{"product_id":"independent-ed-isbn-9781592409334","title":"Independent Ed","description":"\u003cb\u003eAcclaimed independent filmmaker Ed Burns shares the story of his remarkable career and offers a candid, instructive account of the ins-and-outs of making great movies without the backing of Hollywood.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the second of three children from a working-class Long Island family, Ed Burns thought a career in filmmaking was a pipe dream. When his first film, \u003ci\u003eThe Brothers McMullen\u003c\/i\u003e, won the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival, he proved himself to be one of the most distinctive and tenacious filmmakers of our time. Since then he has gone on to star in major Hollywood films while remaining dedicated to his true passion: making small films that he believes in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sharing the lengths he's gone to in order to write, direct, cast, produce, shoot, and edit films on a shoestring budget, Burns uses stories from his life and career to illustrate what it takes to make it as an indie filmmaker. His extreme focus and drive prove that passion and hard work can pay off, and he urges students and aspiring filmmakers to embrace and learn from their failures—and continue to pursue their goals. A gripping, inspirational story about forging your own path, \u003ci\u003eIndependent Ed\u003c\/i\u003e is a must-read for casual movie fans, serious film students, and any creative person searching for a bit of inspiration.\"Every young, hungry, creative person should view this as a textbook.... It's a how-to.\" —Matt Lauer, \u003ci\u003eToday \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“‘Independent Ed’ is Burns' inspirational speech to filmmakers wondering how to begin, or how to keep going.” – \u003ci\u003eNewsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Mr. Burns’ charm stems largely from his ability to play the nice, real guy – the sort of guy who, despite landing roles in Hollywood films like “Saving Private Ryan,” gets excited when Al Pacino says hi to him in a restaurant.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal, Weekend Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eIndependent Ed\u003c\/i\u003e… doubles as a handbook for aspiring filmmakers who need to stay afloat in an ever-mutating business.” – \u003ci\u003eMetro New York\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “[Ed Burns] prides himself on his ability to pitch, making it  ‘feel like I was telling a story while sitting at the bar with a beer in my hand.’ Fortunately, that’s also the easy tone of his memoir, which focuses on his hardscrabble moviemaking career after his initial brush with success 20 years ago.” – \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “His book is an attempt to dispel some of the myth surrounding filmmaking, and to explain it's like any other craft. A unique voice, thick skin, and a deep love of the work are required … and while he makes clear they don't by themselves ensure success, he's used them to find his own fulfillment and to help keep the self-doubt that confronts any artist at bay.” – \u003ci\u003eThe Week \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eChronicling the struggles and the long hours as well as the heady moments when months of planning and writing come to fruition, Independent Ed is a must-read for movie fans, film students, and everyone who loves a gripping tale about what it takes to forge your own path in work and life.” \u003ci\u003e– Red Carpet Crash\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eEd Burns \u003c\/b\u003ewas born in Woodside, Queens, and raised on Long Island. While in college in New York City, Burns switched his focus from English to filmmaking before quickly moving on to make \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBrothers McMullen\u003c\/i\u003e, which won the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival. He has acted in 31 films and written, produced, and\/or directed 13 others. He lives in New York City with his wife and two children.\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eINTRODUCTION\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy first film was released in 1995. It was \u003ci\u003eThe Brothers McMullen\u003c\/i\u003e, a comedy about family, relationships, sibling rivalry, and growing up after you’re already grown up. Shot for $25,000 in and around my parents’ Long Island home, it won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance, scored at the box office, and got me labeled as one of Hollywood’s hottest young independent filmmakers. A few years later, I couldn’t get a movie made.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou should know that I did not set out to become an indie filmmaker or to make an independent film. I’ve never given any consideration to those labels and definitions. Besides, what is an indie film? Some people argue that it has to do with subject matter. Some people think it has to do with the size of your budget. Others believe it has to do with how you got your financing or who distributed your film. I’ve always defined it as a film that is independent of outside influence. And that’s all I wanted. The goal has been to make films—my own films—on my terms, the way I have envisioned them, without any interference. And that last part is tough to pull off. It has required belief, courage, and an unflinching streak of independence. The result has been a labor filled with far more love than frustration, and far more a sense of accomplishment than defeat. And that’s the story I have told in this book.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs of January 2015, it will have been twenty years since I took \u003ci\u003eMcMullen\u003c\/i\u003e to Sundance. Since then, I have written and directed another ten films. Many of them have had seven-figure budgets (my biggest budget was \u003ci\u003eNo Looking Back\u003c\/i\u003e’s\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e$5.5 million); my last three have cost so little they have been labeled microbudgets. To dwell on the budgets, though, would be to focus on the wrong thing. \u003ci\u003eIndependent Ed\u003c\/i\u003e is about my education as a filmmaker, a producer, and a writer. It’s the kind of book I would have wanted to read back when I was in film school or before then, back when I first got the idea of writing scripts and putting those stories on film. In those days, I didn’t even know if making a movie was possible. More important, I didn’t know it was impossible. I was dumb enough and young enough to believe in my dreams. I like to think I still am. Dumb enough, that is.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhich is the message I hope to convey here. In this book, you will read about how I have made movies, why I have made them, and what happened along the way. You will see that the business side of making films is as crucial as the creative process. But nothing can replace the commitment you have to make to your work. If you want to make a film, you simply have to find a way to make it. An important thing to remember: There are no rules when chasing your filmmaking dreams.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat’s the big takeaway. There is no right way or wrong way to make a movie. You’ve just got to figure out a way to get it done. And it won’t be easy. But that’s not why we do it, is it? We do it because we have no choice. It’s who we are. And most likely, you’ll find that those days on set will be the best days of your life.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEddie Burns\u003cbr\u003eTribeca, New York City\u003cbr\u003e2014\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eONE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe middle of three children, I was raised in a neighborhood of Irish, Italian, and Jewish families in Valley Stream, Long Island. My dad, Edward J. Burns, was a sergeant with the NYPD. Later, he became the department’s media spokesman. My mom, Molly, worked for the FAA and has to get the credit for turning me on to Woody Allen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSoon after we got our first VCR, sometime in the early eighties, she brought home a VHS copy of \u003ci\u003eTake the Money and Run,\u003c\/i\u003e which, needless to say, I loved. That was soon followed by \u003ci\u003eBananas \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSleeper\u003c\/i\u003e. A few years later, it was \u003ci\u003eAnnie Hall \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eManhattan\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut at this point, I had never given any thought to how movies got made or who wrote them, and I certainly had no dreams of becoming a writer myself. Not yet. But my father did.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen I was in sixth grade, I wrote a poem that won first prize in the Catholic Daughters of the Americas Long Island poetry contest. It impressed my dad, and from then on he always encouraged me to write and tried to turn me on to writers and novels he thought I might enjoy. One day he came home with two books, a collection of Eugene O’Neill plays and J. D. Salinger’s \u003ci\u003eCatcher in the Rye\u003c\/i\u003e. I never looked at the O’Neill plays, but I immediately fell in love with Salinger’s classic coming-of-age story. It was after taking the journey with Holden Caulfield that I first thought about the possibilities of telling stories of my own.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was always a pretty good storyteller. You had to be in my house if you wanted to get airtime at the dinner table. I also never had any problem sitting down for a few hours to tackle a creative writing assignment at school. That was not true of my science fair projects, and I usually received good grades and encouragement from my English teachers over the years. My senior year of high school, I wrote a short story that my English teacher, Mrs. Maxwell, thought was terrific. But much to my dismay, she wanted to include it in the school’s literary magazine. I was at first absolutely against this. I thought the story was too sensitive, and I knew my friends would rag on me endlessly. I did not need that abuse going into my last summer before college. However, after sleeping on it, I said okay—but with one condition. I asked her not to put my name on it. I would get the satisfaction of seeing my work in print and I wouldn’t have to worry about my reputation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThankfully, Mrs. Maxwell ignored my request. She published the story with my byline, and while there was a fair bit of ball-breaking from my friends, some were impressed, and the girls . . . well, long story short, when I went away to college, I thought maybe I would become a writer. I was a pretty good student and a pretty good athlete. If I wasn’t playing ball, I was watching it on TV or reading about it in the sports pages. So I figured maybe I’d be a sportswriter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI started my college career at SUNY Oneonta in Upstate New York while being wait-listed at SUNY Albany. After one semester at Oneonta, I was accepted to Albany, where I soon declared myself an English major. During my sophomore year, I started to entertain the idea of becoming a novelist. The picture I had in my head of a novelist’s life appealed to my nineteen-year-old’s sensibilities. I’d write during the day and go out at night. I was getting good feedback on a handful of short stories I had written and decided it was time to start my first novel. I got about fifteen pages into it and realized I was not going to be a novelist. The major issue being that I was enjoying too many nights out and not enough time in front of the typewriter and in the classroom.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was put on academic probation, and it turned out to be a blessing. My advisor issued a blunt warning but also offered a stay-in-school-and-don’t-get-your-ass-kicked-by-your-father strategy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Look, if you don’t get your grades up, you’re going to get kicked out of school,” he said. “But as an English major, you can become a Film Studies minor, where you watch a bunch of old movies, write a paper, and you’re pretty much guaranteed an A. You’ll get a couple of A’s, get your GPA up, and we won’t have to kick you out of school. What do you say?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe next semester, I took my first film appreciation class. It was called Four Directors, and it focused on Orson Welles, John Ford, Alfred Hitchcock, and Billy Wilder. I was enamored from day one. These men were the heart of the lineup of post–World War II filmmakers, and I tried to watch every film they made.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the first day, we watched Wilder’s Academy Award–winning classic \u003ci\u003eThe Apartment, \u003c\/i\u003ewhich I immediately flipped for because it reminded me of the Woody Allen films I loved. It was a New York comedy, small and intimate, and it felt honest. After seeing it, I went up to the professor and asked, “All right, who is this guy Wilder? Tell me everything. Fill me in.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA Jew from Austria, Wilder fled Hitler and Nazi Germany, where he had worked as a journalist in Paris and then Hollywood. In 1939, he cowrote \u003ci\u003eNinotchka\u003c\/i\u003e, which earned his first Academy Award nomination and heralded the arrival of an unparalleled talent.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe real pleasure of learning about Wilder, though, was watching \u003ci\u003eDouble Indemnity, The Lost Weekend, Sunset Boulevard, The Seven Year Itch, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Some Like It Hot. \u003c\/i\u003eHis range was astounding, and he wrote \u003ci\u003eand\u003c\/i\u003e directed like Woody Allen—my reference point in any discussion of film at the time. Now I had another master to revere.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI spent that semester devouring film. I was constantly searching for new discoveries. I watched everything: Hollywood classics, French New Wave, Film Noir, Westerns, Italian Neorealism, and of course the great American films of the late sixties and early seventies.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne such film from that era was the Peter Bogdanovich coming-of-age movie \u003ci\u003eThe Last Picture Show\u003c\/i\u003e starring Cybill Shepherd and Timothy Bottoms as high schoolers in West Texas, and watching it was a life-changing experience, as good art is. You’re one person before, then different after. Here was an honest look at friends and families in small-town America. Although Valley Stream, Long Island, is a long way from Texas, I felt like I knew those people. After seeing that film, I knew those were the kinds of stories I’ve always responded to and those would be the kinds of stories I would like to tell. But the dream of becoming a screenwriter still wasn’t born.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy eyes opened wider after seeing François Truffaut’s \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003e400 Blows. \u003c\/i\u003eI had never seen a film like this. Again, I found myself relating to the story and falling in love with the honest approach to the storytelling. That put me on a Truffaut kick. \u003ci\u003eThe Man Who Loved Women, Stolen Kisses, The Woman Next Door, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Day for Night\u003c\/i\u003e all reminded me of what I loved about Woody, the delicate balance in tone between drama and comedy. After immersing myself in these films, something else happened. I was no longer thinking about writing novels or short stories. I was thinking about writing films. I was thinking about becoming a screenwriter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo I called my dad and told him that I wanted to write movies. We talked it out. I told him about the movies and filmmakers that were turning me on and that I really felt like I had to make movies. A few days later, he sent me the book \u003ci\u003eScreenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting\u003c\/i\u003e. That was my dad; if we wanted to do something, he supported the effort.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo I found myself with this book, and the next step was up to me. I had no idea then, but this Syd Field how-to is the bible for every aspiring screenwriter, and for good reason. It tells you exactly how to do it. It delivers on the promise of the title.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI had never even seen a screenplay before, but the format I saw in the book excited me; it seemed within my grasp. It was all dialogue. I loved writing dialogue. I would finish a chapter, process the information I’d read, and say to myself, “Okay, I can do this.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFILM SCHOOL\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat summer, I went to the video store every day and rented movies. I watched with a new attention to detail and determination to learn. \u003ci\u003eMean Streets\u003c\/i\u003e, Martin Scorsese’s first full-length film, and Spike Lee’s \u003ci\u003eShe’s Gotta Have It\u003c\/i\u003e, another breakout first feature, spoke to me. All had a similar sensibility. They were scrappy, intimate films. They were indies before anyone coined the term \u003ci\u003eindies\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI returned to Albany for my junior year and signed up for every film class the school offered. Before the end of the semester, I wrote my first screenplay, a semiautobiographical story about my high school basketball team. I thought it could really get made into a movie. Maybe everyone thinks that about their scripts. Why else write them?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHowever, my belief in this script was so strong and passionate that I didn’t see any way I could hand my script off to some guy in Hollywood and let him massacre my masterpiece. (I have since reread said script, entitled \u003ci\u003eApple Pie,\u003c\/i\u003e and it is no masterpiece.) He wouldn’t know me. Nor could he understand my experiences. This was a passion project. I was going to have to pull a Spike Lee and learn how to make movies myself. So I began looking into film schools.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the time, my dad, who had gone back to school and gotten his master’s while still a cop, was an adjunct professor at NYU. He taught one class each semester in communications and mass media. I thought that provided me with an inside track to getting in, and I told him I wanted to transfer to NYU, like Marty and Spike, the following year and study filmmaking.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI expected him to say he’d make a few calls and see what he could do. He seemed to know everyone. Plus, he was a great dad. He was present and involved in our lives. If my brother, sister, or I had a dream, he was there to help us get closer to them. My mom was the same.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut as soon as I mentioned NYU, he said, “Look at your grades and look at my salary. And then let’s rethink NYU.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter researching film programs at other city and state schools, I enrolled for my senior year at Hunter College on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Tuition was about $600 a semester. My first class was Film Directing 101, and on the first day, the professor, Everett Aison, stood in front of the class and asked which of us wanted to direct films. Everyone of course raised his or her hand.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen he asked how many of us had any acting experience. This time no hands went up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How do you expect to work with actors if you have no idea what you are going to be asking of them?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe were silent.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe had a good point.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What we’re going to do this semester is divide into groups of four and you’ll create and perform a three- to four-minute play. One of you will be the director, one will be the writer, and the other two will act.” The first time, I was picked as one of the actors. A classmate wrote a short five-minute piece about a young Eurotrash couple living on the Upper East Side of New York. I played Jean Paul, and the woman opposite me was Gabrielle. We rehearsed once before class, and we were pretty terrible, which is understandable since I hadn’t acted since third grade. And just as I would be years later on day one of \u003ci\u003eSaving Private Ryan\u003c\/i\u003e, I was scared shitless. But when it was time to put the play up on its feet, something happened that will forever be a turning point to remember. About halfway through the play, I forgot I was in a classroom. I forgot about my nervousness. I forgot about everything except what I was supposed to be saying, thinking, and reacting to in that moment. In other words, I lost myself to the role and became that other person, and it was fun. I now had the acting bug.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfterward, my classmates were generous with their praise. A few of them said I should think about doing more acting. And I did. I put myself in the first film I made, \u003ci\u003eThe Shadow, \u003c\/i\u003ea five-minute black-and-white silent movie about a guy who leaves his Upper West Side apartment one night and is followed by a shadow that eventually kills him. Not much acting was required in that one, but I loved the process and knew I was headed in the right direction.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHIS IS WHAT I SHOULD BE DOING\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t do any writing until the second semester, when I finally took my first screenwriting class, and this was the next important moment for me. The professor assigned each of us to write a ten-minute film about an isolated incident. I wrote a comedic scene about a high school couple losing their virginity.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe next time the class met, the professor announced he was going to read our pieces in front of the class. It was the first time anything I’d written would be read aloud in front of people, and I was terrified. What if my script fell flat? What if no one laughed? What if it turned out I couldn’t write?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll those thoughts ran through my head as I sat in the classroom waiting for the professor to read my pages. Mine was second or third in line. Hearing the title read, followed by my name, I steadied myself. The professor was a good reader; he got the voices and the rhythm. I turned my head slightly to look around and saw people paying attention. Then came the first laugh. I exhaled, feeling relief. More laughter followed. People were into the piece. I could tell they were caught up and anticipating what was going to happen next. It was one of the greatest feelings of my life, both relief and exhilaration.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo this day I can remember exactly where I was sitting in that classroom and can hear myself say, “I can do this. This is what I should be doing.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe first attempt at writing, directing, and acting: playing the title character, Sco, wielding the murder weapon\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor my senior project, I made my most sophisticated film yet. Titled \u003ci\u003eHey Sco\u003c\/i\u003e and running thirteen minutes, it was about two nineteen-year-old dirtbag losers hanging out behind the bleachers of their old high school. As they drink beer and talk about how they have nothing to do, one of the guys—the character I played—who’s holding a shovel but won’t say why, finally reveals that he killed their mutual best friend the night before and buried him beneath the football field’s fifty-yard line.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe writing of the \u003ci\u003eHey Sco\u003c\/i\u003e script was originally influenced by Paddy Chayefsky’s 1955 award-winning movie \u003ci\u003eMarty\u003c\/i\u003e, which my mom had recommended (and I now recommend to you if you haven’t seen it).\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe script had a lot of “Whatchya want to do, Marty?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain, another story I could relate to and characters I felt I knew.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI figured I could make the film for about $1,000. And luckily for me, the screenplay won a $500 grant from the college, which covered half of my budget. My dad kicked in the other $500. (He still says, “Without that five hundred dollars from Hunter, where would you be?”)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI had a three-man, all-student crew, and our equipment came from the school: an old 16 mm CP-16 camera and a Nagra sound-recording device. The two-man cast included myself and my friend and classmate Chris McGovern, now a New York City fireman.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe shot behind the bleachers of my high school football field over the course of one long, rainy day, and despite various technical glitches, delays from the weather, and other obstacles I can no longer remember, it was the greatest day of my life. The only part of the process that made me question my decision was syncing sound in postproduction, a process today’s film students probably won’t ever know. Lucky for them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHey Sco\u003c\/i\u003e was shown on the local public broadcasting station as part of a student film festival. I couldn’t believe it when I got the call. My work was going to be on television! I can remember thinking I had made the big time. It also screened during the Independent Feature Film Market (the IFFM), at the Angelika Film Center, the Greenwich Village art theater that I frequented. You got to screen your film if you paid a fee. I knew that people who bought indie movies as well as journalists and other filmmakers would be there, so I paid the fee and planned to launch myself as a filmmaker.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI photocopied five hundred flyers in my dad’s office, featuring an image from the film and the times it would screen during the three-day event. I taped them up on every lamppost in the vicinity of the theater, all over Mercer and Houston, and then repeated the exercise every two hours because some other filmmaker would have thrown their flyers over mine. I also sent VHS copies of the movie to every producer, production company, and distributor in the phone book. My cover note explained that I had written my first screenplay, that I of course would be directing in addition to playing the lead role. (Remember when I said I was just young enough and dumb enough to not know any better?) Then I waited eagerly for people to respond. And one person did. The indie film consultant Bob Hawk. Bob came to my screening and saw some promise in my short film. Bob became a friend and a trusted advisor. Years later, when I brought \u003ci\u003eMcMullen \u003c\/i\u003eas a work in progress to the IFFM, he passed it along to Amy Taubin of \u003ci\u003eThe Village Voice\u003c\/i\u003e. In her IFFM wrap-up article, she mentioned \u003ci\u003eMcMullen \u003c\/i\u003eas a title to watch.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTWO\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe summer before I started at Hunter, I went to work at a local TV news station, Fox 5, in New York City. It was an unpaid internship. My dad called a few people he knew and I ended up on the assignment desk that summer. When my classes started in September, they let me work around my schedule, which was a good deal for me. The work was interesting, the people were cool, and the office was off the same subway stop as Hunter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEventually, I moved from the assignment desk to a paying production assistant gig at another show they produced, \u003ci\u003eThe Reporters.\u003c\/i\u003e As the job got more real, I started attending night classes at Hunter. It was my third semester and, as it turned out, my last semester.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy boss at \u003ci\u003eThe Reporters\u003c\/i\u003e was a woman named Alison Meiseles. In charge of hiring and scheduling news crews, she took me under her wing. As a PA, you’re expected to bust your ass and hope that someone notices you’re working harder than everyone else, which was what happened to me when Alison took me aside and said she was moving to \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Tonight\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We’re looking for PAs,” she said. “How would you like to come over there? We can pay you eighteen thousand a year.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t even have to think about it. I was making nowhere near that at Fox. I immediately said, “Absolutely. I’m there.” And that was it. In three semesters, I had taken every film class at Hunter College and shot \u003ci\u003eHey Sco\u003c\/i\u003e. I left nine credits shy of graduation and went to work at \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Tonight\u003c\/i\u003e. The production office, which also included the East Coast studio, was located on the third floor of the Paramount Building in Columbus Circle, now the Trump Hotel.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEvery day I fantasized about running into one of the Paramount executives from out west, handing him my screenplay, and having my script green-lit there in the lobby. Never mind that I was in New York, not Hollywood, and the execs who ran the studio from out there rarely visited the building. If and when they did visit, I didn’t know it. They weren’t roaming the halls, making themselves accessible to lowly PAs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI worked at \u003ci\u003eE.T. \u003c\/i\u003efor four years. Yes, four years—the equivalent of going to college all over again. Like college, some great things happened to me there. My job was to drive the van and help haul equipment to movie junkets and interviews. In between setting up the camera and the lights and then breaking them down, I listened to the interviews. The great thing about \u003ci\u003eE.T. \u003c\/i\u003ewas that we interviewed everyone who came through town to promote their movie. I paid attention to whoever we interviewed, and absorbed everything.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLugging gear as a PA for \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Tonight\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI remember listening to Al Pacino talk about \u003ci\u003eScent of a Woman\u003c\/i\u003e. Only a fraction of the interview made it on the air, but Al sat in the chair for an hour and gave us a master class on acting. I also remember when we interviewed Robert Rodriguez for the release of his debut feature, \u003ci\u003eEl Mariachi\u003c\/i\u003e. We were close in age and he had done what I dreamed of doing. Rodriguez talked about his filmmaking process and it was like a motivational speech. I was getting closer to figuring out how I was going to make this crazy dream of mine a reality.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNO EMPTY HOURS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was another great thing about working at \u003ci\u003eE.T.\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eIt provided me with a place to do my own work. You have to be resourceful when you’re starting out, and this was a good example. On some days, I would have to show up early in the morning for an interview at the \u003ci\u003eToday \u003c\/i\u003eshow or \u003ci\u003eGood Morning America\u003c\/i\u003e. We would get people as they made the rounds of interviews. But our next assignment might not be until four P.M. And so I would spend those empty hours at one of the desks in the crew room and write screenplays.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI should correct myself. There were no empty hours. I was always cranking out screenplays. Over the course of the first two or three years I was there, I wrote five or six screenplays. I was hungry. I had stuff to say. I had people in my head clamoring to get out. I also understood that if you’re going to be a writer, you have to write. If you don’t, it’s not going to get done.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf you don’t do it, that dream ain’t gonna happen. And I was determined that something was going to happen for me. Why not? It was happening all around me. I saw Quentin Tarantino’s \u003ci\u003eReservoir Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e and was blown away. He was the guy I wanted to be: a writer-director-actor who had figured out how to get that first film made.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly, it seemed, the indie film movement was the most exciting thing to happen to American cinema since the arrival of Scorsese, Coppola, Woody Allen, and all the other greats in the late sixties and seventies. \u003ci\u003eSex, Lies, and Videotape\u003c\/i\u003e had ignited the fire. Every year, another new filmmaker burst on the scene with a debut feature that was made on a shoestring budget. In 1989, Hal Hartley, a kid from Long Island, made \u003ci\u003eThe Unbelievable Truth\u003c\/i\u003e for $75,000. A year later, Whit Stillman, another young filmmaker from New York, made \u003ci\u003eMetropolitan\u003c\/i\u003e for $225,000 and received an Oscar nomination for Best Screenplay. These budgets were a fraction of a typical Hollywood movie, yet their work was distributed and taken seriously.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn 1991, I saw Richard Linklater’s film \u003ci\u003eSlacker\u003c\/i\u003e, another movie from a guy who seemed like me—a kid writing, directing, and shooting a movie about his experiences (he appeared in it), in a world that he knew and that others recognized as their world, too. I read up on it. Budget: $23,000.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe following year, 1992, \u003ci\u003eEl Mariachi, Reservoir Dogs,\u003c\/i\u003e and Nick Gomez’s \u003ci\u003eLaws of Gravity,\u003c\/i\u003e made for $35,000, hit theaters. I felt another jolt of immediacy. Like the five-figure budgets for \u003ci\u003eThe Unbelievable Truth\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSlacker,\u003c\/i\u003e $35,000 seemed within reach—much more so than if that figure had included one or two more zeros. It was exciting to see guys making small, personal films. They were released in theaters along with big Hollywood films, based on nothing more than merit, because their films were well written and featured talented up-and-coming actors.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis was about the time that I started to believe, in earnest, that I could do it. If you don’t believe it, if you don’t buy into the vision, you’re going to have a hell of a time selling someone else on it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfterward, I had an epiphany. While I was convinced this kind of moviemaking was within my grasp, it dawned on me as I thought about my work that I was not writing the kind of scripts these guys were making. Their films were personal, inspired by their lives, and pulsing with the energy of a new generation. My scripts, on the other hand, were derivative. They were imitations of the filmmakers I’d studied in school. I was copying instead of creating my own path, and in the\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003emost important decision I made as a writer, especially as a young writer, I realized I had to find my own voice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFINDING MY VOICE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is the crossroads anyone in their early twenties or anyone thinking back on their early twenties can relate to; it’s the moment when you plant a stake in the ground and decide who you are and who you want to become. At least you take a stab at it. I talk about finding my own voice. But the voice is already there. It’s inside you, and what you have to do is listen. What’s it saying? Which way is it telling you to turn?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlthough, in\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Avery","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301099065573,"sku":"NP9781592409334","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781592409334.jpg?v=1767730017","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/independent-ed-isbn-9781592409334","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}