Still Me (37 page)

When it came time to shoot, I could stay in my chair in front of the monitor, the mayor of Video Village. Fred Elmes had a viewfinder that transmitted directly to my TV screen from anywhere in the house or on the property. We used microphones and speakers so we could discuss camera angles and choices of lenses as easily as if I were next to him on the set. This technology is often used by able-bodied directors as well. Francis Ford Coppola is famous for directing actors from the inside of a bus, and I heard a rumour that Steven Spielberg directed some of the sequel to
Jurassic Park
via satellite linkup from his home on Long Island to the sound-stage in Los Angeles. I only used this technology because I had to; on shooting days we would have wasted a lot of time hauling me upstairs and finding an out-of-the-way place to put me. Also the whooshing of my ventilator would have distracted the actors and ruined the sound track.

The mayor of Video Village.

The set was very calm, and there were few distractions. I think that my being in a wheelchair helped everyone to focus on the work. Glenn came in one day with walking pneumonia. She should probably have been at home in bed, but she performed brilliantly as usual, using the time between setups to hook herself up to an IV drip of antibiotics. I remember Bobby Leonard saying one day, “You're not going to hear many people complaining. It's like, ‘I'm
tired
.' Yeah? Well, see the man in the wheelchair? . . . It puts things in perspective.”

I particularly enjoyed shooting the exteriors, because then I could wheel down to the set and be closer to the actors. One of my favorites was the scene in which Glenn as a young mom plays tag with her two children on the front lawn. We used this during the opening credits to establish immediately that she prefers the son over the daughter, creating a lasting jealousy. I asked Glenn to organize the game with Annie and Will and told Fred to quietly turn on the camera on a signal from me. But Will found a starting spot, put his hands on his knees, and waited. I called to him to start playing, but he shot back, “Aren't you going to say, ‘Action'?” Glenn and the crew tried not to crack up, but it was hopeless. Will, now four, had learned that “Action” means start and “Cut” means stop, and he wanted to be directed properly. The concern I had about him being self-conscious in front of the camera was obviously unfounded. He even slowed down at the right moment so that Glenn could catch him and pick him up for a hug. He later confided to me that he could easily have outrun her, but he knew that wasn't in the script.

One of my most difficult challenges was to make sure that the father, played by David Strathairn, did not come across as a stock figure—stern, strict, and pompous. I also needed to convince Bobby Leonard that stillness is not boring; in fact, it makes the character more interesting; the viewer is intrigued and wants to know more about what's going on inside him. I asked David to search for ways to be with his son instead of avoiding him. When he comes into the sickroom with Danny's tennis trophies from high school, he should hope to be invited to stay. The result was an awkwardness that I thought was very effective, and even painful to watch. And as Danny resisted the temptation to challenge his parents or criticize their behavior too harshly, I witnessed the emergence of a courageous and dignified young man.

Fred Zollo, our producer, and Glenn, Robert, and I discuss a scene.

Many times the actors would come over to Video Village to discuss a particular moment or to make suggestions. One afternoon we were shooting one of the most important scenes in the film, in which Glenn comes into the sickroom for the first time. Following Whoopi's lead, she learns to overcome her fear of touching her son and helping with his care. When we filmed the wide shot of the scene, I experienced a mild anxiety attack; Whoopi was clearly uncomfortable and having trouble with the business of connecting a catheter and starting an IV. She was only available for two days. We had already shot the easy scenes, but this one was absolutely critical and had to be in the can within the next four hours. After a couple of takes she pulled up a chair next to me to talk things over. I asked her if my nurse, Tracy DeLuca, who had cared for many AIDS patients, could help. Some actors would have been insulted by this suggestion, but Whoopi immediately took Tracy by the hand, and the two of them went off together.

Glenn drops in for a visit between setups.

Fifteen minutes later Tracy came back and gave me a thumbs-up. Whoopi took her seat at Danny's bedside and asked if we could shoot right away. I decided not to reshoot the wide angle but to push in for the close coverage. As usual Fred was ready. We rolled the camera, and I said “Action” with no idea what to expect. That take was technically perfect, which was a great relief because Whoopi was now completely convincing. She had not only mastered the mechanical problems but had found the right way to respond to a grieving parent. I did one more take for protection and finished the day knowing we had just captured one of the best moments of the film.

We finished principal photography in late October and celebrated with a lavish party at Luna, a New York City—style restaurant in Mt. Kisco owned by my friend and fellow TCC board member Susan Liederman. The next day I began to edit the film in our little office next to the Bedford Hills train station. David Ray, whose distinguished credits included editing
A Bronx Tale
for Robert De Niro and
Billy Bathgate
for Robert Benton, had already assembled a rough cut. I had been told by a number of directors, from Mike Nichols to Jonathan Demme and Dick Donner, that the first time you see the film put together, you come away depressed and wonder if there is any hope of fixing it. I have to admit that I had the opposite experience. Some of the scenes seemed choppy, and the pace and rhythm needed a lot of work. But as I watched it unfold, I was moved by the performances and once again felt very grateful for the talent and generosity of the cast and crew.

David and I spent the next six weeks looking at every take, moving scenes around, featuring different characters at certain key moments. The Avid computer system we used allowed us to make immediate changes, a far cry from Stuart Baird's cutting room on
Superman
, with its strips of film hanging everywhere waiting to be spliced together with tape. By the middle of November we were ready to show the film to HBO. We had cleaned up the soundtrack and added temporary music cues borrowed from a little-known Irish film that we had discovered after listening to nearly a hundred scores.

The reaction was mixed. When the lights came up Fred Zollo said the film was ready for an immediate release; Bonnie Timmerman, our casting director and coproducer, was crying so hard she had to leave the room. I was pleased that the film “held”—no one squirmed in their seats or left to use the phone (which actually happens sometimes at these early screenings). Colin Callender was polite but left quickly for New York. The next day I received a memo from him describing the work as “a promising first draft” along with about ten pages of notes and comments. I found that I disagreed with many of them, so I decided the best course of action was to have David make the requested changes to see if they improved the film, rather than defend my choices point by point. Meanwhile Colin brought in another editor, Kathy Wenning, as a consultant. They had worked together successfully on a number of projects, and he trusted her implicitly. She had also edited several films for Merchant Ivory, including
The Bostonians
and
Howards End
, so I was glad Colin had chosen her. Perhaps I
had
ruined the film, or at the very least failed to make the most of it. A fresh look at the material by someone so sensitive and skilled could be helpful.

Kathy began by looking at Colin's version, then my original cut. I fully expected her to side with Colin, assuming that she had been hired to endorse his point of view. But after seeing both versions she recommended that we use my cut as the basis for the finished product. I was deeply gratified and reassured; after all, the work David and I had done closely followed the script, which had been admired by everyone involved in the project.

Originally Kathy was hired to work on the film for a couple of weeks. She had made it clear that she was attending architecture school and no longer editing. But once she and David and I huddled together around the computer screen and started fine tuning, she couldn't tear herself away. I was especially impressed by David's willingness to take suggestions from her. I considered myself lucky to have input from both of them, which helped me tremendously.

I agonized particularly about Danny's death scene: the question was whether to stay on a spectacular close-up of Glenn as she realizes that her husband may still be in love with her, or to cut back to Danny for a moment as he takes his final breath. We talked about it at length, tried it both ways, left it for a week and came back to it, played different music cues underneath the scene—the process of getting that moment right seemed to go on forever. But the collaboration was exhilarating. I thought again of how Jim Ivory absorbed suggestions, giving everyone free rein to speak his or her mind, then making the final decision. I remembered a famous maxim of Nikos's, which I first heard all those years ago as an apprentice at Williamstown: “Theater is a democracy where the director is king.”

After nearly three weeks of agonizing about the death scene, I decided to incorporate the brief cut of Danny, because in the best take you couldn't be sure if he was dying or merely drifting off to sleep. I thought the ambiguity captured this crucial moment perfectly. I also thought that if I stayed on Glenn throughout it might seem as if I was servicing the star rather than telling the story.

In January I developed a blood clot behind my left knee and had to be hospitalized for a week on IV blood thinners. Kathy and David brought the computer to the hospital so we could continue working. As soon as I was out of danger, I returned to the editing suite; but in February I developed another blood clot in the same leg and had to go back to Northern Westchester Hospital (my home away from home) for five more days.

The film was scheduled to air on April 20. All the disagreements that had made the editing process so challenging were now behind us. Dave Grusin had provided the final touch with his simple but eloquent score. I was tremendously relieved that the final result was satisfying to everyone.

HBO (and especially Colin Callender) now gave their full support to the film and threw a lavish screening and reception at the Museum of Modern Art on a Monday evening a few weeks before the television premiere. Dana and I looked forward to an exciting night out.

But on Saturday afternoon, as I was being transferred from my exercise bike back into my wheelchair, the nurse and the aide working with me had trouble with the lift. Instead of landing smoothly in the center of the seat, I came down on the front corner, balanced precariously for a moment, then fell straight over the side onto the floor. Dana helped the two of them pick me up and put me back in the chair, but I could sense that something was wrong with my left arm: it seemed looser and far too flexible.