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By Marcus Hinchey and Alex Friedman

When Pulitzer Prize-winner David Mamet made his directorial debut with the film House Of Games, he described the experience as a joyful extension of screenwriting. But during the latter stages of pre-production, in a moment of self-doubt and only days before shooting, he told producer Michael Hausman that he'd either get a good film or a sincere apology. Sleepless nights followed, stewing in apprehension at the task that lay ahead: forty-nine scenes and forty-nine days to do them in. As it turned out, the shooting was completed on time (and under budget), apologies were spared and the film noir-psychological thriller was a critically acclaimed success.

Two years later, after completing his second film Things Change (co-written with Shel Silverstein), Mamet published the book On Directing Film, a series of discourses taken from lectures given at Columbia University offering a practical insight into the craft of film directing. During these lectures, the students develop simple scenes based on theories concocted from Mamet's experience both on set and as a screenwriter. Mamet begins by asking the students to put aside the "follow the hero around" way of making films (the way most American films are made) and, instead, identify the essential progression of incidents that occur to the hero and tell the story in cuts. That is to say, to tell the story through the juxtaposition of clear and uninflected shots. This technique latches itself to Sergei Eisenstein's theory of montage, which, in synthesis, is to tell the story in a succession of images juxtaposed, so that the contrast of these images moves the story forward in the mind of the audience.

In the years that followed, Mamet wrote and directed Homicide (1991), Oleanna (1994), The Spanish Prisoner (1998), and the remake of Terrance Rattigan's play, The Winslow Boy (1999), all films that follow a consistent method and style analogous for the most part to his (and Eisenstein's) theories, but that fell short of the acclaim his directing debut enjoyed. This lackluster reception has been variously ascribed to great expectations, lack of innovation or even, as one critic put it, the lack of cinema.

Throughout his career as a filmmaker, Mamet continued a very successful life in the theater, and, along with other publications, released four volumes of essays including his most recent, True And False (1997), in which Stanislavsky's "Method" and the idols of contemporary acting are put into question, then axed! Stanislavsky's system, later developed in America by Lee Strasberg, is based on the psychophysical integrity of stage action. How can the actor both really feel, and be in control of what he needs on stage? And subsequently, how can the actor make his real feelings expressible on stage? In response, Mamet argues that we cannot control our thoughts. The reaction to an emotional demand is inevitably rebellion and therefore, teaching the Method or any other technique derived from it is as useless as teaching pilots to flap their arms while in the cockpit in order to increase the lift of the plane. As a counterpoint, Mamet suggests the following: The skill of acting is a physical skill, and just as the shot should not be inflected, neither should the acting. The actor doesn't need to become or embody the character. There is no character, there are only lines on a page. The character, or the idea of "character" is the juxtaposition in the mind of the audience between the spoken word of the author and the uninflected action of the actor. So, keep it simple. That's ultimately what Mamet's theory lectures, and maybe the only comforting thought that saved him a few winks in those sleepless nights before shooting House Of Games. Keep it simple and stick to the plan. Simple uninflected shots. Simple uninflected physical actions. For the art of film making, as Eisenstein said and as Mamet reaffirms, is not creating an image on the screen, but in the mind of the beholder.

David Mamet entered the world of filmmaking as a screenwriter and, like many others, conceived a desire to direct. Now, some fifteen years later, at the end of shooting of his seventh film, State And Main, a low-budget independent with a handful of box office stars, Mamet talks to CinemaCapital about the process of filmmaking, and an industry of artists, amateurs and contemptuous bureaucrats.

CINEMA CAPITAL:

You've just finished shooting your latest film, State And Main. Can you tell us what it's about?

DAVID MAMET:

We shot it in Manchester By The Sea in Massachusetts, and it's about a film company that's supposed to be making a movie and they lose their location at the last minute. So they get kicked out of some town and they're forced to descend on another because they've got a slide date. They lose their original location on Friday and they have to start shooting on Monday. So the film's about what happens on that weekend when they descend on this little town.

CC:

Is the story set in Manchester By The Sea?

DM:

No, it's supposed to be in this poor little Vermont town. Everybody that works in movies knows that the least true words in the English language are when a film company says, "We're gonna leave it better than when we found it." So they just arrive, as we do, as a film company, and the movie star, this great box office star, ends up having an affair with this fourteen-year-old girl, which is why they got kicked out of the first town. And the film company end up tearing up the streets, ruining the historical fire-house and perverting the city council. All the stuff that actually goes on.

CC:

Did any of that sort of thing actually happen on location?

DM:

No, we had a great time. As I said, we went to this small town, Manchester By The Sea, and the locals were really very sweet. When we finished shooting they asked us to stick around a little longer.

CC:

On the first day of shooting House Of Games, you said that you felt almost inadequate on set. Like everyone knew exactly what they were doing except you. How different is it now? Are you more confident on set?

DM:

I think that inexperience, especially at the beginning of my career, was a great gift. It occurs to me that my dad, who was a great lawyer, applied to Northwestern Law School in the '40s, and I think he lied. He went to junior college, but I don't think he graduated. So he fudged his transcript, got into Northwestern Law School and then graduated first in his class. And he said that one of the things that operated in his favor was that since he'd never been exposed to that aspect of education, he had no idea of how hard he was supposed to work. And when he looked back, he realized that he'd worked thirty times harder than anybody else. And on my first movie, having no idea what went on on set, I was the most prepared son-of-a-bitch you ever saw in your life. But I still can't relate to filmmaking. I've been doing it for twenty something years, but I still regard myself as a newcomer, mainly because I started out in show business a long time ago in the theater. But one of the first things that impressed me about moviemaking was the actual dedication of the people on the set. Somebody came on the set to visit from Cambridge and said, "There's nobody outta shape here - Nobody's fat!" Well, of course not, they're on their feet for eighteen hours a day and moving like mad. And the film ethos of working hard, getting the job done and smiling in the midst of difficulties is very impressive. So all a director can do, is do the same thing. I mean there's nobody complaining, except the above-the-line people.

CC:

Did you experience that during the shooting of State And Main? I mean, complaints from the so-called "above-the-line" people?

DM:

This movie we just did was very interesting. We had a lot of big names, people like Sarah Jessica Parker, Billy Macy, Alec Baldwin, Phil Hoffman and my wife, Becky Pidgeon, and nobody had a trailer because we didn't have any money. So we were all just living on a three-back and everyone was happy as a clam. And there's a reason that actors keep asking for all that money when they get famous:

 

It's because they've been pissed on for all of their lives, and not only have they been pissed on all of their lives, but they're gonna get pissed on when they become above the title. People are always robbing them and they can't get a fair shake. So, legitimately, they say, Well okay, then, give me my money up front, you thief! And usually they're gonna be right.

CC:

State And Main is the eighth film you've written and directed. But when you're writing a screenplay that you don't anticipate directing, does your director's eye come into the process of writing?

DM:

Well, yeah. That's part of the problem I find when I'm writing movies for other people. I try to write them as if I'm going to direct them myself, which means I'm writing for a film director. So a lot of the films I write, I get fired from because they get read first by studio executives, and a studio executive is looking for something very different than a film director is. So to actually get a film script to another director is very difficult. And my great friend Shel Silverstein, who just died, rest in peace, was talking to me after I was bitching about writing films for somebody else. He said, "It's like you're the world's greatest table-maker, and someone comes to you and says, 'I want you to make me the world's most beautiful table.' And you say, 'Well, okay, but I'm very busy and it's gonna cost you a lot of money.' And they say, 'Anything you want.' So they give you all the money, and you make the table and you give it to them and they say, 'Terrific!' And then they take it outside and they burn it. Then they come back to you the next year and they say, 'We'd like you to make another table, we loved that table that you made.' Eventually, after however many tables you're good for, you're gonna get sick of doing it in spite of all the money, because you're saying, What the fuck am I making this great table for!" So eventually you're gonna hit the wall. And I think I have hit the wall.

CC:

Is writing for pre-established characters, like Jimmy Hoffa or Elliot Ness, very different than creating characters from the ethos?

DM:

It really doesn't make that much difference. You have to work within parameters, and sometimes those parameters are limiting, but on the other hand, it's a fun puzzle, to say, Okay, I get it, I can put a character inside that suit.

CC:

You've recently written a children's book called Henrietta, about an intellectual pig that's denied admission to Harvard. Have you ever thought of making children's films? Or even adapting the story of Henrietta?

DM:

That's a good question. No. I've never thought about it. But I might. I like children's films. I've got a lot of kids, so I watch a lot of children's films. I liked The Wizard Of Oz. I've seen it many, many times and I'm always surprised after the hiatus, what a magnificent film it is. Recently, I liked The Borrowers very much, and I think I've seenRoger Rabbit more times than anyone alive. That's a beautifully directed film.

CC:

Would you consider working in animation?

DM:

I don't think so. Because I think that working in animation calls for a very different mindset. I like working with actors. I work with actors more than the camera.

CC:

You've worked with many of the same actors over the years. Is there any specific reason why?

DM:

Yeah. We have a good time. I have worked with a lot of the same people. Like Billy Macy. I mean, we've been working together for thirty years.

CC:

Do you think you gave him his start in film?

DM:

Well, I don't know if I gave him his start in film. Maybe I gave him his start in theater. But he gave me my start too. I mean, you know, there I was, a young playwright, twenty, twenty-one years old, and I got to work with this great actor.

CC:

Do you think that a young actor today would less naturally start at the theater?

DM:

Well, yeah. There really isn't much of a career in theater at the moment. But that was already dying out when I started coming up. You know, that's just evolution. It's gonna happen. And new technology's gonna come in and people are going to go with that. But an unfortunate thing that I see happening, and I don't know what one can do about it, is the loss of experience to the actor. Because I believe that to learn how to act, you really have to learn at the theater. When you're acting for film, you're acting ten seconds at a time, and the director and the editor choose which ten seconds they're going to put together. And you can piece a performance together out of nothing in the editing room. But on stage, you have to take responsibility and assert yourself. You've gotta look the other guy in the eye and get what you want.

CC:

Speaking of the stage, you've often described Stanislavsky's Method and the schools of technique that derived from it as being nonsense. Do you not think that the Method has helped actors develop their craft in any way at all?

DM:

Well, there really isn't any method. Stanislavsky's Method never really existed. It's a bunch of claptrap that's co-evil with psychoanalysis. Now, there may be a couple of cases in psychoanalysis that made somebody better. And there may be a couple of cases in which exposure to the ideas of Stanislavsky's, quote, Method made some actor better. But I doubt it. I think that the same sort of mechanic applies to both. If you put somebody into analysis when they're twenty-four, and they stay there seven years, when they come out, they're gonna be thirty-one. All of a sudden, they've got a different body and a different metabolism. Their life has been shaken down. Now, they can credit that to psychoanalysis, but probably it's just the passage of time. And the same thing is true for, quote, studying the Method. You can lock yourself in a classroom and pretend to cry for ten years. And at the end of that time, if you're still in the theater, something probably happened in spite of those experiences that you might credit the school.

CC:

There's also the critique in psychoanalysis that one becomes dependent. Do you think it's true with Method acting?

DM:

Oh yeah. It's an addiction. Training for actors is an addiction. You know, Freud was a wise man, but he never studied psychoanalysis. He was just looking at people. A lot of people came after him and were interested by a puzzle. Which is a very interesting puzzle. But that doesn't mean it's capable of being extrapolated into something that's capable of helping people. Now you can be interested by the same theoretical questions that interested Stanislavsky: How does one perform time after time in a situation and still have the illusion of immediacy. It's a fascinating puzzle. But just because one's fascinated by the puzzle, it doesn't mean that it's gonna have any practical effects on stage. I mean, the great actors of the world just wanted to act. So they got into it when they were kids, and they got better because it paid the rent, and because they loved it. It's a profession of smart people with no capacity for application and no capacity to concentrate. People who need constant excitement and a constant challenge. And so when Stanislavsky comes along and says it's all about controlling your concentration, that's a thousand percent wrong. It's nothing to do with controlling concentration. It has to do with an outlet for your unfettered imagination. The audience didn't come to the theater to see the actors cry. If they get to cry themselves then that's great. But there's an old theatrical adage, which is: If you laugh, then the audience don't laugh, and if you cry, the audience don't cry. And that's true. So a lot of times we pay people off because we say, "Oh look, look at their technique, they cried, or they really laughed on stage." But if you're saying "Look at their technique," it's just like saying the same of a chef. What technique? We just had a rotten meal!

CC:

You've often written about con artists and confidence games and quoted that the secret of the con is not the mark [the victim] giving his confidence to the con artist, but the con artist giving his confidence to the mark. Do you ever think in these terms to manipulate an actor's performance?

DM:

No. I think that as a director you have to think in terms of the audience. How it's going to be perceived by the audience and when to reveal information. So it's your job to withhold information until the correct time, or else you're not doing what you're getting paid for. The magician doesn't say, "Watch this hat closely, because I'm going to pull a rabbit out of it." He puts the hat down and pulls the rabbit out, and he's just played a trick on you. Because if he told you, you'd be watching the hat so closely, he wouldn't be able to put the rabbit in. So in order to do what he's paid for, the magician has to withhold information until the correct time.

CC:

I saw a great show that you directed on Broadway with the sleight of hand magician Ricky Jay. What's your relationship with him?

DM:

I've known Ricky a long time. I've done a lot of work with him. He's a great magician and a great performer and he's been in a lot of my films. The show you saw last year was a show of what we call "close-up magic." We're planning another show of illusions to take to Broadway later this year.

CC:

When did you first become interested in stage magic?

DM:

Well, I've always thought that the multi-bank skills - juggling, magic, escape artistry or puppetry - were skills that someone could literally take into a park and say, "Hey, look what I'm gonna do for you," and draw a crowd and hold that crowd solely through the force of their skill. It's the perfect paradigm of show business. There's no bullshit. No, let's put on a black Klein coat and go to the opera. People are looking because they're fascinated, and they paid because they had a good time. So Ricky is the perfect example of that.

CC:

Where did Ricky Jay learn his craft?

DM:

When he was in his thirties, he had two mentors, one of whom was Dye Vernon, who was the great historian and practitioner of stage magic. He wrote very scholarly treatises on the world of all the stage magicians. And the other was a guy called Charlie Miller, who was like the dark side of Dye Vernon. Charlie Miller was the world greatest mechanic, who made his living playing with his life at stake in high-stake card games. He knew stuff that know one else knew, and could do stuff no one else could do. So Ricky decided to spend a couple of months with these guys and ended up staying twenty-five years there. He talked to them and studied with them, and now he's the man for the age-old secrets of magic. That's how he spends his life.

CC:

Do you have any similar mentors?

DM:

I have a lot of them. I think that the closest one, as I mentioned before, was Shel Silverstein. I mean, he'd been there forever. From Nashville as a songwriter to being one of the world's greatest authors of children's books. He also had a great career as a cartoonist. He was a playwright, he wrote movies, he did everything. He's the guy that I've always, and always will, revere.

CC:

Going back to con artists and confidence games. Do you think that there are elaborate cons going on all the time?

DM:

Oh, sure there are. All the time. I just read a wonderful book on conflating capitalism. It's about retail sales. It's all a confidence game. If you take a Swatch watch for example, it's worth three cents, and they sell it to you for, what, sixty bucks, because it's a Swatch watch. And they'll withhold a couple, then sell the same goddamn watch with one of the hands altered for $4,000 because it's a collectable Swatch watch.

CC:

And because you are smart enough to know that it's a collectable item.

DM:

Exactly so. So it's like, if a shop has a sale, the shop assistant says to you, "You are smart enough to know that we're going to have a sale. That's why you get a good price." You see, he's putting his confidence in you. Or alternatively, you are smart enough to know that everyone is going to want this coat next month. And you are also smart enough to know that if you pay three times what it's gonna cost next month, you are gonna get a special deal. And that's why you are so special. It goes on all the time.

CC:

In response to the quote, "Film is a collaborative business," you once added, "Film is a collaborative business - bend over." Do you think that's still the case?

DM:

It occurred to me that the film business is a terrible business. And then it occurred to me, idiot that I am, that every business is a terrible business. This just happens to be the business that I know about, and that there are enormities in every business, and I'm probably committing a bunch of them myself. But it's an interesting business. It sure beats driving a taxicab!

CC:

What about the aspects of the business that function on statistics, like the process of test marketing?

DM:

Well, it's the process and course of abomination, because if it worked, we'd all be working for the test marketers. If it worked, those deluded number-crunchers would be the most powerful and wealthiest people in the world. And if it did work, I wouldn't want to do it. I mean, where's the fun?

CC:

State And Main is now in post-production. Is there a tentative release date?

DM:

No, not yet. I deliver the film in April, and Fine Line Films will study the market, and think hard and harder - and release it at the wrong time.