Tudo e um pouco a mais
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| Bando De Cá Tudo e um pouco a mais |
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terça-feira, 3 de abril de 2007 Tom DiCillo, DI Guy The indie auteur behind Johnny Suede and Living in Oblivion “blown away” by digital intermediate with his new film, Delirious by Tom DiCillo 1. I never planned to do a digital intermediate (a digitization of a project in order to manipulate color and other image characteristics) on Delirious. It came about by accident. I shot the film thinking that what we shot was what the film would look like. After spending seven days with John Crowley, colorist at PostWorks, New York, I came away with a keen respect for the DI process. It has a power as exciting and creative as every other part of the filmmaking process. I think its greatest benefit may not be for the cinematographer, but for the director—especially the writer–director—as it enables you to refine and sharpen the visual information in the film. In some cases, the DI actually allows you to rewrite the script. 2. Start with a film that already has a well thought out and clearly defined visual style. Don’t try to find that style during the DI. 3. Every film requires its own unique visual style. I try not to force a style on a film; I prefer to let it evolve out of the script, the intent, my particular point of view and a certain amount of trial and error (luck). Without some combination of the above, you could end up with a film like The Island which, for all its DI wizardry, looks strangely similar to a two–hour Pepsi commercial. 4. Delirious was shot on 35mm in 25 days. The tight shooting schedule and the necessities of the script helped define the visual style. We needed to move quickly, yet still try to present the film’s more intricate visual elements. DP Frank DeMarco and I divided the film into two distinct visual worlds: The chaotic rush of the paparazzi and the sleek and glittering world of celebrity they crave to enter. For the paparazzi world we devised a fluid, handheld camera that gave energy and allowed for spontaneity from two very spontaneous actors—Steve Buscemi and Michael Pitt. For the celebrity world, DeMarco took more care with the lighting and the camera was always on the dolly with clear, strong frames. 5. In the handheld sections of the film, we did several manual zooms to accentuate certain key moments of action. In the DI, I was able to continue and refine this visual motif by adding carefully drawn digital zooms. This slightly rough visual movement kept the spontaneous pulse of the film going. Again, it was already established on the negative—I just used the DI to enhance it. 6. In the same vein, I used the DI to recompose and reframe. I found it very useful in dramatic scenes to punch in closer than we’d originally shot. The effect is subtle—the intent being to sharpen the shot’s focus. 7. Working as fast as we did during filming, we didn’t have extra time to tweak and finesse every shot. As thrilled as I am with what DeMarco accomplished, I found it very effective in the DI to manipulate shadow. In many scenes, colorist Crowley and I effectively put up digital flags to add dimension to walls or modeling to actors’ faces. This added an unobtrusive focus on the most dramatic elements of the scene. 8. Similarly, changing the speed of the action is a great benefit of the DI. In several instances I took moments in a scene and slowed them down, then in the same shot returned to normal speed. The DI lets you do this with surgical precision and no loss of detail. 9. The greatest power of the DI is in its ability to manipulate color. In a traditional chemical timing, you have the option to make a scene lighter or darker overall, or warmer or cooler overall. In the DI you can isolate every single color in a scene. In one scene we isolated the red in Gina Gershon’s lips and made it sharper—more lush and saturated. In the scene Michael Pitt was becoming infatuated with her, so this small tweak of color subtly enforced his attraction. 10. In my opinion the DI is not best used to make the image perfect. Instead, it gives you the rare ability to work on the finished film, the film you’ve only discovered after months of editing. Once you’ve determined the film’s finished form, the DI allows you to look at every visual aspect of the film and enhance so it is working as strongly as it can to help you tell your story. This is how I used it—to help me tell my story. I wrote the film as a kind of contemporary myth or fable. Through the DI, I was able to create a world of rich, highly–saturated color that elevated the film slightly beyond reality. I was able to create deep, mysterious blacks and lush contrast, further heightening the film’s drama, tension and humor. would use the DI again in a second. posted by RENATO DOHO | 12:10 AM segunda-feira, 2 de abril de 2007 My Golden Rules Note: The following “rules” are from the unbalanced mind of a relatively novice moviemaker. by Steve Buscemi 1. Ask yourself, “Am I sure I want to make this movie?” Then ask yourself, “Why?” A good follow up question is, “Am I insane?” 2. The script is everything—a living thing that needs to breathe, to be fed and to grow. Take care of your script; don’t let anybody mess with it. 3. As Abel Ferrara once said, “A script ain’t a movie.” Okay, so maybe the script isn’t everything. But it’s a good start. 4. It’s not a bad idea to make a short film before you attempt a feature. But don’t think of it as your “calling card film.” It can of course become that, but it should be your first film, first. Make the film you want to make—not the film you think financiers will be impressed with. 5. Be aware: Finding financing for your feature can be a potentially soul-crushing endeavor. You may find yourself in a sterile room, pitching your film to a humorless executive and desperately blurting out stupid things like, “Well, you know, it’s kinda like Leaving Las Vegas meets Barfly.” 6. No two movies should ever meet each other. 7. Okay, no shit, as I am writing this, I get a call from my agent saying there is a “situation” brewing that could possibly undo the financing of the current film I am slated to direct—a remake of the Theo van Gogh film, Interview. We already lost the original Dutch financing a few weeks ago and I’m scheduled to start shooting in a couple of weeks. This also happened two years ago with my previous film, Lonesome Jim. We lost our studio deal in the eleventh hour. Luckily, InDigEnt, a New York-based, Mini-DV movie company, came to our rescue. The budget dropped from $3 million to $500,000 and our shooting schedule of 30 days was reduced to 17, but we were able to make the film we wanted to make. Financing never comes easy. Trees Lounge took a good five years to find its way and my second film, Animal Factory, based on the great Eddie Bunker book, took three years. What? You never heard of the film Animal Factory? 8. Try to get a good distribution deal. 9. Number 9 makes me think of John Lennon. If there’s one business that’s perhaps more challenging and insane than the movies, it’s the music industry. And yet there’s all this inspiring work from artists like Lennon, Joe Strummer, Nina Simone, Thelonious Monk and countless others. It’s true in film, as well. I know John Cassavetes didn’t have it easy. Buster Keaton? It’s the love for his work that kept him going, not the opening weekend box office receipts. Whenever I get down, I think of the great ones and their struggles against all odds, fighting an uphill battle against commerce and mediocrity, and it gives me strength. 10. Find the back issue of MovieMaker that lists the rules (or non-rules) of Jim Jarmusch. He rules. He’s never made a film he didn’t put his complete heart and soul into—and he’s able to make his living at making movies! I admire any director who makes his living solely from directing. I’m fortunate enough to earn a decent wage by occasionally playing psychopaths in other people’s movies, allowing me the luxury of not having to depend on the movies I direct to put food on the table. I especially admire independent directors like Tom DiCillo and Alexandre Rockwell, who never stop trying to create their own way. 11. Let people do their jobs. Phil Parmet, my friend and cinematographer, told me that once. If you give your crew the responsibility and opportunity to do their best, and you appreciate their efforts, your film will only benefit from their collaboration. Hire the best people to fulfill your film’s needs, then trust them to do their jobs. 12. If the scene you are about to shoot is troublesome, take the time you need to figure it out. This may mean clearing the set of the crew and producers so that it’s just you and the actors. Sometimes the organic instincts of the actors can solve a problem in blocking or problematic writing. But not always. In any case, allow yourself to be surprised by your actors 13. Actually, I have no rule number 13; it’s just my lucky number. I guess if I had to come up with a rule number 13 it would be: Break a leg. And don’t be superstitious. posted by RENATO DOHO | 11:50 PM My Golden Rules by Jim Jarmusch Rule #1: There are no rules. There are as many ways to make a film as there are potential filmmakers. It’s an open form. Anyway, I would personally never presume to tell anyone else what to do or how to do anything. To me that’s like telling someone else what their religious beliefs should be. Fuck that. That’s against my personal philosophy—more of a code than a set of “rules.” Therefore, disregard the “rules” you are presently reading, and instead consider them to be merely notes to myself. One should make one’s own “notes” because there is no one way to do anything. If anyone tells you there is only one way, their way, get as far away from them as possible, both physically and philosophically. Rule #2: Don’t let the fuckers get ya. They can either help you, or not help you, but they can’t stop you. People who finance films, distribute films, promote films and exhibit films are not filmmakers. They are not interested in letting filmmakers define and dictate the way they do their business, so filmmakers should have no interest in allowing them to dictate the way a film is made. Carry a gun if necessary. Also, avoid sycophants at all costs. There are always people around who only want to be involved in filmmaking to get rich, get famous, or get laid. Generally, they know as much about filmmaking as George W. Bush knows about hand-to-hand combat. Rule #3: The production is there to serve the film. The film is not there to serve the production. Unfortunately, in the world of filmmaking this is almost universally backwards. The film is not being made to serve the budget, the schedule, or the resumes of those involved. Filmmakers who don’t understand this should be hung from their ankles and asked why the sky appears to be upside down. Rule #4: Filmmaking is a collaborative process. You get the chance to work with others whose minds and ideas may be stronger than your own. Make sure they remain focused on their own function and not someone else’s job, or you’ll have a big mess. But treat all collaborators as equals and with respect. A production assistant who is holding back traffic so the crew can get a shot is no less important than the actors in the scene, the director of photography, the production designer or the director. Hierarchy is for those whose egos are inflated or out of control, or for people in the military. Those with whom you choose to collaborate, if you make good choices, can elevate the quality and content of your film to a much higher plane than any one mind could imagine on its own. If you don’t want to work with other people, go paint a painting or write a book. (And if you want to be a fucking dictator, I guess these days you just have to go into politics...). Rule #5: Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is nonexistent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery—celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.” posted by RENATO DOHO | 11:48 PM My Golden Rules by Wim Wenders 1. You have a choice of being “in the business” or of making movies. If you’d rather do business, don’t hesitate. You’ll get richer, but you won’t have as much fun! 2. If you have nothing to say, don’t feel obliged to pretend you do. 3. If you do have something to say, you’d better stick to it. (But then don’t give too many interviews.) 4. Respect your actors. Their job is 10 times more dangerous than yours. 5. Don’t look at the monitor. Watch the faces in front of your camera! Stand right next to it! You’ll see infinitely more. You can still check your monitor after the take. 6. Your continuity girl is always right about screen directions, jumping the axis and that sort of stuff. Don’t fight her. Bring her flowers. 7. Always remember: Continuity is overrated! 8. Coverage is overrated, too! 9. If you want to shoot day for night, make sure the sun is shining. 10. Before you say “cut,” wait five more seconds. 11. Rain only shows on the screen when you backlight it. 12. Don’t shoot a western if you hate horses. (But it’s okay to not be fond of cows.) 13. Think twice before you write a scene with babies or infants. 14. Never expect dogs, cats, birds or any other animals to do what you’d like them to do. Keep your shots loose. 15. Mistakes never get fixed in post! 16. Final cut is overrated. Only fools keep insisting on always having the final word. The wise swallow their pride in order to get to the best possible cut. 17. Other people have great ideas, too. 18. The more money you have the more you can do with it, sure. But the less you can say with it. 19. Never fall in love with your temp music. 20. Never fall in love with your leading lady! 21. If you love soccer, don’t shoot your film during the World Championship. (Same goes for baseball and the World Series, etc.) 22. Don’t quote other movies unless you have to. (But why would you have to?) 23. Let other people cut your trailer! 24. It’s always good to make up for a lack of (financial) means with an increase in imagination. 25. Having a tight schedule can be difficult. But having too much time is worse. 26. Alright, so you’re shooting with a storyboard. Make sure you’re willing to override it at any given moment. 27. Less make-up is better. 28. Fewer words are always better! 29. Too much sugary stuff on the craft table (or is it Kraft?) can have a disastrous effect on your crew’s morale. 30. Film can reveal the invisible, but you must be willing to let it show. 31. The more you know about moviemaking, the tougher it gets to leave that knowledge behind. As soon as you do things “because you know how to do them,” you’re fucked. 32. Don’t tell a story that you think somebody else could tell better. 33. A “beautiful image” can very well be the worst thing that can happen to a scene. 34. If you have one actor who gets better with every take, and another who loses it after a while, make sure they can meet in the middle. Or consider recasting. (And you know whose close-ups you have to shoot first!) 35. If you shoot in a dark alley at night, don’t let your DP impose a bright blue contre-jour spotlight on you, even in the far distance. It always looks corny. 36. Some actors should never see rushes. Others should be forced to watch them. 37. Be ready to get rid of your favorite shot during editing. 38. Why would you sit in your trailer while your crew is working? 39. Don’t let them lay tracks before you’ve actually looked through your viewfinder. 40. You need a good title from the beginning. Don’t shoot the film with a working title you hate! 41. In general, it’s better not to employ couples. (But of course, there are exceptions!) 42. Don’t adapt novels. 43. If your dolly grip is grumpy or your electricians hate the shot it will all show on the film. (Also, if you’re constipated…) 44. Keep your rough cut speech, your cast and crew screening speech and your Oscar speech short. 45. Some actors actually improve their dialogue in ADR. 46. Some actors should never be forced to loop a single line. (Even Orson Welles wasn’t good at that.) 47. There are 10,000 other rules like these 50. 48. If there are golden rules, there might be platinum ones, too. 49. There are no rules. 50. None of the above is necessarily correct. posted by RENATO DOHO | 11:47 PM domingo, 1 de abril de 2007 The Family That Preys Together An exclusive Q&A with Sopranos creator David Chase. Interview by Peter Biskind March 13, 2007 VF.com In outtakes from interviews for his April cover story, on The Sopranos, Peter Biskind talks to David Chase, the show's creator and executive producer, about his use of music on the show, his own rock-'n'-roll past, Fellini, The Godfather, the show's "infantile" sense of humor, and the outing of gay mobster Vito Spatafore. Plus: Sopranos director Tim Van Patten recounts a dustup with the real-life Cosa Nostra. Peter Biskind: You put a lot of effort into finding exactly the right music for the show. Does it influence the structure of the episodes? David Chase: It doesn't really influence the structure. Once in a great while we shoot sequences to match pre-selected music. Most of the time, we shoot the shows, we edit them, then start thinking about throwing music up against it, and see what works. [Producer] Martin Bruestle and I have collaborated a lot on musical selections for the show, but the score music we use has been my choice; he does more with source music, the background. It's my favorite part of the whole thing. The music is so great that I look for the music credits when I don't recognize something, but they go by too quickly. There are no music credits. They would take up too much space. Didn't you originally set out to be a drummer? Weren't you in a rock band in high school? I was about 14. I was staring into the Caldwell, New Jersey, music shop, on Main Street, at a drum set, which I wanted to buy so badly. I looked over, and there's another skinny kid looking in there, Peter, and we start talking. It turns out we had a mutual friend my age, a year older than him—this guy named Donnie. And Peter and Donnie had a band together—they were the hottest band in Caldwell—called the Earthquakes. I never really made it into a band, but I kept on practicing the drums, and then after high school, music changed completely—the British invasion—and those guys came to me, because I had a fairly decent singing voice, which they did not have, and we started a band together. We never played anywhere—we were too good for that. So we played in the basement of the garage. We had all the personality conflicts that the Beatles or the Stones had, without the talent or the drive. So after two or three years of this, the band was over, but Peter was so talented that everyone thought he was going to make it. I also had gotten bitten by the film bug, so I had decided I was going to go to California to film school. So we were sitting in a car in the Village getting high or something, and he said, "Well, you can do that, but I frankly I don't think you'll be anything but a drummer in my band." It was the great motivator of my life. When you did get into movies, which ones did you like? I was so besotted with 8½ that, when it was on TV, I used to take pictures with my 35-mm. camera of the frames of the film. That was the first time I'd ever really seen Italians on screen. And even though it was Italy, I thought: Oh, my God—that's my family! He looks like my grandfather! He sounds like my grandfather. He's behaving like my grandfather! … I couldn't believe it. You took the script for the Sopranos pilot to the networks first? I was leery about doing this at a network. I'd been leery from the first. I began to think, this is a collision of conflicting expectations—this is not going to work out. Network television and those who run it are phenomenal at putting their finger on whatever it is that really excites you about the project and telling you to take that out or change it. It's genius. We went to CBS and we told 'em the whole thing. And they said, "It's great—this is fantastic. But … I don't know about the Prozac. And does he have to be seeing a psychiatrist?" And that was, of course, what made it different. Tony's lying [to Dr. Melfi], and you cut to what he's describing, and he's obviously not telling the truth. Just the cutting back and forth from Melfi's office—that, in itself, would have been, "People won't understand it—they won't understand where they are." The major difference [between doing a show for HBO as opposed to the broadcast networks] is the pace at which you're allowed to let the story roll out. [At HBO] you could do a slower pace, a slower release of information, longer silences. Nothing is really happening. It's a different style of editing, not bang-bang-bang-bang all the time. Did you ever feel intimidated by the company you were keeping, genre-wise, having to hold your head up with Mean Streets and GoodFellas? Yeah, sure. I mean, we always tried—and it wasn't an effort—to be very laudatory about those prior films. Our characters love them. I think it almost says, right in the body of the show: We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for those people. It was a clever way of dealing with the history, to incorporate it into the show and make the characters obsessive fans of those movies. Well, we did more riffing on The Godfather, only because I think the real wiseguys—or connected guys—my impression is, it is more of a trip for them, because it's a period piece, and it's more operatic and … It glamorized them, driving these fancy cars, and with these great clothes. Right—yeah. And the family was very tight. It was always our conceit that our characters would sort of learn from those films. How to behave. How involved are you in the editing of the shows? I do all the editing. I sit over the editor's shoulder. I hardly ever even show [my cut to] my colleagues. The truth is, what you really want is for people to say, "It's perfect! My God—don't change a thing!" (Laughs.) And when they say anything other than that, you tend to say, "Well, they didn't get it." We take a long time to do postproduction. We change the stories, and we take scenes that were meant to have one purpose, and re-purpose them to do other things. Or change the whole order of the way the story's told. Often, because it's somewhat of a serial story, we'll realize—like, say, in Episode 8—"You know what? We really should have introduced this guy earlier on." Or introduced this idea earlier on—so it doesn't come out of the blue. So we'll go back and do some retrofitting of information, or character, or some story points. You're famous for not tying up loose ends. I think, probably, that's because that's not what the story was about. It's not important. It seems to be part of life, too, that things recede into the background or whatever. Something that was so important to you Thursday—all of a sudden, you're caught up in something else and it's not important Friday. When The Sopranos was shown at the Museum of Modern Art, you had them show a Laurel and Hardy movie with it, Saps at Sea. Why? I really like comedy. There's always a choice, when you're writing: you can either go for the joke or you can go for the story, the important stuff. And a lot of times, we'll go for the joke. The Sopranos is filled with really retrograde humor. Bathroom humor, falls, stupid puns, bad jokes—infantile, adolescent stuff, but it makes me laugh. I'm told you don't like improvisation on the set. It's not that I don't like improvisation. This is kind of a factory, and it's got to be a standardized product, and you can't have—how many cast members do we have? You can't have everybody just saying what they want. People who do improvisation work on these things, before the movie starts, and then that stuff is written down. We don't have time for that. It's got to be exactly as we write it. Otherwise we would get so bogged down, and so out of control. I would like to do more of that. I think Larry David works that way: "A bagel? A bagel?! Not a bagel—a bagel! Yes, a bagel!" (Laughs.) Last season, did you feel that the story line that involved Vito being outed was risky? No. We had this big plan for it, and then all of a sudden I hear about this movie that was coming around Christmastime called Brokeback Mountain. I thought, Oh, God. Why did we ever do this? I wish we had never done this gay thing. But in the end they didn't really touch each other too much. Part of the reason for doing it was there were and are a lot of gay shows on TV, and they paint a picture of acceptance and tolerance, and I think under the surface in America that's not there, and that's what I wanted to show. You can watch all these shows where it's fine and dandy, but that attitude has not really changed in some quarters. I thought that needed pointing out. During the show's second season, some of the cast and crew filmed on location in Naples, where they had a real-life encounter with organized crime. Tim Van Patten: We had to watch our back while we were shooting in the nooks and crannies of Naples, because it's a very dangerous place. We had befriended this scugnizzo, which is like a street kid—"Max," we called him. On the last day, before we leave for the airport, I asked him, "Can you take me to a real rough neighborhood market? I want to go where you would go." He goes, "O.K." So Jim [Gandolfini] finds out that I'm doing this, and he goes, "Well, I want to go, too." Federico Castelluccio [who played Furio] goes, "I want to go, too." David [Chase] goes, "I want to go, too." So, the morning of our departure, we all meet this kid, and we drive to an open market somewhere in the heart of Naples. It's a bazaar. I mean, there's people from all over the globe: there are North Africans; there are Polish people. I mean, it's like a black market. You can buy anything: a whole swordfish, VCRs, telephones, cigarettes, nuts, screws, everything. It's this wild place. So we get in the middle of all of this, we're walking down this narrow street—it's tight—people are selling stuff at your feet, and, suddenly, a man is sort of plowing through us. And he brushes against David's shoulder—grunting in some kind of Arabic or something, right? David goes, "What? What?" The man points up, like there's bird shit on David's shoulder or something. It happens very quickly. So we move on. David had on a black shirt, and was sort of carrying a satchel. I stop and am looking at these antique pictures—probably not really antique, but they looked antique—of saints. I buy one of Saint Anthony. David goes, "How much are those? Because I'd like to have one." So he reaches into his satchel—of course, his wallet's gone. And he goes, "Goddamned motherfucking! This motherfucking place! I've been robbed! The guy stole my wallet! THE GUY STOLE MY WALLET!" I say, "Aw, shit." And Saint Anthony, mind you, is the patron saint of lost things. There's like a level of panic that now hits us. We're going up the alleyways, looking under cars, finding hypodermic needles and dead cats. So this kid Max goes, "Come, come—follow me!" So we follow him back up that alleyway, to the same street where it happened. He's looking around. "Do you see the man anywhere?" And we're all looking: No, no, no, no. The guy was very distinctive—a tall guy. Suddenly, this kid Max calls out, to all these guys—vendors, whatever you want to call them. In a Neapolitan dialect he goes, "Attenzione, attenzione! This man's wallet was stolen, and I want it back! Immediately, I want it back!" No one even listened. They all go back to selling their shit. So we're all standing there. Now we have a plane to catch. And Max goes, "My uncle is so-and-so! Attenzione—my uncle is so-and-so!" Now it gets a little more quiet. He has their attention. He takes out his cell phone, and he holds it up over his head, and he says, "If this man's wallet is not returned, I will call my uncle." Right? Now the street is still. And we're all sort of standing there in amazement. We finally get back to that spot where it happened, and he shouts again, "I will call my uncle." Suddenly, a guy goes, "I know where the wallet is." So this kid Max—very tough, you know, sort of a squat guy, probably 20 years old—takes this guy around the shoulder and starts to walk up the street with him. We're all sort of trailing them. And we wander that way, we wander this way, and we were all, like, saying, "C'mon, you should just forget this, David. Let's move on, we've got to get back." But Max is determined. Finally, this guy that he had around the shoulder splits, and Max keeps walking, and we are really getting deep into this neighborhood. He stops, and we look up. He's got the guy, right there. That's the guy! We all run across the street. He was standing in a doorway, and there was a line of cars, so we sort of locked him in. And this kid Max goes up to this guy, and he says, "Did you take this man's wallet?" And the guy sort of grunts. Max hauls off and just busts his face open. BOOM! I tell you, my heart was pounding. The guy's bleeding, and Max goes, "I'll ask you again—did you take this man's wallet?" And the guy says—he points at the ground, and underneath the car is the wallet. Max reaches down, this kid, picks up the wallet, all the while, sort of keeping his eye on the big thug. He asks David, "Is this your wallet?" "Yes, it is—it is my wallet!" He goes, "Is your money in it?" "Yes, it's all in here!" Max says to the thug, "If these men were not here, I'd kill you." BOOM! And he cracks him again. And then he kicks him up the street, towards Jim. And, suddenly, we all get brave, right? And we all started chasing after him. "Son of a bitch!" And the guy staggers off into the bowels of the city, right? So we're all so juiced up, we take this kid and we go right to a bar, like one of those sort of stainless-steel bars in a little storefront. We order some shots—Max is now our hero. "Anything you want"—we're throwing money at him. You know, "You are with us—anything you want, you come to America, we'll make … " Long story short, we leave. We give him a farewell, we all get on the van, we continue drinking. We all head back to the airport and go home. That was in the summer, I believe. In the winter we're out shooting, in front of Silvercup [the show's home-base studio, in Queens]. And I see this figure coming up the street, and he's starting to look familiar. I go, "Goddamn—it's Max!" He says, "I'm here—in America!" I'm like, "Oh, my God!" You know, never expecting him, in a million years, to show up. So he comes up and goes, "Where is David? Where is David?" "He's up in the writers' office." "I must see David"—right? So the kid goes up into David's office. And then he comes down with a very fancy Sopranos leather jacket. And he basically never leaves … for like a month. He ends up living with Federico Castelluccio, and he rings up this enormous phone bill. And then disappears. posted by RENATO DOHO | 1:34 AM |
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