About seven months ago, I was preparing one of my weekly dispatches from the set of The Further Mis-Adventures of Cliff Booth (back when it was still called The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth) when I heard a knock on my trailer door. By all means, come in, please—I was very accommodating during shooting. I knew this was my “big shot,” even if I had only a handful of scripted scenes, with nary a line of dialogue (that would change, although it remains to be seen if it makes the final cut). That didn’t matter: I was collaborating with three of the premiere film artists int the world: Brad Pitt, David Fincher, and the man who would become My Sensei, Quentin Tarantino. We’ve all fallen out with each other now (not an uncommon occurrence for artists of grand design), but there’s still love there. We’re proud of what we did. I’m excited to see the movie in theaters. I’m eager to see if I made the final cut. If not, all good—after all, what else am I going to say? That everyone sucked and the movie was a misery to work on? I want to work again in Hollywood, and there’s a new generation coming up that might jibe with me more than these Gen X fogies. I’ll be pitching Curry Barker and demonstrating my vast abilities in the offices of WME, ICM, and CAA very soon. Keep this in mind. Save the tape. I’ll be in your television commercials. I’ll write your Christmas cards.
“The boys”—my men, my mentors, my young (spiritually) teachers—gave a joint interview to Empire recently. It’s getting picked apart slowly day by day for new headlines, iterations of the same story exploited for attention. Anything “Tarantino” gets an insane amount of traffic; in print, he’s one of the only living authors whose books earn out prior to their release. My Sensei is rarefied air, and I breathed through him when we made The Further Mis-Adventures of Cliff Booth; Mr. Fincher, not so much, because as My Sensei said, this is what David Fincher looks like in action: “Okay, no, no, no, that's not right. Come in. Okay, stop, stop, stop. Okay, okay, do it again.” Sounds boring, no? Unfortunately, it is. Making a movie, regardless of quality, is simply a job of work. It’s so much work that no one really wants to talk about it—not because it’s “unsexy,” but because they don’t like being reminded of how little they work themselves, and because it just reminds everyone in the business just how cruel the movies can be.
I asked My Sensei once about six a.m. call times (three a.m. if you’re in heavy makeup). He’s never directed a horror movie or an effects picture, but I imagined he endured many early mornings and missed alarms and pillows full of vomit (I read the novelization of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, no one can tell me that scene with Rick waking up in a pool of his own vomit didn’t happen to My Sensei at least once). He said yes, but was surprised by my assumptions. “You said ‘endured.’ I’ve never had a problem getting up early in the morning. I’m making a fucking movie. This is what I do. I can get stoned all day and watch movies and read but when I’m making a movie, alright, I’m living the movie. Doesn’t mean I won’t watch something—you know we have screenings on set. But I’m not focused on that right now. I’m not doing any research or cinema writing. I’m making a movie—helping David make his movie. This movie. Our movie.”
As I wrote last week, My Sensei and I are temporarily estranged. Everything I’ve read in the press points to some kind of disaster—I still wonder, is it my fault?—and my mind keeps flashing on an incident early in production. We were shooting at the New Beverly, one of My Sensei’s Los Angeles movie theaters. Mr. Fincher was satisfied with a scene after five takes. As soon as the First Assistant Director (a friend) called “MOVING ON,” My Sensei jumped out of his canvas chair and held it above Mr. Fincher’s head. “David—WE ARE NOT MOVING ON.” Mr. Fincher appeared sincerely surprised, and he was left momentarily specious. I felt I had to step in. I mean, no one else was. If My Sensei overstepped his bounds, shouldn’t I, his faithful student, take the fall? I ran up and explained the situation. I told Mr. Fincher that I was the one who encouraged My Sensei to raise the chair, to overreact in such a comical manner, and with the added threat of violence, that, perhaps, the master auteur behind Fight Club may emit a chuckle, or perhaps a small acknowledgment of whimsy, joy, pleasure. Still startled, he nodded yes, and My Sensei sat down calmly as if nothing had happened. The day went on, and 28 takes was the new minimum for every setup, just as My Sensei wanted all along.
We spoke before shooting began. My Sensei told me about Mr. Fincher’s plan to keep it “lean and mean,” and how upset he was that he wasn’t going to get “the full treatment.” I told him not to worry, that if Mr. Fincher ever went under a minimum of 10—this was expanded to 28 with the help of some unpleasant but necessary physical persuasion—I’d have his back. I’ll admit I didn’t expect him to go King Kong on the guy, but I respect his process. It’s an art, intimidation. I should know: I’m the most intimidating and the most intimidated person on the planet.
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