Good People (11 page)

There is music playing. She asks if I mind and I say I do not. If the music was bad or if it bothered me, I'd say so. This one likes to talk a lot. She says she'd like to be on TV someday, wants to know if I know anyone who works in TV. I tell her the people who make television wouldn't have anything to do with me. I tell her they have their own agenda. She makes a sound from deep in her throat when I say this, so I say that the people on television aren't actual people, that they aren't the people you see walking around in the world.

Once I saw a mama-san on the street, handing out business cards. She didn't recognize me. Otherwise, she did. Either way, I kept walking.

This big one isn't digging in. In fact, her touch is soft. Maybe she is afraid she'll hurt me. Sometimes they ask if you want hard or soft. They always go soft later, before the flip, but it's best to dig in at first, work the muscles. This one isn't doing that. She drapes her body over my back and sometimes talks into it. Sometimes I can't hear what she's saying.

We are back on the daughter, I think. The big one says she is having a sleepover, says she is going to wind up pregnant. She says she cannot take care of a baby
again, says once was enough. She is not ready to be a grandmother. I tell her she'd make a sexy grandmother, but it's not true. Still, people like to hear this kind of thing about themselves.

I don't think there is anything wrong with being nice to people, even if you have to lie.

She tells me I'm a good person. I like hearing this because it's true. She tells me not everyone is a good person but that most people are, at least her clients. I want to ask how many she has, if she sees all of them here, but I don't. I want to ask if any of them ask for anything crazy. I want to ask if she has a menu, any hard limits. But you can't ask these kinds of questions the first time you see someone, the first time you've been inside her house.

I've been inside my neighbor's apartment only once. She didn't extend a proper invitation, but, rather, asked me to help her lug a desk up the stairs. She caught me at the wrong time coming home. Women know that men can't refuse favors like this because they know we'd like one or two in return. It never happens this way, but even still, we hope for it.

The desk was an antique and probably weighed a thousand pounds. We lugged it up the stairs and into her living room where we placed it against a wall. By this time I was sweating, maybe even panting. She said, Let me get you a glass of water, or maybe you'd
like a beer. I told her a beer sounded great. She said I should make myself comfortable. People do a good job of leaving me alone most of the time, so they almost never tell me I should make myself comfortable. I think most people can take one look at me and know better. I almost started taking off my clothes, but I caught myself while unbuttoning my shirt. She came back with the beer and said, Excuse me, I have to make a telephone call. She disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

I didn't know what was happening, but I was happy to be left alone. I was hoping to collect my thoughts, consider what had taken place and what was likely to happen next. I also can't remember if this was before or after I'd suggested having a drink together. It seems like it's both important and beside the point at the same time.

She was inside her bedroom for about ten minutes. I couldn't hear anything, couldn't tell if she was actually on the telephone. I considered leaving but thought that might be rude. I drank the beer and waited.

Finally she came back, apologized, said it was her fiancé. He was overseas in another time zone and they had a phone date, had to discuss something urgent, something involving someone's health and life expectancy. She said something about an uncle or grandfather, about a hospital, about it not looking good. By
that point I wasn't listening. She asked me what I had planned for the rest of the day, said it was beautiful out, said she was going for a run. I hadn't noticed the weather, but I thanked her for the beer and left.

I'm not sure what this proves, if anything. Maybe this is an example of me being good, or maybe it exemplifies something else. I tell this story to the big woman when she asks if I have a lady in my life. She tells me I deserve better.

Then she asks me to turn over.

Five minutes later, I'm getting dressed and thanking her. Five minutes after that, I wonder what's the point, why I bother.

On the train ride home, I sit across from two young girls. They're talking to each other, very concerned about something. Neither is big, but both are unquestionably beautiful. You can tell they have no idea there are other people in this train car, that there are other people in the world. This is the way with beautiful women. I can't help it: I want both, even though neither looks eighteen yet. The one with the strawberry blonde ponytail would be game, you can tell, but I don't know about the other one. She might need persuasion. I know I'm not the one to do it, though, not the right man for the job. I'm too good a person, and besides, I don't usually go for the young ones.

How to Direct a Major Motion Picture

with Samuel Ligon

G
IVE THE ACTOR SOMETHING TO DO
, a piece of business. Get him moving. Have him smoke a cigarette or bounce a ball.

Foster a collegial atmosphere on set. Encourage the minions to mix with the extras. Allow the underlings to stand near when you reference Stanislavski, Griffith, Mayer.

Do not impose a dress code. Do not enforce arbitrary rules. Do not chastise a member of the crew for chewing gum during rehearsals.

When marking up the script, make sure your handwriting is illegible.

Do not let anyone look at your copy of the script.

When reading the script, remember they are paying you for your time, your vision.

They are paying you.

Remember to have a vision. This is similar to an idea, only comprehensive.

Always talk in abstractions, metaphors. Say out loud this film is about an old lady knitting an afghan. It's about a child tying his shoelaces.

Never call the writer an idiot when other people are around.

Never use the words
inciting action
in any conversation.

Do not call anyone by name, particularly the idiot. Instead say, Hey, kid, Hey, partner, Hey, sweet pea.

At the table reading, do not sit at the head of the table for two reasons. One is, you are expected to sit at the head of the table, and it is always good to confound expectations. The other reason is setting the proper tone, fostering the collegial atmosphere.

If the actor won't smoke, ridicule him. Do this in front of the cast and crew. Make everyone avert their eyes, shift weight from one leg to the other.

Tell Star the shower scene will be handled with the utmost. Tell Star she has nothing to worry about.

Ask the location manager if she's found a park with trees and benches and a man-made lake. Tell her there has to be a man-made lake.

Tell the idiot he has to add an outdoor scene at a park with trees and benches and a man-made lake. Tell him people should be doing all the things one does in a park.

A father and son flying a rainbow kite. Teenagers tossing a football back and forth. Married men meeting younger women. Recognizable everyday American people. Overweight women engaged in futile exercise. Old men playing chess and sailing model boats on the man-made lake. Shit like this.

Tell him the scene should be about a widower shopping for tube socks.

If the location manager is attractive, communicate this in no uncertain terms. Tell her, You are attractive. Then see what happens.

Never employ the word
career
in any conversation.

Style your hair in such a way that it looks unstyled, unkempt. Wear glasses on the bridge of your nose. Maybe a sweater draped over your shoulders.

Take Star and the actor out to dinner. Take them to a quiet restaurant where you can hear one another talk. Make them comfortable. Connect. Reference Buddha, Vishnu, Martin Luther King Junior and Senior, L. Ron Hubbard. Pretend to listen. Pretend to eat solid food.

Note the lack of talent, chemistry, depth. Figure ways to use this.

Recall a time when directing a motion picture seemed like a great opportunity.

Recall a time before that when painting a picture seemed like something one could do every day.

Do not discuss the film with a family member.

Decide on a palette and communicate this to the cinematographer. Tell him every scene involving the dog should feel somehow yellow.

Never say Action when you want action. Say Go instead.

See the actor making this more difficult than it need be. Call him over. Put your arm around him. Call him son. Say, Son, I can tell you all kinds of stories. I can reference this one and that one and some other ones. I can comfort you, shock you, cajole you, threaten you. None of this matters, son. Ask him, You know what matters, don't you, son?

Before he has a chance to answer, shake your head and walk away.

Turn to an assistant, if there is an assistant nearby, and say, Can you fucking believe this guy?

Never bellow for an assistant.

Always keep antacids on hand. Otherwise, tell the assistant to always keep antacids on hand.

Compile a list of items the assistant should always have on hand.

Remember painting landscapes in the park. Remember the brilliant mornings, the way the light . . .

Remember everyone is beneath you. The AD is beneath you such as the camera operator such as the script girl such as the best boy. Communicate this by keeping hands in pockets and never looking anyone in the eye.

Tell whichever yes-man is closest you need a ride to the park. That you need to think and the best place to think is the park. Tell the yes-man to drive you to the park.

Always repeat yourself.

Make an appointment with the doctor. One shouldn't have to take twelve pills to digest a decent meal.

Tell everyone within earshot that we are a family here. That we have to hunker down and pull together. That we sink the swimmer as a unit.

Let the DP talk about lenses in that ridiculous accent. Look bored. Ask about the tracking shot, the two-shot,
the over-the-shoulder. Tell him, We shouldn't push in like this. Reference Willis and the guy Fellini used, if Fellini used a guy.

Go over budget. Talk about the money people, the bean counters. Dismiss them with a wave of the hand.

Have at least two drinks before watching dailies.

Do not let anyone speak to you while watching dailies.

Take your pills. The woman at the pharmacy called them enzymes.

Consider what else you could be doing with yourself. Consider where you went wrong.

There are no minions when painting a picture.

What the fuck is an enzyme?

Never discuss the project with anyone who identifies himself as an associate producer.

While rehearsing, always remain standing, with arms folded. Sometimes pace while muttering. Say, Listen people.

Say, This scene is about a man taking digestive enzymes. It's about digestion.

Make friends with whoever is in charge of craft services.

Do not explain yourself. Someone will want to know why he should cross downstage and sit on the sofa. Someone will want to know why he should smoke a cigarette or bounce a ball. Someone will ask ridiculous questions like, Was he an athlete growing up? Did his parents smoke in the house?

Call nearest living relative over forty and ask him how's his digestion.

Conduct brief meetings with the editing team. Go to the studio where they work. Sit backward on a rolling chair and tell them, This isn't a music video, people.

Tell the woman who is in charge of craft services that you need bland, easy-to-digest foods. If she asks like what, tell her to do her job.

Don't get too involved with the music right away. Let the composer compose and then tell him where he's
gone wrong after the rough cut. Never use the word
swell
in any conversation with the sound people.

When dealing with actors, try to remember . . .

Star and actor will ask what the new scene is about, the one in the park. To answer, ask what they think it is about and look grave. Shake your head and squint. Finally, tell them it's about a homeless man eating an apple and a little retarded kid roller-skating.

When they look puzzled look back at them, disappointed.

Tell the craft-services people to have plenty of apples on hand every day.

Tell them, We will need all kinds of fruits and vegetables. Bland ones.

Every so often, say aloud to no one in particular, Let's go, people.

Proposition Star's stylist in a way that makes no sense. Quote an obscure Eskimo poem—one about igloos and ice fishing. Do likewise with the youngest cast member of legal age.

Try to lose your mind.

Tell the actor he can wind a wristwatch or eat a sandwich or look through a photo album but he should do some fucking thing, for Christ's sake.

Never say, We'll try it your way. Once you try it their way, you might as well do something else with yourself, something in the insurance business.

Never discuss your digestive problems with anyone involved with the picture. When people ask what is wrong, tell them it's your gallbladder. Tell them it's none of their business. Tell them it's scurvy, shingles.

Give the second unit free reign. Do not show up at a second-unit location.

Dress neatly but devil-may-careless at the same time. How to do this is to wear a frayed white T-shirt beneath your collared long-sleeve, with a sweater draped over your shoulders. Make sure you don't tuck it in. Never tuck a shirt in under any circumstances.

Remember it is not important how you look so long as the cast and crew fear you.

That they must also love you goes without saying.

Say it anyway.

This actor that won't smoke, find his mother wherever she works, probably some diner somewhere as a waitress, and go there. Sit in her station and tell her to join you for coffee when she has a break. Ask specific questions and get specific answers. Do not let her avoid any question. She will try to explain why he is the way he is, how she raised him to be the kind of actor he is. All of this is irrelevant and a waste of time, but do it anyway.

Tell the actor you spoke to his mother. Tell him you sat in her station and had coffee with the woman. Tell him you saw his mother smoking a cigarette on her break out back with one of the busboys. Tell him she is good-looking.

Find out who this actor admires and use it against him.

Go to the park and find an unoccupied bench. Watch a black crow chasing after the smaller birds, making that horrendous noise. Then tell the property master, We're going to need a black crow.

Tell the second-unit director to take all kinds of park footage.

Feel like going for a walk but don't feel up to it. Feel more like listening to your guts swallow themselves.

Never say Cut when you want them to stop. Say Enough already.

After you say Enough already, you can say Print.

You cannot always confound expectations.

Talk about the nature of art, the nature of everything else.

Schedule a full week for the location shoot. Arrive at the park before six every morning. Sit by yourself.

Consider what else you can be doing.

Being outdoors this time of year can be glorious.

Let the fresh air cleanse and feed you.

Contact the actor's mother again and ask her to accompany you to Cabo, to Cannes, to Cancún. Ask her if
she knows anything about swaddling, if she has acid reflux. Tell her you want to be swaddled in cashmere after fucking her twice over in a location that begins with the letter
C
. If that's too much to ask, propose marriage. Promise anything.

Fire the actor for having this mother.

Fall to your knees as the fired actor walks away and say that you're feeling it for real here, people.

Feel it for real here, people.

Beg the fired actor to stay, promise anything.

Stand at the edge of the man-made lake, surrounded by confused minions. Say, Who the fuck is Shiva, people? Say, Who the fuck is Krishna?

Feel it all. Feel fucking all of it.

Consider the rehired actor's ascension to stardom. Climbing over your bones.

Secretly open your heart to him and to the craft-services people trying to kill you. Feel the largeness of this moment even as you anticipate destroying them
all—your minions, your children, your enemies, your gods and enzymes.

Kneel at the shore of the man-made lake and dip your hands into the water. Say, This is what I'm talking about, people. Hold man-made lake water in the cup of your hands, an offering to them all. Pray that somebody, for the love of Christ, is getting this on film. Baptize yourself. Weep. Pray that somebody somewhere is recording some fucking piece of this. Reject the suspicion that you have nothing to do with your genius, at your very core, you are your genius. You know it and they know it. Look at them. They're transfixed, captivated. They're all of them waiting to be directed.

Bless them with man-made lake water. Bless them with Eskimo tears. Accept their gratitude, their supplication.

Order the second-unit director to hire a twelve-year-old Hindu boy to paint pictures on an easel just outside the frame of every shot. Train the black crow to sit on your shoulder.

Go so far over budget that no one will dare shut you down.

Tell anyone who will listen that both the actor and Star are contenders for year-end awards. For lifetime awards. For awards that will have to be invented.

Tell them to start preparing speeches.

Weave the gratitude of your own speeches into everyday conversation, overthanking everyone you interact with, even those who should be thanking you.

But temper expectations publicly.

Say to the press, We're just trying to tell an honest story here. It's all any of us can ever hope to do. Thank you so very much.

While on the set, always stand with hands in pockets, squinting, the black crow on your shoulder a symbol of something the actor, Star, and idiot could never hope to understand.