a semi-regular column of Truths, Half Truths, and Mostly Truths by Semi.
Volume I, Issue 13 · posted May 18, 2001
I have been uncharacteristically silent lately, though not willfully so. My last two columns (Business as Usual? and The Company We Keep?) took a lot out of me, but the response has been very encouraging. Thank you to all who wrote. For now, I wish to give my curmudgeonry a rest and write on more personal issues. So, for no particular reason, I devote this column to men: some I have known, some I have not, and all of them men who have had an influence on me.
As one of my first steps on the road to becoming the polished and world famous writer that I am now, I attended the UCLA Film School[1] in the late 1970s and early 80s. I was a young man with lots of self-esteem and seriously outclassed by all the talent that surrounded me. Fortunately, the school operated on very egalitarian principles and even a pipsqueak such as I was treated with deference and respect by fellow artistes who frequently threw away finer ideas than I could come up with on my best days. Other alumni of that era include Tim Robbins, Ed Solomon, Shane Black, Chuck Sheets and others whose names I have lost over the passage of time.
There was one young man in particular, though, who thoroughly impressed me. He was refreshingly reserved in manner and a bit reclusive, but in the short time that I worked with him and got to know him -- and I never felt I knew him well -- I developed an abiding respect for his talent and intelligence. His name was Ethan Wiley.
Unlike some of the other names I have had occasion to drop, it's very likely that you have never heard of Ethan Wiley. No one is more surprised about this than I, for twenty years ago I was certain that he would be the most famous person I ever knew (and I'm fairly sure that no one who knew me then thought the same of me!).
UCLA did then -- and to a great degree, still does today -- have the reputation of being the school that you attended if you wanted to be in independent film maker. Our most notable graduate at that time was Francis Ford Coppola (USC[2], by contrast, the alma mater of George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, was where you went to become a Hollywood mainstream producer and filthy rich). In that deep pool of creative men and women, Ethan captured my attention because he was so clearly a Renaissance man. When I did get to know him, I was a bit surprised to discover that our backgrounds were similar: we were both from the San Francisco Bay Area and we each had a similar upbringing and education. I wanted him to be from the East Coast and to have spent his childhood touring Europe with his literary parents. It was almost more difficult to discover that he was like me, but better!
For one, Ethan could act. In a school where everyone was an auteur, this was a rare and precious commodity. In film school, everybody wore all hats. Any one of us might be a boom operator one week, a lens puller the next, and directing the next. We also looked to our fellow students to be "the talent" in our productions, and whenever I reasonably could, I used Ethan. When Ethan used me as talent for one of his own productions -- in a move that might have been revenge, but I chose to interpret as flattery -- I realized that he could direct. Directing is more than just telling the cameraman where to point his lens and yelling at the talent to act. A good director has already created the film in his mind, and the actual work of moving around cameras and actors are merely the imperfect but obligatory steps necessary to make the story visible to other people. That's what kind of director Ethan is.
Of paramount importance to me, though, was this: Ethan could write. Before I even knew him well at all, he looked over a scene that I was attempting to write for a production class and, with a few beautiful swipes, cleared off all the clutter and unearthed the essence of what I was attempting to convey. My admiration of him was secured, however, when he almost apologetically invited me to attend the production of a one act play that he had written which was being performed by UCLA's Drama Department. Twenty years later, I wish a remembered it better than I do, but I recall that it was a hilarious comedy of manners in the style of Moiliere.
A few months after graduating UCLA -- armed with a measure of experience that almost guaranteed a lifetime of abject poverty -- I ran into Ethan just once again. He had moved back to the Bay Area to work as a "creature technician" on Return of the Jedi[3]. I fully expected to see his name on a marquee in the near future, and sure enough, just three years later his I saw him listed as writer (along with his college roommate, Fred Dekker[4]) for the now-legendary House[5]. (FastRewind.com[6] calls House "surely the best 'B' movie that the 80's Horror-Comedy Genre ever crafted...it avoids the 'gory' route of most 80's horror, adopting a psychological game of possible reality, accompanied by believable and witty dialogue.").
According to RogerCobbsHouse.com[7], a website dedicated to all the House films (there would eventually be four) "HOUSE debuted as the number one film in the U.S. and remains among the top-grossing independent films, the second most profitable in New World Pictures history." Regarding Ethan Wiley, the author writes:
"Among his other endeavors, Ethan has performed as a stand-up and improv comedian, worked as a creative consultant for interactive multimedia and produced original theater productions as director, writer and actor. He plays a variety of stringed instruments, including mandolin and mandocello..."
On the heels of this success, Ethan went on to write and direct House II: The Second Story[8] (I love that title!) and his meteoric career seemed assured. Pleased that I had recognized his talent so early on, I waited triumphantly for his star to ascend...
...and waited...
...and waited.
Reagan left the White House. I moved to New York. The Berlin Wall fell. The Soviet Union dissolved. I moved to Virginia, got married. Clinton got elected. Entire galaxies collapsed. The wife and I had a kid, then another...
In 1998, Ethan was listed as the director and screenwriter for Children of the Corn V: Fields of Terror[9]. So happened between 1987 and 1998? I may never know. Perhaps we were more alike than I was willing to realize and Ethan, like I did, decided there was more to the world than the freeways of California. A quick internet search reveals that in 1996 he wrote the liner notes[10] for a CD release by guitarist Jon Sholle[11], and in a 1995 book titled Fade In: The Screenwriting Process[12], author Bob Berman interviews Ethan Wiley "a twelve-year veteran whose experience and insight into both writing and the business side of the profession will be extremely helpful..."
One of my favorite websites, the Internet Movie Database at IMDB.COM[13] lists a 1999 film titled Jake & Joey[14] that Ethan is credited with writing (though if you follow the link, there is no information whatsoever about this film). Finally, an independent film production company out of North Carolina called PayBak Productions[15] lists Ethan as director on a film in pre-production titled United We Fall[16].
Ethan has his fans (just check out the One and Only Unofficial Ethan Wiley Appreciation Page)[17] and I am glad to see that he is back in the limelight. If I can figure out a way to connect to him, I just know he'll have an interesting story to tell. In the meantime, remember his name.
know anything about Ethan Wiley? email me
Like most fans, I had first become aware of Douglas Adams through his work on the marvelous BBC radio series, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy[18], an epic saga that swept the breadth of the galaxy and introduced exciting new concepts to the worlds of science fiction. Oh yeah, and it was also mind-numbingly funny.
Adams recalled “I was hitchhiking around Europe in 1971, when I was 18, with this copy of ‘A Hitchhiker’s Guide to Europe.’ At one point, I found myself lying in the middle of a field, a little bit drunk, when it occurred to me that somebody should write a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It didn’t occur to me that it might actually be me years later.”
What was so utterly marvelous about the series was the seamless blending of original science fiction and comedy. It begins, if you do not already know, with the destruction of Earth to make way for an intergalactic bypass ("we apologize for the inconvenience"). The sole apparent survivor of that calamity is the hapless Arthur Dent, who finds himself being bounced around the universe in the company of the refugee President of the Galaxy, one Zaphod Beeblebrox, in a stolen prototype spaceship powered by the Infinite Improbability Drive. (Dent meets up with this unlikely pair after he is pushed out of the airlock of an alien ship into deep space and is immediately picked up by the passing starship. "That's impossible!" he exclaims. "No," answers his traveling companion, "just highly improbable.")
We later find out that, just before it is destroyed, all the dolphins depart Earth to return to their home in the stars, leaving a final message for all mankind: "So long, and thanks for all the fish".
Other favorite concepts: the Babel fish, which, when dropped in one's ear, instantly allows one to understand any spoken language, thereby disproving the existence of God. And a cloaking device called an SEP field (for Somebody Else's Problem) which allows aliens to park a massive spaceship unnoticed onto a soccer field in the middle of a game because it's Somebody Else's Problem.
I adored The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy on every level: as comedy, it was hilarious and highly original; as science fiction, it introduced imaginative concepts that stretched the boundaries of the fantastic. Best of all, it was a radio play. I love radio! I have distinct memories of being ten years old and lying awake at night in the dark listening to a station out of San Francisco that played old radio dramas and comedies.
When I first heard THGTTG, I wanted to be Douglas Adams. The radio series spawned a book which sold 14 million copies, followed by several sequels, a second radio series, a TV series, and a feature film currently in the planning stages.
I only met Douglas Adams once. Upon moving to Virginia, my years of worldly experience and my impressive résumé assured that I was perfectly eligible to work only in retail bookselling (purgatory for Liberal Arts majors). In 1992, I found myself winging once again to the sunny confines of Southern California to attend an industry book fair, clutching a hardcover copy of his newest book.
The highlight of that book fair was to hear Douglas Adams speak. I wish I could remember more of what he said; I remember a ripping lampoon of the publishing industry and a hilarious tale of spending 90 minutes creating a macro in a word processing program to save himself about three seconds of work.
After he spoke, I abashedly approached his lunch table and asked if he would mind signing my book. In 1990, Douglas had teamed up with zoologist and photographer Mark Carwardine and set off around the world in search of the rarest and most endangered animals on Earth. From that experience came the book and series Last Chance To See[19]. When he saw what I was carrying, he proclaimed that this was the work of which he was most singularly proud and proceeded to talk to me for several minutes. I had to rush back to my table to wolf down the remainder of my lunch, but it was completely worth it. I found him personally engaging, endlessly witty, and sincerely warm.
Douglas Adams[20] died unexpectedly of a heart attack on May 12 at age 49. I am sorry that I will never have a second chance to engage him in conversation, and I know I am joining in a chorus of voices from around the globe when I wish him well on his own journey to his home in the stars.
So long, Douglas ... and thanks for all the fish.
do you have memories of Douglas Adams? email me
I can't sing (trust me on that one) but if I could, I'd want to sing like the recently departed Perry Como[21].
In my pop music listening days of the 60's and 80's (I've blacked out the 70's), I would have thought of him as just another soporific lounge singer in a ubiquitous sweater. But Perry Como, like Tony Bennet, Dean Martin, and Bing Crosby, was a kind of singer for whom I have discovered a newfound respect. With age comes wisdom (and, of course, shortness of breath), and I now have an appreciation for singers who can actually sing and who allow me to relax. No showy glitz here, no swinging microphones, exploding speakers, or half-naked vixens gyrating their pelvises (pelvi?) in a spasmodic imitation of dance. Perry Como sang simple melodic tunes of life and romance. When the workaday world has become too much and you just want to loosen up, then turn down the lights, find a comfortable chair, put on an old LP and set the volume to a respectable 6. Oh yeah, and don't forget the sweater...
cardigan thoughts of your own? share them
In a special announcement issue of this column entitled Lee Grant on TV, I mentioned that Tom Manoff had composed the scores for a handful of Lee Grant's documentaries. Recently, I received the following email:
"You might be interested to know that some of the music to Lee Grant's other documentaries (Women on Trial and Battered) are also by Tom Manoff--but under his `commercial name´ Tom Carpenter..."
The email was signed "Tom Manoff".
Yeah, that Tom Manoff -- son of Arnold Manoff, stepson to Lee Grant, and half-brother to Dinah Manoff -- now a composer and classical music critic for NPR.
I wrote back to assure him that I would add the corrected information, then rather gingerly asked if he had also happened to see my paean to his sister, Dinah (Vol. 1 No. 3: My Celebrity Girlfriend). He wrote once more and assured me that he would go back and read it.
(Gulp!)
now what do I do? email me
With this issue, I debut a new feature. The internet truly is a new medium, and it opens up a whole new world of possibilities for writers. In the lingua franca of the web, I am a "content provider", and there are many of us out there -- individuals who choose to present their work in a forum that provides immediacy and editorial self-control. In this space, I would like to introduce you to a few of them.
One of the first and the best is Mike Elgan, who began his original online column way back in the dark ages of 1997. In his own words, the premise of his free e-mail newsletter is based entirely on a single proposition: that technology is funny. His columns are always good for a chuckle, but they are also informative and interesting. Mike writes with a breezy style that makes you shake your head in wonder even as you marvel at our evolving uses of technology.
Mike's List (i.e., "AMERICA'S FAVORITE GEEK NEWSLETTER!") can be found at http://www.mikeslist.com. There, you will find the current issue, an archive of all back issues, and subscription information. Just like SEMI TRUTHS, Mike's List is free to you and always free of ads. Check it out!
do have a favorite online author? email me
As usual, all definitions have been liberated from Dictionary.com. This week's words all have male attributes...
gaffer\gaf*fer\, n.; 1. one who exercises control over workers (syn: foreman, chief); 2. an electrician in charge of lighting on a movie or television set; 3. an elderly man (possibly alteration of grandfather)
I love finding words like this! Back in my film school days, I always wondered what Gaffer meant; now it makes sense. Gaffer comes from grandfather, which applies to the foreman on a set, and if you've ever been on a film shoot, you know that the person who is really in charge is the lead electrician. That derivation also explains the next term:
best boy\best boy\, n.; the chief assistant to the gaffer on a movie or television set.
According to an entry in The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition, the Middle English boi possibly comes from Old French embuié, or servant, a past participle of embuier, meaning to fetter or shackle with chains (!)
testis\tes"tis\, n.; a testicle.
Testis is also the root of testify, testimony, testament, and attest. In our modern court system, we accept the idea of a witness promising to tell the truth by putting one hand on the Bible. In Old English courts, however, it was believed that only a man could be trusted to speak truthfully, and he would declare his intent by putting his hand, uh ... elsewhere, and swearing that he was telling the truth or risk losing his testicles. (One should imagine that Old English courts had a lower incidence of perjury.)
A screenwriter is a man who is being tortured to confess and has nothing to confess. --Christopher Isherwood
All Contents (except the stuff I stole) Copyright © 2001 S.M.
McCord.
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