"Pick up the usual suspects, Pierre."

The scene is set in an immense fog in which a small private plane is enshrouded as it slowly taxis for take-off on a runway of the Casablanca airport. Inside of the aircraft is, among others, Ingrid Bergmann, distraught, heartbroken, frustrated and terribly upset over her recent permanent separation from Humphrey Bogart. The average moviegoer has no concept of the intensely complex project which led to this emotional and triumphant climax. The order must be issued just so, the inflection of the speaker's voice must be carefully structured, the background must be exactly right, the words must be precise and suited to the environment in which they are spoken and the entire scene must be credible. For example, suppose that we had the scene set as above, but instead of the characters walking away from the fog-enveloped plane in total silence, Bogart suddenly stopped, turned toward the plane, and shouted "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!" Believable? Suppose, instead, the scene is set in the bar and a despondent Bogart, who is, incidentally, far from sober, staggers toward the piano which, like the plane, is somewhere in a pall of smoke, and says to the piano player:

"Why must you play that damned song again and again, Sam? You know that I hate it when you do that. Sam? Sam? You in that smoke bank somewhere?"

Somewhere and at some point toward the end of the movie, one or more of the characters emerges from the cloud bank, or the cloud bank lifts, or dissipates, but never, for some reason, disappears. The emergence from the cloud bank offers a real opportunity to the writers, directors and others who are responsible for making the picture a success and it should be a credible climax. Often, several elements of the movie are brought together at the end instead of one super-climax and lots of residual peaks. For example, a real winner could be expected if the cloud bank lifts revealing Peter Lorre carrying Sidney Greenstreet on his shoulders with Greenstreet clutching a vulture which was wearing a crucifix on which was emblazoned the words Property
of the Malta Hilton. A thoroughly and obviously exhausted Lorre utters the timeless words, "He's damned heavy, brother; he's my father!" This is not the stuff of which Academy Awards are made. Care must be taken, however, to see that the "punch lines" are appropriate to the action. Doubts as to the authenticity of a drama might arise if the script called for a shot of Custer, up to his ears in Native Americans, and he cries out, amid the din of the battle and a tremendous cloud of dust:

"I have not yet begun to fight!".

Under those circumstances, one might legitimately wonder whether, all things considered, this may not be as good a time as any to begin to fight. Finally, in one of the dramatic scenes from Beau Geste, the detail of French Foreign Legionnaires is seen in the dune-studded desert, staggering under the searing sun and the burden of their arms and equipment. Viewers could not be faulted if they expressed doubts as to the authenticity of the episode if the Commandant were to appear at the summit of one of the dunes and, peering over the trackless desert, proclaims: "Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink!"

How do movies such as these, or for that matter, any movies, come about? Well, the first step is, obviously, to have a script written. This is done by one or more persons known as "writers". The primary function of a writer is, as I understand it, to defend every word of his script against assaults made by people known as "producers" and "directors". The fact that some changes may be sorely needed is not a relevant consideration. The fight is the thing! Under these circumstances, it is important to understand the roles of the producers and the director.

There may be as few as one producer or as many as can be accommodated in the credits. There may also be assistant producers and co-producers. What, you may ask, does a producer do? For one thing, an executive producer---what else?---produces executives. Now, if you were to ask what the executives do, you will have raised a rather interesting question to which no reasonable answer comes immediately to mind. From my observations, it would seem that their functions complement those of the producers who cause traffic (both vehicular and foot) to be rerouted simply by obstructing the vital walkways and vehicular roads. In other words, my observations lead inexorably to the conclusion that the functions of the producers and the executives are to get in the way. The more experienced among them are frequently downright obnoxious. Assistant producers assist their producers in this endeavor and nobody really knows what a co-producer does. It has been suggested, by those knowledgeable in such matters, that co-producers review and change those parts of the show which the writers and their allies most cherish. This keeps the movie lot in constant turmoil, which is said to bestir avid interest in the production and direction of the show. One final thought on producers: it is reasonable to assume that if there are, for example, fifteen producers and one director, the director must be the boss because everyone agrees that no field of human activity can be successfully pursued where there are, say, fifteen bosses and one worker. On the other hand, the incidence of one boss and fifteen employees is not at all unusual. Therefore, there can be little doubt as to who is the boss and who is not. Isn't that logical?

The director/boss is generally recognized as the sine qua non of any movie and his idiosyncrasies and temper tantrums are tolerated in the name of genius. It may certainly be safely assumed that the director has an important role in the shooting of the film and that his influence on the lot is pervasive. This must be so, you understand, because it is apparent that the great majority of the other persons on the lot think the same as the director. That is not to say that the director is always right, of course, but the thinking of those who are still on the set seems to coincide more frequently with that of the director than did that of their unemployed former colleagues. Ego is never a

problem with directors, rumors to the contrary notwithstanding. Of course, as you say, there are those who make cameo appearances in every movie which they direct, but that is not ego. I am not quite certain what it is, but I feel comfortable in believing that it is simply genius run amok.

However important or unimportant producers may be and however impressive the power of the director, it is the wee folk who, in the end, determine whether the production will be a resounding success or a dismal failure. Let us look, then, at the powerful wee folk. I will explain the process according to my understanding of it which may not, under all circumstances, be completely accurate.

You will find, in the credits, a listing for the "Best Boy" and your curiosity will be aroused respecting where this piece fits into the puzzle. The "Best Boy", you see, originated in the Chinese theater many centuries ago. The Chinese are, of course, noted for close family ties and the Chinese theater reflects those values. Remember that we are not concerned, at this point of history, with the movies, but, rather, with the legitimate stage. The man (for, in those days, women were considered to have no place in the theater) who owned the show and hired the actors and craftsmen, was what we now know as the entrepreneur. It was his genetic obligation, as a father, to employ his eldest son in his business and to work him up into a management position. The son so destined would be referred to as "Number one son" and, over many generations, the title became corrupted to "Best Boy". So, the function of the position today is that of the corrupt eldest son of the financier who bankrolled the show; the situation can become rather confusing, however, if the father has only daughters.

The next listing which usually requires an informed explanation is that of the "Key Grip". Its origins are a bit obscure, but the histories seem to associate the title with the centuries-old fear of internal dissension and even sabotage. Management did not place its blind trust in the integrity, loyalty, and honesty of the ordinary workers as they do today. Consequently, it was the common practice to keep everything of value locked away or hidden in some secure depository. These "valuables" were not jewelry, money, securities and the like as we know them today, but were papers and other materials vital to the successful operation of the show. But it must be remembered that, in those days, there were no safe deposit boxes or vaults, but there were locked security places. The script and other valuables would be secretly hidden and locked. The question arose as to what to do after that, particularly with the keys. An unknown genius conceived the idea that it would be brilliant to entrust the keys to one who would be least likely to be given possession of anything. The keys would be unobtrusively slipped into his/her hand with a stern admonition not to open the clenched fist nor to release the grip on the keys until the person who gave them to the possessor personally demanded them. Only then would the grip be released. The title, since then, has largely been a ceremonial one and it is no longer mandatory that the key grip possess any particular characteristics.

The remaining vital position is that known as the "Gaffer". Now a gaff is a hook or a pole with a sharp barbed point which is used to secure, for example, fish. Gaff is also a term used for deception or fraud and it can be employed to refer to the harassment visited upon one person by another. Without a great deal of study, one can assume that the duties of a gaffer would not be generally acceptable to law- abiding society. This assumption, however, should not necessarily lead to the conclusion that the production would be better off without such a person. There is definitely a place for a hook or barb-pointed pole. Such a device is used to prod a recalcitrant actor or actress into a more acceptable performance. Moreover, the possession of a "gaffer" by the director is, like a fasces, a symbol of power and authority. Verbal exchanges between an actor or actress and the director and, even more frequently, between the director and the writers, are almost always sharp, pointed and barbed. It can readily be seen that there is a pressing need for someone to devote a career to deceiving, tricking, or harassing the director. A shifty, deceitful and despicable gaffer can command an impressive salary and is assured of a secure job because the actors, director and writers manifest a great need for such services in dealing with one another.

You have undoubtedly seen a gaffer in action in connection with the production of television movies: he is the one with a very long pole with what appears to be a microphone on the end and black wires running the length of the pole. It seems like an innocent enough device, but what you don't see is the jolt of electricity which the knob on the end emits, striking (and sometimes flooring) an actor, particularly an actor who does not prove to be sufficiently agile to escape his destiny. Although an actor or two might be lost as a result of the overzealous use of the gaff, it does not occur with sufficient frequency to constitute a cause for alarm. As a general matter, there is an abundance of actors and actresses and the "zapping" of one or two of them from time to time is not considered an untoward development. Moreover, it is surprising and gratifying to watch the rapid improvement in performance which occurs in exchange for the expenditure of an actor or actress here and there. One might say, without serious danger of contradiction, that a sort of Darwinian principle is at work here.

There are a number of less vital supporting departments such as casting, make-up, wardrobe, lighting, sets, sound, properties, editing1 and the like. It is impossible, within the confines of a document such as this one, to examine, in any great detail, the development and functions of these lesser departments. In a subsequent essay, I might attempt to deal with those esoteric aspects of epic film-making which distinguish one part of the operation from the others, particularly those which are familiar to the public as symbolic of movie-making, such as the development and use of the casting couch.

THE END {List Credits Rapidly}

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