Crazy for God (42 page)
Authors: Frank Schaeffer
What kind of insanely individualistic culture do we become when the words “I want” trump all other considerations? What happens to all our rights in such a world? What happens to our sense of community?
Roe v. Wade
was no better than the total ban on all abortions was.
Roe
painted us all into a corner.
And
Roe
should be overturned and replaced with a far more nuanced set of laws.
Roe v. Wade
was no better than the total ban on all abortions was.
Roe
painted us all into a corner.
And
Roe
should be overturned and replaced with a far more nuanced set of laws.
Some abortions should be legal; and under any conceivably realistic scenario post-
Roe,
they would be. But advances in science and the exponentially exploding possibilities of human engineering have to be included in our thinking. The situation is not static, and therefore
Roe
“settled” nothing. The reality is constantly changing: for instance, what “viability” is.
Roe
was merely a snapshot of one moment in time, a pretty extreme moment. It was a sledgehammer where a scalpel was needed.
Roe,
they would be. But advances in science and the exponentially exploding possibilities of human engineering have to be included in our thinking. The situation is not static, and therefore
Roe
“settled” nothing. The reality is constantly changing: for instance, what “viability” is.
Roe
was merely a snapshot of one moment in time, a pretty extreme moment. It was a sledgehammer where a scalpel was needed.
We will never find a “good” solution to the question of abortion. What we need to do is to back away from the idea that there is an ideological “fix” to every problem. Then again, that’s just one opinion. And I could be wrong. I often am.
58
B
efore I settled for less—before I fell to depths I could have never anticipated in my wildest nightmares—I caught a break. The twenty-minute reel I cut from
Whatever Happened to the Human Race?
almost got me in the door at United Artists. Only later, when I squandered this promising start by making four mediocre Hollywood features, did I come to realize that, ironically, my best work in film was what I did within the evangelical context that I had so longed to escape to make “real movies.”
efore I settled for less—before I fell to depths I could have never anticipated in my wildest nightmares—I caught a break. The twenty-minute reel I cut from
Whatever Happened to the Human Race?
almost got me in the door at United Artists. Only later, when I squandered this promising start by making four mediocre Hollywood features, did I come to realize that, ironically, my best work in film was what I did within the evangelical context that I had so longed to escape to make “real movies.”
John Kohn, my Hollywood mentor, a World War II vet, friend, producer, lefty screenwriter, and former president of EMI, set up a meeting with Steven Bach, head of production at United Artists. (I had first been introduced to John Kohn by his vice president at EMI, whose brother had seen one of my documentaries.)
Steve Bach and I met twice and had several conversations on the phone. Steve (like most people outside of the evangelical ghetto) had never heard of my father. (At least if he had, he never brought it up.) And I was careful to cut my reel in such a way that none of the controversial pro-life material was there. It looked like the footage had been pulled from a high-end dramatized BBC series on medical ethics.
Steve liked my reel and gave me a book about the Dutch art forger Han van Meegeren. Meegeren specialized in painting and then “discovering” fake Vermeer paintings. He fooled the Dutch art world and even the invading Nazis. Ironically, he was arrested after the war for collaborating with the Nazis, because he had sold them several “Vermeers,” thus passing “national art treasures” to the enemy. His only defense was to prove that they were fakes. Since the ego and reputations of the top Dutch art experts were on the line—they had authenticated Meegeren’s work—he was put in the weird position of having to fight to expose his own criminality to save himself.
John Kohn called me after my first meeting with Steve to say he thought, based on what Steve told him, that it was close to a done deal. Steve—who John always described as “too nice to be in the movie business”—had liked me, John said. And given that I was both a painter and a filmmaker and more or less a European, Steve thought the Meegeren material was a good choice for my first feature. So did I.
Steve was a kind and genuine person, and the idea of making a movie for him, about someone passing himself off as one thing when he was another, fit my situation perfectly! To say the least, I had a “feel” for the material!
After a second meeting, Steve asked me to write a treatment, and ten pages of script, then to come back in three weeks. Maybe he’d make me an offer for a development deal to write and direct a movie. I was ecstatic!
Several weeks later, I was back at United Artists. The door to Steve’s office opened, and a security guard asked me why I was there. (Steve had put me on the list at the gate so I could get in.) More security guards arrived. Someone asked me if
Steve had sent me “back to get something.” Later, when I read Steve’s book
Final Cut,
I figured out that this was the same morning (or near to it) that he was told to clear out his desk after he was fired because Michael Cimino’s
Heaven’s Gate
fiasco took down the company.
Steve had sent me “back to get something.” Later, when I read Steve’s book
Final Cut,
I figured out that this was the same morning (or near to it) that he was told to clear out his desk after he was fired because Michael Cimino’s
Heaven’s Gate
fiasco took down the company.
It was soon after this that I decided to try my luck at raising the money for a low-budget feature film. I wanted to try to get in the back door to the movie business, having struck out on my best try at the front door. Meanwhile, Schaeffer V Productions (my evangelical nonprofit documentary company through which Jim and I had produced
Whatever Happened to the Human Race?
) was a going concern with several million dollars passing through it every year from donations we had used to make the films and run the second seminar tour. We had produced several more evangelical films since working with Koop and Dad, including one to launch the Rutherford Institute, published our free, widely distributed newsletter, and sponsored my speaking tours and other events.
Whatever Happened to the Human Race?
) was a going concern with several million dollars passing through it every year from donations we had used to make the films and run the second seminar tour. We had produced several more evangelical films since working with Koop and Dad, including one to launch the Rutherford Institute, published our free, widely distributed newsletter, and sponsored my speaking tours and other events.
Now I wanted out of the evangelical world. But I waited to bow out until I had my first feature film going. To my discredit, I played the game until then.
Within two years of Dad’s death, and at the height of our success, Jim and I shut down Schaeffer V Productions more or less overnight. We closed so fast, Jim had to get the office staff to send back unopened mail to some donors.
I was surprised by how quickly I was forgotten, how calm the waters were, as soon as I paddled out of the center of the evangelical right-wing whitewater. From one day to the next, I went from daily calls to be on some TV show, or be on the radio, or to be a participant in this or that symposium, march, seminar, or publishing venture, to blessed silence. It was a
relief. It also confirmed what I already knew: that evangelicalism is not so much a religion as a series of fast-moving personality cults.
relief. It also confirmed what I already knew: that evangelicalism is not so much a religion as a series of fast-moving personality cults.
As soon as a leader steps aside, or is shoved aside, or stumbles, the crowd looks for the next man or woman to briefly follow. There is always a bigger show down the street, another even better Bible-study leader or congregation to try, another hot author/guru to read, another trend, from speaking in tongues to giving homeschooling a try. And most evangelicals spend a good portion of their time wandering from church to church, from leader to leader, even from one radio and TV personality to another, in the same way that when I was a teen I’d switch my loyalty from one rock band to another. It’s all about who is “hot.”
In 1984-85, I directed
Booby Trap
(released as
Wired to Kill
in the United States and under the original title in the UK and other countries). Our movie was a
Road Warrior
ripoff with a twist: A young couple is preyed upon by a futuristic gang, and the couple sets a series of traps to kill them off.
Booby Trap
(released as
Wired to Kill
in the United States and under the original title in the UK and other countries). Our movie was a
Road Warrior
ripoff with a twist: A young couple is preyed upon by a futuristic gang, and the couple sets a series of traps to kill them off.
Jim and I raised $1.3 million from about thirty or so investors. These investors included several evangelical heavy hitters I knew from my nonprofit work (like Mary Crowley). Most of the investors were just people who wanted to make money and get near the movies, and who had money to spare.
Jim and I worked without pay, fees, or salary, all the better to convince our investors that we had faith in our projections of profits.
Wired
was a bust. Then the money I had made in the evangelical subculture off my book royalties began to disappear, leaving Genie and me more or less living hand-to-mouth.
Wired
was a bust. Then the money I had made in the evangelical subculture off my book royalties began to disappear, leaving Genie and me more or less living hand-to-mouth.
If only we had opened on a better weekend! If only we had cast a “name” as one of the leads! If only I had had the talent
to match my ambition! If only I’d
paid
myself! The real problem was that we never had a good script.
to match my ambition! If only I’d
paid
myself! The real problem was that we never had a good script.
During preproduction, I had concentrated on raising the money, not the script writing. And I lacked the discipline that can only be honed in the struggle to write well. “Writing” and “publishing” had been way too easy in the evangelical world. I brought all my bad habits to my screenplay: hasty-first-draft-get-it-done-someone-else-will-fix-this-later “writing.”
And there was another problem: I was infatuated with Emily, our female lead, a petite, unknown, winsome blond nineteen-year-old I tagged around after like a lost dog. After I neglected the script, shooting
Booby Trap/Wired
became about flirting with Emily. It also became about acting the part of a hot young director, of living in LA with Genie and the children, long afternoons during preproduction and postproduction by the Oakwood apartments swimming pool in Burbank, trips to Zuma Beach with the kids, followed by the sunburn-cooling chill of the Chinese Mann Theater where we watched movies.
Booby Trap/Wired
became about flirting with Emily. It also became about acting the part of a hot young director, of living in LA with Genie and the children, long afternoons during preproduction and postproduction by the Oakwood apartments swimming pool in Burbank, trips to Zuma Beach with the kids, followed by the sunburn-cooling chill of the Chinese Mann Theater where we watched movies.
My son Francis, who was about eleven then, remembers:
The apartment in LA had a pool. The apartment was nice enough, but a bit small. Happily we could spend huge amounts of time outside. Jessica and I basically lived at the pool when we were not at the shoot. It was large and warm and had barbecue grills near it that were for the use of the residents. I swam so much that I constantly had irritated eyes and ears. Dad, Jessica, and I played in the pool together all the time. Dad played too rough, so frequently one of us ended up in tears and we used to hit him as hard as we could to get away.
Dad was over the top, funnier, louder, scarier, more loving, more demonstrative, smarter, more informed, than other kids’ dads. He was bigger than life, terrifying, mercurial in mood. Mom kept it all going, was the calm force, steady, gentle, and so loving.
Genie knew I had a crush on my star and put up with it because I told her about it, lamented the distraction; and she trusted me—or pretended to. Genie would even tease me. And when we were all living in a motel out at the Fontana location with the cast and crew, Genie would look out the window sometimes and say “She’s in the swimming pool wearing a really cute little bikini. You don’t want to miss this.”
Even presuming that Emily would have let me—and there was no reason to believe she would have—I never touched her. She had a boyfriend. It was all pitiful and distracting lust from a distance. Genie was right to laugh at me.
My only lasting regret is that we had one terrific actor in the movie, Merritt Butrick, who played my Shakespeare-quoting villain, the leader of the gang. I didn’t know it, but he was dying of AIDS. Back in 1984, none of us knew what the illness was about. There were only rumors about a “gay cancer.”
Merritt kept coming to work ill and never missed a day of shooting, even when he was horribly sick with a high fever. Merritt deserved a better movie to be his last film. He was barely thirty when he died. He was hard-working, a real actor, a real friend. He did all he could to help me run the set—he had some clout with our cast and crew, since Merritt had just played Captain Kirk’s son in several of the
Star Trek
movies. And everyone who knew him thought Merritt was going to be a star. Merritt helped me survive many self-inflicted disasters,
like the time one of the other “gang members” inadvertently sliced open Emily’s hand on our first day of shooting, in a scene wherein she’d been “captured.”
Star Trek
movies. And everyone who knew him thought Merritt was going to be a star. Merritt helped me survive many self-inflicted disasters,
like the time one of the other “gang members” inadvertently sliced open Emily’s hand on our first day of shooting, in a scene wherein she’d been “captured.”
The actor was supposed to be cutting Emily loose and instead sliced down on her wrist and palm. At first we didn’t know anything was wrong because her real blood just mixed right in with the blood-mix. And the script called for her to scream, which she did. When everyone blamed the idiot first-time director for asking the actor to use a razor-sharp knife in a wide shot where close-up details didn’t matter, Merritt stuck up for me and shut them up. (She got sixteen stitches and we “wrote” a bandage into the rest of the story.)
Merritt’s moments on screen are a window into the better movie that
Wired
could have been, if I had had the discipline, skill, and dedication he brought to our movie. I betrayed Merritt’s talent by settling for making exploitation crap when I should have had the courage and foresight to try to make a good movie, rather than something “easy to sell as a first film.” And by not writing a good script, I doomed the project, such as it was.
Wired
could have been, if I had had the discipline, skill, and dedication he brought to our movie. I betrayed Merritt’s talent by settling for making exploitation crap when I should have had the courage and foresight to try to make a good movie, rather than something “easy to sell as a first film.” And by not writing a good script, I doomed the project, such as it was.
I was so impressed with myself and so in love with the process and, above all, just so relieved to be
out
of the evangelical world!—I had finally gotten to direct a
real movie!
—that I lost myself in the production details, the art direction, the musical score (which was being written and performed by Jim’s old friend Russ Farante and his “Yellow Jackets” jazz band), and everything else. I got lost with the special effects guys, spending hundreds of hours on the minutiae of the design of our robot, glorying in details that made no difference to the picture, that would never be on the screen, like the fact that our robot worked! I got lost working with the costume
designer, wandering around the closed steel mill at Fontana—our principal location—picking up industrial waste that she crafted into the gang’s wardrobe. Mostly I got lost drooling over Emily.
out
of the evangelical world!—I had finally gotten to direct a
real movie!
—that I lost myself in the production details, the art direction, the musical score (which was being written and performed by Jim’s old friend Russ Farante and his “Yellow Jackets” jazz band), and everything else. I got lost with the special effects guys, spending hundreds of hours on the minutiae of the design of our robot, glorying in details that made no difference to the picture, that would never be on the screen, like the fact that our robot worked! I got lost working with the costume
designer, wandering around the closed steel mill at Fontana—our principal location—picking up industrial waste that she crafted into the gang’s wardrobe. Mostly I got lost drooling over Emily.
Francis remembers:
Fontana was huge. The dust stuck to everything and had an acidic smell. There were different shades of dust, brilliant silver flecks, rust colored, orange, reds, even some greenish colors. Dad gave us white environmental cleanup suits that were way too big. As time went on we wore them less and less. Anything you touched would leave a mark on your suit, so there was no point trying to keep them clean. If you walked down one of the endless abandoned production halls you could look behind you and see clouds of dust hanging in the shafts of light, glinting and shimmering. Little metallic flecks slowly spinning. These clouds never seemed to settle.
Jessica, who was about fourteen, remembers things a bit differently:
Dad had passed through the evangelical world and become sickened by it.
Wired to Kill
was a movie but it was also an act of rebellion. And he was giving up a lot to do it, a high and stable income for one thing and acclaim and acceptance in the only world he had ever actually been a part of—like it or not. He was afloat trying to remake himself as someone other than Dr. Schaeffer’s son.
Wired to Kill
was a movie but it was also an act of rebellion. And he was giving up a lot to do it, a high and stable income for one thing and acclaim and acceptance in the only world he had ever actually been a part of—like it or not. He was afloat trying to remake himself as someone other than Dr. Schaeffer’s son.
My brother Francis and I had the run of the set. I watched the makeup artist. I still remember that she offered me a job if I wanted to come train under her when I got older. We made friends with the special effects guys and were in on the joke when they blew up my dad’s birthday cake as he bent over the candles.
Dad would stomp around on the huge
Wired
Fontana location till his feet hurt so badly in the evening that his body would twist with the pain as he hobbled into the hotel pool for a soak. Dad has made a do or die agreement with his body—it is either to do what he wants or die in the attempt.
Wired
Fontana location till his feet hurt so badly in the evening that his body would twist with the pain as he hobbled into the hotel pool for a soak. Dad has made a do or die agreement with his body—it is either to do what he wants or die in the attempt.
The one time of day Dad would get a truly desperate note in his voice was at magic hour. “The Light! We’re losing the light!” he would shout. Dad is always dealing with forces wildly beyond his control—the will of God, Supreme Court rulings, or the tilting of the planet. At sunset it was the movement of the universe that was the main problem. The universe was in motion and if your head grip hadn’t laid the dolly track correctly, the focus puller was slow, or the actress not present, the planet continued its planetary journey and you were screwed. No Magic Hour shot for you that night! “The golden hour,” that moment at sunset when for a few precious minutes the light is golden and objects glow from within, the hour created for cinematographers and harassed directors everywhere, would pass and you were left—in the gray dead light of late evening. But Dad always got his shot.
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