Film School (38 page)

When I present my idea in class, Callaway leans forward and purses his lips. The longer I go, the more eagle-like he becomes. This is the first time he's heard it, and he doesn't laugh much at any laugh lines. His questions are pointed, aggressive, direct. He asks me if it's really a true procedural—meaning no meaningful character development through a season.

I hedge my bet. “Well, I see it being a little of both. Every episode would be a stand-alone episode, but I see some character development through the series.”

My answer sounds weak.

He seems to frown. He suggests changing this, changing that. Humming a few bars of the song “Heart & Soul”? Drop it, he says with a wave of his hand. It's obvious. He wants me to make certain all the characters jump out. And, he says, what's episode four of the first season?

I pause too long.

I'm about to wing it, and Callaway knows it. “Make sure you have the season plotted out. Episodes one, two, three, four. You never know if an exec is going to ask you for that,” he says.

I nod and take my seat. It's unclear if Callaway likes my idea. He certainly was tough on me, even as the next student—a sweet undergraduate woman, very nervous—gets treated to smiles and warmth. I look at my watch. Callaway also spent more than the usual time peppering me with questions. That's a good sign, I think.

Even if he hates my pitch, I've suddenly got so much on my plate it doesn't matter much in the big picture. This is just one class of five. I'm back to running-and-gunning seven days a week, and my documentary class is getting my major focus. I've screened my documentary pitch tape of the motorcyclists who ride the Angeles Crest, and my instructor likes it. I'd like to direct it during the upcoming semester, but unfortunately I'm not qualified to direct until I crew on another film. I tell my instructor I'm not likely ever to direct it—when I get done crewing, I'll be working on finishing my studies and not spending the time and money to take an additional six-credit course. Directing the doc just isn't in the cards. Besides, I say, I'd only be able to shoot this documentary in the fall, not the spring, because the mountain roads I focus on are generally closed because of snow in January and February.

Not long after I explain all this, she pulls me aside. “I think you have a really good chance of getting picked. I've talked to some other faculty and if you can find someone qualified to direct, we'd allow you to codirect with them. We've never allowed this before, so this is a real opportunity.”

Okay, I say, I'll consider it. It sounds like a double-edged sword. Codirecting. I would check off my required crewing duties by being a director. That would be sweet! The downside is I'd have to work closely with someone else on a project that is so personal. And, I'm leery of sharing directing duties. It seems like having two captains on a ship.

Still, if I don't codirect, I'll be crewing on someone else's film. Neither option is ideal, but the chance to direct a doc is too sweet to pass up. My instructor says I have only a few days to find someone to partner with before the pitching material is presented to the faculty.

I ask around. I make a pitch to a couple of my former 508 classmates, but they've got other plans. A handful of students who want to direct documentaries are put in touch with me by my instructor, but none of it pans out. Several are facing the cold, hard reality of grad school: classes cost a lot. Directing a 547 doc is a six-credit class at more than $8,000. If you don't absolutely need it (for a thesis film) or want it, it's a luxury. After a few days talking and emailing and interviewing and hitting dead ends, I'm resigned to crew the next semester and forget the idea of directing my motorcycle street racing idea. I'm running out of time. The application to direct is due Monday morning.

But on Saturday afternoon, I get a friendly text from Brent, the hockey player from my 508 class. He wants to know what I'm up to—just a shout-out. I text back that I'm good, but couldn't find a codirector. He writes back that he's interested.

I didn't know he's currently crewing on a 546, and thus eligible to direct a doc the upcoming semester. And I had no idea he'd be interested. He is. We agree to meet.

He shows up in La Cañada on Sunday, and we go for a drive up the Angeles Crest. He's smitten by the project. It's a quick Vegas wedding, and we agree to codirect. That night, we rewrite a long application and get it done at 1
A.M.
I deliver the application the next morning, an hour before it is due. That week, we edit a pitch tape—Brent is much faster than I am at editing, and in our first editing session, I mistakenly erase an updated version of our pitch, costing us hours of work. Ooops. At the end of the week, we make our pitch to a group of faculty judges—and an audience of forty or so students. We're questioned about safety issues, a reasonable question, considering we're doing a documentary about people who drive their motorcycles at a hundred miles per hour on a narrow, twisty, cliff-lined road.

After our pitch, I head to the gym with Manny and blow off some steam. In a hallway, I meet my documentary instructor, who is heading for a swim. The verdict is in, she says, and then she cracks a smile. We got it!

Brent and I, mere acquaintances just a few days earlier, will now spend four months codirecting a twenty-six-minute documentary while overseeing a crew of a half-dozen students. But first we need to select our crew.

Sometimes, be careful what you wish for. Brent and I are thrown into the maelstrom of choosing the students who will crew with us. Our topic is sexy, and it seems every cinematographer on campus wants to shoot our racing streetbikers. Every editor wants to cut it. Finding other crew positions is harder. Only one producer wants to work with us. And not a single student is interested in doing sound for us, a common problem with all the documentary films that year. That same weekend, I'm attempting to write my Casper term paper. Unlike my TEACHER'S PET one, this is a hasty affair. I pick LOVE ME TONIGHT, a 1932 musical by the great director Rouben Mamoulian and starring Maurice Chevalier and Jeanette MacDonald. I spend only four days buried in the Doheny Library, watching the film over and over and typing as fast as I can. I'm rushed, I've got nothing to prove, and I just want the paper done, pronto. I focus on Mamoulian's production techniques, which saves me doing a lot of research. I take breaks from writing to meet Brent and interview prospective crew members for the doc. I've also got a final due for my cinematography class—I need to shoot several minutes of sixteen-millimeter film that must show some exceptional cinematography—no other rules. And my CRAZYHOUSE script is supposed to be done. It's not. In fact, it's much shorter than when I started my screenwriting semester.

I'm trying to remember that this was supposed to be my mellow semester. I'm running from Doheny to the film school and back again, over and over, and I'm lining up the cinematography shoot with the help of Manny. Luckily, I'm fast at writing, and luckily I've helped Manny a couple of times during the semester for his cinematography class, and now I'm calling in my chits. He's extremely knowledgeable about shooting, and we're going to build a rear-projection display in one of the USC soundstages, and we'll use his car as a prop. It's an ambitious project, and I'd never be able to do it without Manny's help. We're going to make it look as if an actor in a car is driving it through the streets of Los Angeles, even though the car is parked in the soundstage. Rene is the actor, and I in turn help Manny and Rene shoot their cinematography finals. In Rene's filming, I play a prisoner in a dimly lit cell. We all help each other build sets, set up lighting, move props. In one day, in one soundstage, all three of us, working together, shoot three cinematography finals. It's an important lesson about film school. Many hands make the work go faster. Many of the other cinematography students are spending days alone shooting their final projects. Working together, we get ours done in one day. Our pace is so much faster than my Vagabond shoot in 507 it makes me smile, and the entire time the three of us are laughing like hell, having the time of our lives.

I run, run, run. This is what film school is—running. In between bursts of racing around, I see how far I've come in just one school year. It's late April, and I've established myself. I'm going to be codirecting one of USC's premier films. I've established myself as a leader. My grades since coming back are all As (with one A-minus). I've got friends to help me out in tight spots. And as a cherry on the top, Rob K. loves my cinematography final. I don't want to spill the beans that the technical expertise for the shoot came courtesy of Manny, so I just nod modestly when Rob K. tells the class: “FOX spends twenty grand a day to shoot a driving scene that doesn't look any better than that!”

I've learned how to play the game and enjoy the process. The more I give, the more I receive. I've got no chip on my shoulder. I'm just enjoying myself and trying to get every ounce I can out of my experience at USC. And mainly, I'm happy to be alive.

The sun is dropping toward
the smoggy horizon when I walk toward the film school. On this late April night, in the Spielberg conference room, I'll be doing my final pitch in front of the panel Callaway has gathered. A few weeks before, he gave out the names of who would be coming. They were indeed big shots. One is actress Amy Brenneman of JUDGING AMY and NYPD BLUE fame. Another is Ted Gold, formerly the head of FOX's drama division. Another is Kary Kirkpatrick, writer of many films, including OVER THE HEDGE, THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY, and CHICKEN RUN. The others are producers and writers and executives, eight in total, and we'll be pitching four of them at a time over two weeks. Our class is splitting up pitching duties. Half will go the first night with the first group of Hollywood judges. Half will go the second week with a different group of judges. I'm in the first group, and I feel lucky because Ted Gold will be listening. I know a lot about him already, because another of Callaway's lessons is: know thy audience. He wants us to find out as much as we can about our panelists. During the past semester, every time we have a guest speaker, Callaway has gone around the room asking each of us to give a bit of interesting trivia about the speaker. So I research all eight of the panelists, but I focus on Gold. I feel a bit like a stalker as I delve into my research, but I'm impressed by what I learn about. Gold, a former high-ranking executive with Aaron Spelling's production company, headed up FOX's drama division for several years before leaving just a year ago. Exactly what Gold is doing now is something of a mystery. But all I care about is that he's a real-deal TV executive, a guy who ran one of the best drama divisions in television.

Outside of the conference room I see Caraballo. “Are you ready?” he asks. He's nervous. Those of us about to pitch are milling about in the hallway, while the others in the class and the panelists are in the room. Caraballo and I are pitching back to back. I'm fourth on the list, Caraballo is fifth. I'm disappointed he can't hear my pitch because he's someone who helps put energy into a room. I'm getting a drink from a fountain when Caraballo approaches me. “Hey, Steve, I think you should do CRAZYHOUSE ON SKIS!”

“You serious?” I'm wiping my mouth off.

“Yeah,” he says. “That's a great pitch. They'll love it.”

Caraballo gets me to thinking. Maybe I
should
pitch CRAZYHOUSE. Maybe I am squandering my chance with my TV show. I look at the ceiling and think. “Chris, that's like changing your answer on an SAT question at the last second. I'm gonna do the TV show. One of the dudes on the panel was the head of FOX's drama division for cripes sake.”

Caraballo frowns. “Okay,” he says, putting a finger into my chest. “But don't blame me later.”

Out in the hallway, we're timing the first pitchers. They're taking much longer than twenty minutes. That means the panelists are giving plenty of feedback. Those of us waiting in the hallway wonder if that's a good thing or a bad. One student stays close to the door, his ear inches from the crack. He whispers periodic reports on audience responses.

For nearly two hours, I'm pacing up and down the hallway, rehearsing my pitch, when the door to the conference room finally opens for my turn. I'm wearing my good-luck outfit: a pair of faded Levis, my lucky and now very worn two-toned cowboy boots, a short-sleeved blue button-down work shirt. My daily fitness regime has made me as fit as I've been in years. My hair is long now, and I've slicked it back with some cheap gel from Walgreens. In my boots, I'm a bit over six-foot-one, a tanned 190-pound cowboy ready for action. I look like a Wyoming ranch hand dressing up for a job interview at the local Walmart. And that's just the way I want it.

The panel is three men and a woman, plus Callaway in the middle. They are arranged behind a large wooden table, AMERICAN IDOL-style. Behind me sit my classmates . . . minus the four still in the hallway. I walk in, my legs like springs. There is a chair I am apparently to sit in, but I pace instead. I don't want to let my energy lag.

Hi. My name is Steve Boman, and thanks for taking the time to come here tonight. As you can see, my “sell-by” date is a bit different from the rest of the students here.

A chuckle rises from the panel members, who aren't expecting a fortysomething cowboy to come striding into the room. I see Callaway crack a small smile. I'm giving a different ramp into the pitch than I had practiced in class, which is intentional, and I have
much
more energy than I ever displayed in class. In front of the panel, I'm amped up and animated, and I pace like Tony Robbins giving a motivational speech. I continue to ignore the chair I'm supposed to use. I've just cracked open a forty-ounce can of whup-ass, and I'm riding my adrenaline.