Making Movies With a Master (and the odd Margarita)

TALES OF A LOST CLASSIC.

The Celtic Tiger, back in the day.

From the vault.

I'm not a world-class cinematographer, but the momentum and the closeness to the actors ... I'm so close to them that I can just whisper to them while we're in the middle of a take.

-Steven Soderbergh

It is, outside of the film industry, a little known fact that Steven Soderbergh is the cinematographer on all of his movies, and his editor. He goes under the pseudonym of "Peter Andrews” for cinematography, and “Mary Ann Bernard” for editing. Both are an homage to his fine parents. So it was no surprise that the pseudonymous Mr Andrews shot the film we made in Sydney a number of years ago.

So, while Mr Soderbergh can claim, with a straight face, to not be "a world-class cinematographer", Mr Andrews cannot. Nor can Mary as an editor.

Armed with an off the shelf HD video camera, bought from Ted’s Cameras on George St, and a more than willing cast (the entire cast of Tot Mom for the STC, some of the crew, some of the audience and even Soderbergh himself) all we needed was a script and a location. Soderbergh suggested we use exactly what we had - a theatre. (Not just any theatre, the Wharf theatre. Surely one of the most spectacular locations for a theatre in the world.) And as far as script went, we would be a theatre company putting on a show. We would invent characters and essentially improvise, but within strict parameters. That is, we would know (mostly) where the scene was going, or at least what needed to happen within it. The plot(s) began to develop, both before shooting and during. It was quite an incredible way to work. Soderbergh would suggest scenes, and the (uniformly good) cast would do the same. Rarely, if ever, were ideas just discarded. Which sounds like a waffle recipe, but proved not to be the case. Who knew?

Anyway, here's the plot:

Lotte (Essie Davis) and Ned (me) run a theatre company. (and no, they're not based on Cate and Andrew. We're not that stupid) They have a problem. Their wunderkind director, Bryce Kransky (Soderbergh), has pulled out of directing Ned's adaptation of Chekhov's Three Sisters. He has been replaced by Michael Gregg (Glenn Hazeldine), a troubled director making a comeback. Gregg's assistant director (Damon Herriman), who has a dubious sexuality, is highly ambitious and wants the job. The lead actress (Genevieve Hegney) is a television actress recently returned from some success in the US. She has a strong US accent and has never appeared on the stage before. Following some rather unusual rehearsal practices employed by Michael Gregg, it becomes clear that the cast (Zoe Carides, Darren Gilshenan, Emma Palmer, Sarah Giles,Wayne Blair) and the show are in crisis. It is decided that the lead actress will read her lines from an autocue and be projected behind the cast on a large screen. But, she can't read. Following one of the rehearsals, a particularly disastrous one, in which Gregg believes he has a masterpiece, the cast revolt, resulting in one of the cast (Peter Kowitz) having a stroke. Michael Gregg disappears. The ambitious young director takes over, staging an almost identical production, but with the stroke-suffering actor strapped into a wheelchair. It is, of course, a triumph.

And that, roughly, is it. I don't want to spill all of the beans, in the (seemingly unlikely) chance you get to see it one day.

We shot it all around the Wharf Theatre, and at a few other locations around Sydney. Soderbergh, in the role of Bryce Kransky, then shot additional footage while overseas.

Which leads me to Dublin.

In what was to be one of Soderbergh's last films (he continually spoke of retirement from directing, which made our little film feel even more special. It was of course, SO FAR from being his last film. I think he’s made about 25 films and 10 series since then. And yes, they’re all pretty darn good) he next headed to Dublin to film "Haywire" with Michael Fassbender, Channing Tatum, Ewan McGregor and others. He told me he'd be editing our film while shooting that one (That is a work ethic) and would I like to pop over to pick it up. Naturally I was Dublin-bound. What a great city that is. It's like Melbourne, but Irish. The very air you breathe is filled with joy and melancholy in equal proportions. The entire city is a weary smile that simultaneously hums Dirty Old Town.

I caught up with Soderbergh a number of times in that grand town. A favourite moment was on the set of Haywire (a BIG movie), when after a particularly complicated take, involving many cast and a lot of action, he said "we've got it. That's a wrap." It was 2pm. No-one had ever heard those words (myself included) on a set at 2pm. This was efficiency I'd never witnessed. And of course, he was cutting our film as well. Oh, and starting work on Magic Mike, which Channing had just pitched him.

He handed me the first copy during a night of drinking with he and his cast.

Upon farewells, I cycled home to watch. And yes cycling through the streets of Dublin is as poetic as you think. Dubliners, or Jackeens as their sometimes known, have nicknames for most of the landmarks around town. The Spire, a long spiky sculpture near the Liffey River, is know as “stiletto in the ghetto”, the “stiffy by the Liffey”, the “spire in the mire” and “the pin in the bin” amongst others. The Molly Malone statue is, variously, “The Tart with the Cart”, The Dish with the Fish”, “The Flirt with the Skirt” and “The Trollop with the Scallop”. The Oscar Wilde statue has a few. “”The Queer with the Leer” and the “Quare in the Square” being the most printable. James Joyce’s is “The Prick with the Stick”. Phil Lynot gets the kindest - “The Ace with the Bass”. Anna Livia’s statue is “The Floozie in the Jacuzzi”. The Irish don’t seem overly concerned with offence taken or given. I rode past many of them.

Then I got home, rather excited, and put on the DVD (I know, the olden days, when we used to sing around the piano rather than buy crypto).

“Here we go” I thought, with the usual mix of hope and abject horror.

My first surprise was that the story was told in reverse. Then, that Soderbergh himself was, though unseen, also in the film. The final surprise was a joke at my expense. Everyone was in the credits, except me.

I laughed. Kind of.

I sat there for awhile reflecting on my life, and every decision I’d made. Then-

He called me. "Like it?"

"Um. Yep." I said, with a painful uncertainty.

He started laughing.

"You bastard." More laughter. Cold Scandinavian laughter.

I was only unsettled for the next decade.

The next morning, I found another bicycle, and then we to meet up. I then got my "proper copy", played a bit more around Dublin (which mainly involved meeting a bunch of Irish actors at a pub around 11am. At 12.30pm, a couple would say “we’ve got to go do a play for a bit, back soon.” Then they’d head off to The Gate or The Abbey and be back for 3pm drinks, which was always Guinness. Then around 6.30pm, a few actors would head off to perform and meet us back around 10pm. Then we’d have a Jameson’s and head home. Next day- rinse and repeat. It was an interesting rhythm)

Then, following a final memorable evening with Michael Fassbender, Gina Cerano, Channing Tatum and Mr Soderbergh, it was time to head home.

On returning home, I showed our film to a few of the cast, then all of the cast received a copy and then...trouble.

I started getting calls from Rob Brookman, then head of the STC.

Apparently, we weren't allowed to do anything with the film, as the STC owned it, operational health and safety (!) and some other vague reasons were given. Apparently because we made it on the wharf and on STC time, therefore they owned it. It was all rather unpleasant, and rather disappointing.

And so our little film, made with such joy, is lost.

Its title: The Last Time I Saw Michael Gregg.

The last time I saw The Last Time I Saw Michael Gregg was quite a few years ago now. The journey was all joy. Shame about the destination. But what a privilege to work with not just our fine cast, but with one of the masters of modern cinema. Oh, and hang out with a bunch of brilliant Irish scallywags, whose acting chops could withstand any amount of Guinness.