Don't Worry, You'll Fix It In Post

Salutations, Subsequent Scribes!

True story, Star Wars almost killed its creator.

Due to a constant onslaught of one crisis after another, George Lucas nearly had a coronary while filming A New Hope.  While shooting on location in Tunisia, none of the robots would work.  A freak rainstorm destroyed half the sets.  Anthony Daniels, who played C-3PO, nearly died of heat prostration and had his own foot impaled by the costume.

Even after the production moved into the domesticated environs of Elstree Studios in London, Lucas's woes didn't end.  The seasoned British crew often looked down their nose upon the film's "kiddie" subject matter as well as its young, upstart American director.  Sometimes, after spending hours on a complicated set-up, George would be left apoplectic with rage when the entire crew suddenly decided to drop everything and have tea.  

Just when things couldn't get any worse, they did.  Lucas's startup special effects house Industrial Light and Magic hadn't lensed a single useable effects shot, despite having blown a million dollars well into production.  At the same time, Lucas was fighting a daily battle on set with veteran cinematographer Gil Taylor over the use of soft-focus lenses.  George wanted a dreamy, fairy-tale look for the film, but the prickly Taylor chafed under such specific orders.

Even the actors were overtly willful and contentious.  Kenny Baker, the little due inside R2-D2, fully expected the film to be a complete and utter disaster.  Harrison Ford was particularly critical of Lucas's dialogue, famously telling him "You can type this shit, George, but you can't say it!"  As a result, Lucas became even more depressed, withdrawn and uncommunicative.  Most of the time, his primary direction to the actors consisted of repeating "Faster, more intense!" over and over again.          

As the film started to go over budget and over schedule, another layer of pressure was introduced.  The bean counters at 20'th Century Fox gave the young director a terrifying ultimatum: either finish shooting the film within a week or the production would be shut down.  By splitting the crew into three separate shooting units, Lucas managed to finish principal photography just days before the plug was pulled.

During this particularly trying time, Lucas began to experience severe chest pains and shortness of breath.  Assuming that it was heart failure, George was rushed to the hospital where doctors diagnosed him with exhaustion and severe hypertension.  He was ordered to reduce his stress level and get some rest; two luxuries that he simply did not have.

To get the movie finished under such brutal time constraints, Lucas was often heard to say: "We gotta keep moving.  Don't worry, we'll fix it in post."  Sometimes I wonder if the young film-maker actually believed his own advice, especially after seeing the film's initial rough cut.  By all accounts, John Jympson's first edit of the film came as a crushing blow to Lucas.  It made the movie look like deleted footage from a cheap 70's T.V. cop show.

But slowly, inexorably, things did start to get fixed in post, just like he'd predicted.  ILM began delivering some groundbreaking special effects shots.  John William's grandiose score elevated the sometimes-cheesy material into the realm of myth.  And, most importantly, the masterful editing work by Paul Hirsch, Richard Chew and George's rarely-lauded ex-wife Marcia transformed the listless, boring footage into dynamic and exciting motion picture.  In fact, the trio would go on to win an Oscar for their efforts.

So what's the point of this extended title crawl?  Only this: the lesson contained herein is vital to every single writer.

Many a day I've dragged ass on a piece of writing because I'm totally convinced that what I'm writing is garbage.  But then, when I run it through two or three editorial passes, something magical happens.  First it becomes presentable, then it becomes palatable and then it become something pretty durned good.

For what it's worth: here's my current work flow:

1. Getting an Idea That's Worth The Trouble    Some may argue, with considerable evidence, that I'm not discriminating enough in this regard.  To this, I offer the eloquent rebuttal: cram it with walnuts, poncho.  Hey, at least I never have to deal with writers block, which, frankly, is the kiss of death for any writer as far as I'm concerned.  
2. Filtering Ideas Through A Pen Is Like Pumping Oil Through A Straw  As long as I've got  a stout cup of dark roast coffee in front of me I usually don't have any problem getting my ideas down on paper.  But the process is hideously inefficient and often results in wastage.  I think that's why most people despise the process of writing.  By the time they're done scratching up a journal or mashing their keyboard the Übermensch concepts frolicking around in their head come out looking like something in a David Lynch movie.
3. From Analog To Digital  I often subject myself to this additional step which I admittedly have  a love/hate relationship with.  Although I'm currently typing this directly onto Blogger's blank-white compositional face, I often do a first draft on looseleaf.  I usually do this with my "work-related" movie reviews but sometimes I just wanna write in a coffee shop and I don't want to drag my laptop along with me.  Sorry, but feverishly scribbling something onto filler paper always makes me feel like a kid again.  Even better, people look at me as if I'm going math problems with an abacus.  Despite this seemingly archaic method, I can usually expunge my ideas a lot quicker via these frenetic chicken scratchings then with the old hunt n' peck keyboard method.  To be perfectly candid, I actually hate typing stuff into a computer.  In fact, I despise it with all the fire of a million suns.         
4. Three Words: Fine Tooth Comb  Seriously, folks, this is where the magic happens.  To all the prospective writers out there: don't be discouraged if your first draft looks irredeemably stillborn and twisted.  You'll be surprised what three editorial passes will do for any nebulous chunk of poetry or prose.  On the first read-though, you'll wipe away the embryonic fluid and gently gather your fragile creation into your arms.  With the second bash, your ideas will shakily come to their feet like Bambi on ice, anxious to impress.  On the third and final brush-up, your brainchild will now be standing erect, hands on hips, with bright eyes beaming in a silent challenge to be appraised and appreciated.  

So, please, don't become despondent when you sit down to write something and it comes out all wonky.  Just tell yourself "Don't worry, I'll fix it in post."  It certainly worked out for Star Wars, didn't it?

Note to self RE: the Star Wars prequels: consider writing blog entry about the importance of collaborating with people more talented then yourself.  

EPIC EDIT  See, judicious trimming makes everything better!

EXCISE FAIL  Although her ample contributions to Star Wars have been excised from history like a member of the Politburo, fans really owe a debt of gratitude to Marcia Lucas.

"A Creative Force"- Part III

After poring over the arcane secrets provided by the good people at Random House I threw the Jedi storybook down in disgust.

"This can't be what really happens!" I raged. "After all, didn't 'Starlog' say that some of the actors got fake script pages just to keep the secrets safe? Maybe the storybook writer got some of those fake pages by mistake..."

But it was not to be. When I saw the film a few months later my worst fears were confirmed. Amongst my issues with the film:

* Wow, another "Death Star", huh? Real original...
* What's with all the fake-looking Muppets? Half of the creature masks look like they were cobbled together by Don Post on an adrenochrome bender.
* Han Solo may have been thawed out, but apparently he left his balls back in what was left of that carbonite block.
* Boba Fett, who's been built up as the galaxy's greatest bad-ass, dies accidentally with all the majesty of an actor in a public service television ad for workplace safety.
* Why is everything burping? Isn't there any Pepto Bismol equivalent in "A Galaxy Far, Far, Away?"
* Why is Carie Fischer acting like she's all strung out on coke? Oooooo, eeeee, sorry 'bout that...
* Leia and Luke are brother and sister?!! Look, I can handle Leia just picking Han, but this is a f#@%ing cheat! And Lucas has the gall to tell us he had this planned all along? Well, I call bull$#!% on that unless Georgie Boy had a very unconventional relationship with this sister as a kid.
* Yoda's dead? Why?! One minute he says: "Soon I will rest" and the next minute he's deader than the escaped salamander I found underneath my radiator last week.
* Ewoks. Sweet, suffering Christ I hate these fake-looking little Jeezlers. They bean themselves in the head with their slings, single handedly annihilate dramatic tension whenever they're on screen for more than five seconds, say sickeningly cutesy crap like 'Yub! Yub!" and turn in the worst piece of music at the end of a movie since "(Everything I Do) I Do It for You" drove a stake through the heart of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

Anyway, you get the idea. Up to this point in time, George Lucas was my creative hero. I didn't understand at the time that the first two films succeeded in spite of Lucas, who has long since proved to be a conceptual and editorial genius but a complete moron when it comes to dialogue and working in collaboration with real, talented human beings.

But at this point in time a thirteen year old kid was suddenly inspired to try and do better. It's all well and good to say something sucks, but it's another to point out exactly why it sucks and then to make it better. This is what I became fascinated by.

I'd already been encouraged to start writing back in 1979 when my Super 8 Star Wars film fell apart. I'd written an extended story based on the Disney movie The Black Hole and soon I'd find myself up in front of my class reading my latest chapter to them, serial style. The saga gained so much renown that my principal at the time took my Hilroy-scribbled manuscript and promised that he's return it only after it had been typed up and copies were made available to any student who wanted one. Wow, my first publishing offer!

Well, I'm still waiting. Asshat.

Yes, that's right, MY F#@$&*% PRINCIPAL LOST MY FIRST BOOK! Hey, I know it likely sucked like a Hoover, but I would have preferred a scathing diatribe in "The Literary Review" versus completely excising it from reality. After all, Battlefield Earth still exists, am I right? Who knows, maybe he was a mole for Disney studios and was tasked to destroy any unauthorized fan fiction on sight? I hope he didn't catch up to Mike...

Discouraged, I fell into a creative lull. Eventually my spirits were buoyed considerably by a pair neo-hippie school-teacher friends of my parents who had a Golden Retriever named Gandalf (how pimp is that?) and a huge library. They lent me a slew of books like Stuart Little and Jacob Too-Too Meets the Hooded Fang, both of which were considerable departures for me. After all, despite being a budding cinephile, up to then I'd really only read comic books and film novelizations, half of which were written quite competently by Alan Dean Foster.

One particular book of theirs that caught my attention was James Clavell's Shōgun. This was fascinating to me since I'd often caught fleeting glimpses of the miniseries on T.V. and was captivated by it. You mean books could be adapted into movies and not just the other way around? Fascinating!

So inspired, my first "original" novel was Amazōn (complete with bitchin' macron) which detailed the harrowing tale of a crew of Western sailors in the 1930's being ship-wrecked on the eponymous island, which is filled with savage tribesmen, snakes, piranha, and...rather inexplicably, dinosaurs. It was kind of a fusion between King Kong, The Most Dangerous Game and a piece of poo.

Despite it's dubious quality, Amazōn did well in local circles (read: my Grade Five class) so a sequel was soon green-lit.  Return To Amazōn also acquitted itself nicely, despite featuring a team of futuristic fighter pilots (?) now crashing on the deadly island and trying to cope with ever-escalating dangers. In order to come up with "futuristic" names for the characters I was forced to steal fabric names from my mom's electric iron settings. This resulted in the regrettably dubbed "Rick Dynel" and "Dan Fortrel" as protagonists in the novel.

With space and the future as a re-occurring theme my next novel was a real quantum-leap, the post-apocalyptic sci-fi opus Enter the Oblivion.  Oblivion was set on Earth after a nuclear war nearly destroys humanity. An advanced "friendly" alien race happens by not long after and attempts to shepherd humanity back from the brink, but, naturally, they have ulterior motives.  You knew you were reading a hard core, speculative sci-fi masterpiece when one of the characters at one point employs the use of a "thermal injector unit" to make toast.  Sheeesh.

Enter the Oblivion was never completed, mainly because I was about around the age in which I'd seen Return of the Jedi.  I'd to come to the harsh realization that what I was writing was nothing short of awful.  Enter The Oblivion was merely a blatant rip-off of the television mini-series The Day After Tomorrow and Arthur C.Clarke's Childhood's End.  I needed to find an original voice.

At the same time, as I've discussed prior, we as student in school were being encouraged more and more to abandon creative pursuits and concentrate on our Sciences and Advanced Math.  Except for occasional diversions in English or Language Class, my germ of creative writing was left to fallow.

But it would eventually return with a vengeance.

EPIC:  I've actually seen worse recruiting methods...

FAIL: Could be an omen, could be an ottoman...


And also, here's this week's Star Wars-themed comic...