moments away. I glance at the program. It reads:
Director: Rick Amundson
Screenwriter: Steven Hakeman
Steven Hakeman. That’s me! Good lord, I hadn’t noticed it before but sweat seems to be pouring out of my scalp, my heart’s beating like a drum solo. I curse myself for not having had more to drink. I have to pee.
And then, there it is, on the screen, huge flickering images, beautiful and cinematic. Except for the words. The words, my words, that I’m rewriting almost before they tumble out of the actors’ mouths.
What was I thinking? Mentally I slap myself on the forehead. I had my chance and I blew it. Where, I ask myself, did those words come from? And how did I get here?
How indeed. It had happened so fast. ISA President Dave DeBord had come up with an idea. It sounded simple enough— ISA members would write scripts and IMPA directors would shoot those scripts. We’d call the project, interestingly enough, “Shooting Scripts.” We’d all dash off five-minute scripts, submit them to an independent committee of judges who would pick six of those scripts for possible production. Then the IMPA would draw three directors’ names out of a hat and those directors could select the script they wanted to film from the pool of six.
Naturally we’d failed to figure a basic axiom into the equation—nothing is ever simple when writers are involved—but that’s another story for another time. Suffice it to say I come up with a script, almost fail to deliver it by deadline (try finding the IMPA office at night! It can’t be done), the script is one of seven (there was a tie for sixth place, I’m told) to make the first cut, and then, one day, director Rick Amundson calls and says he wants to direct it.
To which I reply, “Sorry but I’ll have to pass on that, Rick, because Steven Spielberg has been expressing some interest lately.” Yeah, right.
A couple of days later, here are Rick and I meeting over lunch (lunch!) and he’s explaining to me how he likes the script but will, of course, be ignoring any directions I’ve written into it. In a daze, I realize this really is going to be like Hollywood. Before I know it, I’ll be out the door and Rick will be bringing in his own writing team.
But no. A week and a half later, Rick is inviting me to the casting call. At first I decline, carrying on this conceit to absurd lengths by noting that in real life, the writer would never be invited to sit in on casting, and I want this experience to be as authentic as possible. He reminds me that this isn’t Hollywood or real life, but a chance for us to learn from our peers and grow as artists.
Wait a minute. That sounds like a line from a bad script. But I go.
The casting is held in a long, narrow, windowless room in Meredith Hall on the Drake campus. Steve Schott, chair of the Shooting Scripts committee, and Randy West, one of the other directors, are already there. I immediately notice, with a certain disappointment, that there isn’t a couch. Rick shows up a few minutes later and he and the others immediately start talking director talk, which is a language writers can’t understand. It seems to me they’re doing this on purpose, but maybe not.
Casting itself strikes me as a rather sad and humiliating process whereby actors are required to walk into the room, stand in front of a video camera totally naked (metaphorically speaking of course), state their name, and deliver a few lines of prepared dialogue (often Shakespeare which comes across as oddly pathetic, given the setting). I wince ever so slightly at it all, recognizing in it the rejection writers face so often, but realize it’s actually worse because writers receive their rejection by mail and not in front of an audience. What if a writer had to open the envelope and read the rejection slip out loud in front of 20 strangers?
The actors are then asked to read some of the part they’re here to audition for. In this case, that means something I’ve written. I sit aghast as I hear my words. These are actors, and my dialogue still sounds like something written on a strip of paper, cut it up into individual words, and reassembled at random. It’s so wooden I can’t believe they’re not getting splinters. Gah! Get me rewrite! I suddenly feel like I’m the one who’s naked. I’ve got to get out of here!
The next thing I know Rick’s escorting me down the hall, probably trying to figure out how to get out of doing my script.
But a scant two weeks later I’m at Applied Art and Technology, sitting in a cold studio watching dress rehearsal. I’d purposely written my characters loosely, since this was a workshop after all, and I’d wanted our actors to have something to do besides simply memorize their lines. And it’s fascinating to watch Kevin and Jennifer struggle to find their characters, while Rick gently prods them in one direction, then another.
This continues the next day during the actual shoot. It’s a credit to Jen and Kevin that, three hours and five gallons of tea (our whiskey substitute) later, they’re still delivering different takes on their lines. The amazing interaction among Jen, Kevin and Rick, not to mention the wonderful set decoration, dead-on camera work, the lighting and the sound, gives me an immediate appreciation of the truly collaborative nature of the art of filmmaking.
And when the day’s shooting is done, and three films are in the can, I’m left with just one nagging question: how in the heck does the sound guy hold up that boom all day?
A few weeks later we’re back together to edit a little over an hour of raw footage down to a final five-minute product. Here Rick and editor Gavin Wigg huddle together over their screens and toggle switches like twenty-first century alchemists, cutting, stitching, smoothing, layering, at one point even combining two takes of Kevin into one that never actually existed, but which, I must admit with a certain trepidation, does now. Magically. Like lead into gold.
And then, as if in a dream, here I am, sitting in the Mews, and “The Power of Love” is washing over me and I realize that I’ve learned so much about film in the last two months: the multitude of creative expression involved, from writing to directing to lighting to set design to editing to ... you name it; the interconnectedness of it all; the grueling, monotonous hours; the relief and thrill of a wrap. And all for five minutes of flickering light on a screen. The amazing thing is that any movie ever gets made. So many ways to go wrong, so much beyond your control.
And, of course, it always goes wrong. And yet movies do get made.
And yes, I still want to be a part of it.
And I really, really desperately want to rewrite some of that dialogue.