I’m an idiot. How could I be so dumb? This “week” of reshoots is turning into a September/October thing. They’re talking about holding the movie back until next year; at this point, I think it’s inevitable. Netflix isn’t happy with what they’ve seen. They want “cape shit,” according to the crew. I won’t name them (union), but normally these guys and gals never talk about the movie they’re working on; it’s a job. There are moments you remember, but while you’re making a movie, most people aren’t paying attention to the material, or the big picture. Again, normally this is fine, but with a script written by My Sensei… but not directed by My Sensei? That hasn’t been done since the 1990s.
My Sensei wrote three screenplays that were directed by other men in the early part of his career: True Romance (Tony Scott), Natural Born Killers (Oliver Stone), and From Dusk Till Dawn (Robert Rodriguez). He was invited to the set of the Scott picture, but decided to stay away. He didn’t want to get in the way; ironically, everyone on the Scott picture thought My Sensei was “being weird.” But it wasn’t his film. It was Tony Scott’s. Luckily he liked the movie a lot.
Natural Born Killers is another story. He was harsher in the 1990s, but recently he’s mellowed on Stone’s divergent adaptation (allegedly largely inspired by the then-unreleased Orson Welles film The Other Side of the Wind); he’s never seen it past the first 30 minutes. He saw it on a lark with Juliette Lewis when it was in general release; he says they laughed about it and left. It was his only negative experience in the film industry (the theater, on the other hand, has always been cruel to him; I hope they’re not prematurely roasting The Popinjay Cavalier).
From Dusk Till Dawn was directed by a friend, and My Sensei co-starred in the film with friend and rumored brother George Clooney. They’re beefing now, but My Sensei is right about Clooney not being a movie star anymore. Why is he doing Good Night and Good Luck again? Who cares if it’s on stage? Just revive the movie. No one remembers that David Straitharn played Murrow, everyone thinks it was Clooney. But that was 2005, and now? It’s 26. And that’s on tea.
My Sensei doesn’t like to talk about his work with other people. There are no copies of the script on the set, not on these reshoots and never during principal photography. He writes by hand, and his handwriting is illegible, as if he were writing in code. That’s okay—Einstein didn’t know how to read. Paul McCartney only learned how to play the piano in 1968. Martin Scorsese didn’t even pick up a camera until he shot Cape Fear.
So I’m down in Bali, and I’m becoming a witness. I’m seeing sides of Mr. Fincher and My Sensei that are brand new, and not entirely unwelcome: they’re so stressed out that they’re nice to everyone for once, and Mr. Fincher is only demanding a minimum of 70 takes, not 125 (he’s gone up these past few movies). What were we working on this week? Brad Pitt doing somersaults. It’s excruciating. He keeps throwing his back out and coughing blood. He’s chain-smoking again—and drinking. Drinking! My Sensei isn’t happy. He still drinks himself, but he says he can take it. “I have a family. I’m not getting wasted in my painting studio.” Making fun of the star—this is one of the many pleasures of being My Sensei. But I wouldn’t know then, would I?
I’ll return tomorrow with more details about our schedule in Bali and further exploits in North Africa. This film is turning out to be something else entirely. I never imagined we’d have flashbacks to the 1780s. But Cliff Booth is a strong man, and an even stronger character. But he’s not real. Unlike me. I’m real. Trust me.
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