Special Tribute to Kathleen Conwell Collins Prettyman: Filmmaker, Playwright, Novelist

On Location: Two First-person Reports on the Joys and Trials of Filmmaking in Greece and" Haiti

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••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••Vol. 5, No~ 1/Winter 88/89

Tribute to Kathleen Conwell Collins PrettymanA Special Section on the late Novelist, Playwright, and Filmmaker

An Appreciation by the Editors ofBlack Film Review p. 2

My Sister, My FriendBy Peggy Dammond PreacelyA Poetic Remembrance p. 3

Remembering Kathleen Conwell Collins PrettymanBy Michelle ParkersonKatWeen Collins Prettyman was one of the first generationof Black women filmmakers to breach the inner sanctumof feature film production p. 5

A Commitment to WritingA Conversation with Kathleen Collins PrettymanBy David NicholsonAn interview with Kathleen Collins Prettyman onthe crafts offilmmaking, film editing and writing p. 6

On LocationThe making of Hayti, Mem BagayBy Ronald Wayne BooneOne director's attempt to get behind the headlines toshow the truth behind the problems of Haiti p. 16

On LocationFilmmaking in GreeceBy Donna MungenAfter three months in Greece, the author set about making a film,despite the dual hazards of language and cultur~ p. 18 I

This issue of Black Film Review was produced with the assistanceof grants from the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities

and the National Endowment for the Arts, a federal agency.Special thanks to the Lucius and Eva Eastman Fund, Inc.,

and the World Council of Churches.

2

Kathleen ConwellCollins Prettyman in1986 at the AtlantaThird World FilmFestival

Tribute toKathleen Collins

On Oct. 18, 1988, the Black independ­ent film movement in America lostone of its leading figures when Kath­leen Conwell Collins Prettyman died

ofcancer. Born in 1942, she was a playwright,teacher, and writer as well as a filmmaker. Shewas an associate professor of film at the CityCollege of New York.

Her credits included the films The CruzBrothers and Mrs.. Malloy, Losing Ground,and Gouldtown: A Mulatto Settlement. Herplays included In the Midnight Hour, TheBrothers, Remembrance, and Only the Sky isFree, a fictional treatment of the life of blackaviatrix Bessie Coleman. She was the authorofa novel, Black and White Imagery, and thescreenplays Conversations withJulie, MadamFlor and Love, Summer Diary; and WomenSisters and Friends.

One indication of the regard with whichKathleen Collins Prettymanwas held were theawards she received. TIle dramatic featureLosing Ground received the prize for FirstFeature at the Portuguese International FilmFestival, and was invited to the Munich, Ber­lin, and London film festivals. The Brothersgained her an NEA Playwrighting grant, andwas nominated by the Audelco Society as oneof the best plays of 1982. She also receivedgrants from the American Film Institute andthe New York State Council on the Arts.

Black Film Review

But a listing of awards cannot hope toshow the regard with which Kathleen CollinsPrettyman was held by her peers and by thosewhose lives she touched. At a memorial serv­ice held in New York City, the publisher andeditors ofBlackFilm Review contributed thisstatement: "There is no other voice like Kath­leen Collins' among filmmakers. Her visiongoes 'to the bone,' and we stand before herperception naked and grateful." A Decembermemorial tribute sponsored by the Depart­ment of Radio, Television, and Film at How­ard University included screenings ofLosingGround and a panel discussion.

The program at the Howard memorial­noted that Kathleen Collins Prettyman was"an inspiration and a role model for youngwriters and filmmakers, for Black women, andfor Black artists in general. Her film, LosingGround, paved the way for dramatic work incinemafrom the Black female perspective....A leading figure in all of her activities, Kathyfelt that all our literature, theatre, and filmshould reflect our humanity; nothing more,nothing less."

The passing of Kathleen Collins Prettymanmarks a grave loss for the American Black in­.dependent film movement. Still, we can takecomfort from the work she left, and we canhonor her memory by striving to meet thestandards she set.

Winter 88/89

My Sister, My Friend

by Peggy Danunond Preacely

We see you now, KathleenIn our dearest visions.For it is you

who helped each of us... create our own.

In this quiet hour your presences pelVades;when suddenly your raucous laugh resounds and

the very walls and fibers of our beingsreverberate with your laughter.

For me being your friend was never hard.We long ago crossed the comfort zone in which we kept truth alive

for one anotherThrough boyfriends and husbands and children and parents

and even other friendshipsour bond remained.

Coast to coast.Heat to heart. Mind to mind.

Life to lifeunfolding at different speeds and depths

but always with a respectful gentlenessno miles could ever destroy.

Once we risked our lives for our civil rights. Once we were just 19 &deep in Georgia jails; our belief in this country so strong,

so immediate we never hesitated to tum the comers of history.Making footprints in cottonfields.

I cannot imagine you not being thereat the other end of the telephone

late nights; broken moments... In the midst of some spiritual crisis.Your strong voice taking the blur

outand forging an easy peace in your insightful way.

Of late, I saw you really happyat last.The softness of your angles revealed in the midst of love...Not alone. Buffeted against life's rough winds and harsh tones.

To have seen you so loved like thatformally ... completely... wholly... valiantly...

was at leastwhat you deselVed.

San Pedro, C4.September 1988

3

Peggy Dammond Preacely, left,Ellen Dammond, andKathleen Collins, Harlem, 1960

Peggy DammondPreacely is a poet andlifestyle managementconsultant currentlyworking on a series ofshort stories aboutgrowing up in Harlem inthe 1940s and '50s. Shewas a long-time friend ofKathleen Conwell CollinsPrettyman.

4 Black Film Review

All photographs courtesty Ronald GrayDirector Kathleen Conwell Collins Prettyman with actor Bill Gunn, dUring the filming of "Losing Ground"

Winter 88!89

Remembering Kathleen Collins

By Michelle Parkerson

5

Ofall the genres (and sub-genres) offilm, dramatic features have remainedstaunchlywhite, the most staunchlymale and the most expensive film

format. The complexion of feature film direc­tors is changing in Hollywood (witness Mi­chael Schultz, Spike Lee, Robert Townsend)and independently (Robert Gardner, CharlesBurnett, BillWoodberry). And to some extent,the gender of the industry has made a transi­tion as white women (GillianAnnstrong, SusanSiedelman, Lizzie Borden) enter the ranks ofHollywood and independent feature produc­tion. But the phenomenon of African-Ameri­can women directing feature films still re­mains a phenomenon. And that is why the lossof Kathleen Collins Prettyman is so great.

At the time ofher death, Martiniquan direc­tor Euzhan Paley was finishing her secondfeature, D.C.-based Joy Shannon had com­pleted her first andJulie Dash, in Atlanta, wasfinally receiVing funding for her long-awaitedfeature, Daughters ofthe Dust. Kathleen her­self was in pre-production on a new project.

She was among the first generation ofBlackfemale directors breaching the "inner sanc­tum" of feature film production. She was amentor to the small but fertile community ofBlack women filmmakers.

There are other titles that should be ac­knowledged in defining Kathleen Collins:teacher, mother, former SNCC member, meta­physicist. She emphasized that she was, es­sentially, a writer and that skill extended hervision to the stage and to the screen.

Kathleen Conwell Collins Prettyman wasan innovator in the Black Independent Cin­ema movement. The themes ofher films werenever corralled by the "politically correct"conventions. The CrtlZ Bothers andMrs. Mal­loy (1980) involved the misadventures of twoPuerto Rican brothers and their elderly whiteneighbor. In Losing Ground (1982), a Blackfemale philosophy professor tmdertakes a questfor ecstasy and Gouldtown (1986), her last

film, was an exploration of an American mu­latto settlement. Each illuminated anothercomer of the psychological universe of peopleof color. In the films of Kathleen Collins, wewere not merely creatures propelled by cir­cumstance or emotion; we were studies incomplexity.

I believe Kathleen enjoyed paradoxes. Theytested and strengthened her capabilities. Theywere in the natural order ofthings. They werewhat her films were all about. She seemedalways in search of "the ecstatic moment"(the quest ofSara in LosingGround). ThoughI knew her work, our lives intersected onlytwice.

In 1985, Kathleen Collins visited the Uni­versity of Delaware where I was teaching acourse on Black women filmmakers. One ofthe perks was spending a day with six of myfavorite filmmakers and inspirations. On thedrive from Wilmington station to campus, wehad a fast and fascinating conversation. Shewas obviously brilliant, equally beautiful andby the time you had conceded seduction, youwere next absorbed by quicksilver wit andinsight. We swapped production stories, dis­cussed children, dreams, next projects... Shewas working on a production about BessieColeman, the Black aviatrix. There was a stifffrost outside the station when I dropped heroff the next morning.

In 1987, a local producer wanted to show­case two one-acts by Kathleen inWashington,D.C. There were plans to bring the playwright/filmmaker to town to do some promotion.Investment problems prevented the conceptfrom moving beyond the first rehearsals. Andso my first meeting with Kathleen Collins wasto be my last.

In early October, I was talking with MonicaFreeman, a long-time friend, another filmmaker.She asked if I knew that Kathleen Collins haddied of cancer. There was a stunned silence.

There is a tremendous void. Friends, oneof us is missing.

Michelle Parkerson is aWashington, D.C.filmmaker andpoet.

Tribute toKathleen Collins

6

A Commitment to Writing:A Conversation WithKathleen Collins Prettyman

By David Nicholson

Kathleen CollinsPrettyman andRonald Gray, co­producer of ULosingGround"

n March of1986, attending the Atlanta

IThird World Film Festival for its week­long program ofwork by black womenfilmtnakers, "Sexual Difference: Women

Look At/Show Themselves, " I waspriVilegedto be able to spend several hours on succes­sive days with Kathleen Collins Prettyman.

Black Film Review was little more than ayear old then and, while I had seen only oneof her films, "Losing Ground," I had beenstruck by the intellige1~ceof every aspect ofthe film: the writing, the directing, the edit­ing, the acting. I would see the film twicemore that week in Atlanta; each time I sawsomething new to wonder at in it.

Somewhat neroously, I approached Kath­leen Collins Prettyman the first day of thefestival dUring a series ofscreenings anddis­cussions at the Atlanta Public Library, andasked to interoiew her. We met later thatweek one morningat the IJotel where she wasstaying. The following is a transcript ofthatinteroiew in the coffee shop of the hotel.

Whatlrememberaslread over it, hearingher voice in my head, is Kathleen CollinsPrettyman's thoughtfulness. She seemed aperson who had lived, who had had manyexperiences and had come to tenns withthem, integrating them into her being. Everyanswer shegave was thoughtful and consid­ered; soon the interview became that raredialogue where the intervielverfindS himselfchallenged andprovoked.

The thing is, as little as I knew' KathleenCollins Prettyman, as little basis as I mayhave for making this judgement, I believethat she was a woman who did not take theeasy way. She hewed to no party line, exceptthat ofher own conscience. When she spokeof u··ork as a filmmaker, it was not usingwords she had read or that others had said;all of it came out ofher own experience.

Winter 88/89

One ofthefirst thingsjournalists leatn isto keep themselves outofthe story. One neverinjects one's own opinions and commentar­ies into the conversation. But what I can saynow, that [could not in the original versionof this interview that appeared in the Sum­mer 1986 issue ofBlack Film Review, is thatthe hours I spent with Kathleen Collins Pret­tyman affected me profoundly.

I began to write when I was a child, havewritten novels, plays, screenplays, short sto­ries and, now, morejournalism than I careto think about. Threeyears before I talked toKathleen Collins Prettyman, I had gradu­ated from the University of Iowa WritersWorkshop with a master offine arts degreeinfiction. In coming to Atlanta, Iwas takinga break from work on my own novel.

My conversationwith herthen, apartfroma dialogue with a filmmaker whose work Irespected, was ofgreatpersonal value. Herewas someone who had done what I wantedto do, who had rnanaged, despite the rigorsofteachingandraisingafamily, to continueto write. And here was an artistic model,somone who knew that excellence involvedscrupulousness, that topractice a craft meantpurging oneselfagainst dishonestY,for to bedishonest meant bad art. And here wassomeone who was willing to say what I, stillserving his apprenticeship as a writer, neededto hearfrom someone besides himself.

Among thefilms we watched thatfirst dayofthefilmfestival, was 'YourChildrenComeBack to You," by Alile Sharon Larkin. It isreferred to in the interview. The film depictsthe conflict ofa little girl torn between themiddle-class life of her grandmother, andher love for herfather, a guerilla fighter inAfrica. During the discussion, most peoplepraised thefilmfor. Despite itsflaws, itwas,after all, politically correct.

Kathleen Collins Prettyman sat listeningto others comments. And then she said thatwhile it was a goodfilm, she thought that thedirector had ignored the real story for aneasy political message. And the real story,she said, was the pain of the little girl whowas forced to choose.

It was different, and wholly legitimateslant on thefilm that all ofus had ignored.

Later that week, when ''Losing Ground"was shownatSpelman College, I heardsome­thing that shocked me, for it was evidence ofan attitude that I found incomprehensible.After the screening, a man asked KathleenCollins Prettyman ifshe had tnade thefilm.

When she said yes, he replied, 'You're atraitor to the race, " and stalked away. Andstill later, imonths later, talking to oneofourbetter known filmmakers whose work hasenjoyed nqtional release, this director-UJriter-producer told me he did not like "LosingGround" because it was a negativeportraitofa black marriage.

The loss ofKathleen Collins Prettyrnan isa true tragedy, for she was a woman ofgenius, a woman readying herself to do herbest work. But it is also a tragedy that therewere those who, locked into conventionalat­titudes, could not sunnount their narrow­mindedness to see the truth, the beauty, andthe honesty ofherwork. In ULosingGround, "she brought to the screen aspects ofBlack lifethat have never been shown before, explor­ingpain,jealousy, anda wornan's searchforher own identity in an absolute unflinchingway.

After this brief conversation with Kath­leen Collins Prettyman, I knew that she wou:dalways be oneofmy mentors. AndI will missher.

BFR: I read another interviewwithyouwhereyou seemed reluctant to define yourself as afilmmaker. And then yesterday you talkedabout the difference between getting out athought verbally, and then with the visualimage. So I guess I would ask, if you don'tdefine yourself as a filmmaker, how, then, doyou define yourself?Prettyman: I keep saying that I am more awriter than I am a filmmaker, and I think that'sreally true. My first commitment is actually towriting and the form that that takes is reallylargely dependent on what's on my mind. I'vebeen writing now for almost 20 years. That'staken the form of about six plays, a wholecollection of short stories, a novel that I'mdoing now, and about four screenplays. So,when I first start something, I always go to thetypewriter. So I guess that makes you a writer.Plus, I keep three or four different journals,for different parts of my head.

If I am trying to work something out, I'llwrite it, before I do anything else. Also, I teachscreenplay writing, and I teach it as a visualform of writing. So I think my first commit­ment is as a writer.

BFR: That's interesting, in one sense. I don'twant to get too far offon this, but over the lastfew months, some people have observed thatone thing that's wrong in Hollywood is that

Tribute toKathleen Collins

7

8

there aren't enough writers writingscripts any more, and so they areweak.Prettyman: They're weak in terms oflanguage. I think that's really true.

BFR: But also in terms of of struc­ture.Prettyman: That's what I was goingto say. The thing that writing teachesyou, which is probably the thing I'vediscovered that I know best about, isthe mastery of form. And each disci­pline is really an exercise in under­standing what is allowable in thestructure of that particular form.Screenplay writing has curves andyou have to write for the curves ofthestory. I'm talking about narrativefilmmaking, although interestinglyenough, I've now been teachingdocumentary filmmakers how to usenarrative techniques to make docu­mentaries both more interesting andto recognize that in a good documen­tary ultimately you're still telling astory. And that sense of what thestructure and the rebound of what astory is.

While I would not say that thereare formulas, there are formulas· inone sense. If you're introducing asecondary. character, and that char­acter is going to have some rever­beration on the outcome ofthe story,you have to know that that characterneeds to be presented in the film atleast three times. I call that a rule ofthumb. There are certain kinds ofpatterns that have to occur if thereverb of the character is to workcorrectly on the completed film.

BFR: Also, I think another thing isthat the first time there has to besomething that the character doesthat is symbolic of his function. Likein the Maya Angelou film yesterday,the game that they play is one wherethey inflict pain on each other.Prettyman: And what occurs is some­how going to be the completion ofthat. Yes, that's true. I call it theunconscious suggestion of the out­come. Thatan audience shouldneverbe totally surprised. It should be half­surprised, and the other part should

say, 'Mmmmm.' Because ifyou've builtcharacter correctly, nothing happensout of the blue. Usually what hap­pens with young people who write isthey can come up with wonderfulbeginnings and wonderful endingsand the middle doesn't exist. Themiddle of a piece is actually the mostdifficult to construct. Because it's themiddle that has to bound and re­bound and bound and rebound andthen flatten out or explode or dowhatever.

And that is different in a play thanit is in a film or a short story. Each oneof those forms has its kind ofunwrit­ten laws. I don't knowwhether thoselaws are written in stone, or whetherit isn't that once you know the laws,your ability to violate them becomespossible. If you don't know them, Iquestion whether you actually cancreate something 'new'. Becausecreatingsomethingnewcomes out ofmastering the old in a real way.

It's like a lot of students play with'Well, why do you have to tell a storyin film?' Well, if you haven't seenGoddard, you're not aware that hestarted asking that question 20 yearsago. I mean, all Goddard's films areabout do you have to tell a story infilm or not. And what he does is playwith the limits of narrative conven­tion. So if any student comes to meand says, 'I don't know why I have totell a story on film. Why do I have totell a story that has a beginning, amiddle, and an end?' I tell them to golook at all his films. Then they mighthave something new to say aboutnarrative. But they better deal withsomeone who has been obsessed withthe same question. Because there'salways someone who's asking the samequestions you're asking.

In a certain way, the older I get, Ihave this feeling of being very con­nected with Lorraine Hansberry. I'venever found another black writer whoI felt was asking the same questions Iwas asking until I started reading herwork. I now see that everyone takesoff from someone else. And I havethis strong feeling that there is thisconversation that I have to have withLorraine Hansberry at some point in

Black Film Review

time, because a lot ofher preoccupa­tions are my preoccupations.

BFR: Such as?Prettyman: I really think that Raisinin the Sun has never been done cor­rectly. That it's a play tpat's actuallybeen misinterpreted and,that it's beentaken as kind of a simple family tale.When I think that the levels of ab­straction ofthe play are more compli­cated than that. The Sign in SidneyBrustein's Window is a wonderful,an absolutely brilliant play. And thefact that she was able to encompassthis wide range of experience, fromJewish intellectuals to black middleclass to Africa--she had a really in­credible sense of life that fascinatesme. That anything in life was acces­sible for her to write about.

BFR: Instead of. . .Prettyman: Instead of feeling thatthe Black experience was the only ex­perience that she could write about.And it is that breadth of vision that Ihave always sensed was ultimatelymy vision. And there was never an­other writer that attracted me in thesame way. I would say there is no oneelse...

I didn't know this. Haile [Gerima]kept telling me that I should readLorraine Hansberry. And I kept say­ing, 'Oh, Lorraine Hansberry. Raisinin the Sun.' I kept sort ofpoo-pooingit a little bit. He let it go, but he keptsaying, 'At some point, you have toread Lorraine Hansberry.' So he justbought me all her books one day,when I was down there. And said,'Just take 'em home. Read 'em whenyou want.'

I was really shocked by the breadthofthe work lhe woman's essays aloneare some ofthe most insightful piecesof social criticism around. The thingthat interests me about her, probablymore than anyone else, is her illness.She died very young, and she diedbasically eaten up. My theory is thatshe was not only way ahead of hertime, but that success came at a timewhen she was not able to absorb itwithout its destructive elements eat­ing her body up.

Winter 88!89

Sara (Seret Scott), the philosophy professor in search of "the ecstatic moment, " in the film "Losing Ground"

9

My basic premise is that all illnessis psychic discormection ofsome kindAnd I had a period oftime when I wasill. I still have to struggle with it. Thenature of illness and female successand the capacity of the female to ac­knowledge its own intelligence is asubject that interests me a lot. Be­cause I think that women--if there'sanyway that I am a feminist, becauseI don't really think ofmyselfas a femi­nist--but if there is any way in whichwomen tend to be self-destructive itis in that area ofcreativity where theyactually feel their own power andcan't either acknowledge it orgo intoit with as much....

They can't go to the end ofit. Theyget scared and they retreat into ill­ness or into having too many babiesor destructive love affairs with menwho run them ragged. Somewhere or

other, they detour out of a respectfor their own creativity.

My feeling is that her detour wasinto illne~.Talentedwomen are proba­bly frightened of themselves, veryfrightened of themselves...

BFR: But any creative person has togo his or her own way. It may beharder for women where so much ofthe societal pressure is to go certainways.Prettyman: Itmaybeentirelyaques­tion of the degree of pressure. Youmay be absolutely right that it's aquestion of degree, not of kind.

BFR: When were you ill?Prettyman: I think it's very curious,curiously at a point of time when Ihad just finished a first movie, andknew that I had it, knew that I had

the talent. Knew that my own crea­tive power was finally surfacing, thatall the years of working quietly, andquite alone, were beginning to payoff. It was basically a long four-yearcycle, which I'm just coming out of.

BFR: This was after The CruzBroth­ers and Mrs. Malloy?Prettyman: Yes. When I did TheCruz Brothers, I knew I had some­thing. It was 1979, and I was 37. Itprobably takes that long to mature.But it was at the point of the begin­ning maturity, and it was when I beganto know that the work from then onwas going to be really interesting.

BFR: How did you come to do thatfilm?Prettyman: It was kind of a fluke. Ihad tried to do a film about four or

10

five years before that. I was a filmeditor for a long time and I had doneall this graduate work in Paris andalso I had been a film researcher. Andthen I had gone into academia be­cause I had credentials in film theoryand this doctorate in French cinema,so I had academic credentials, and Igave up film editing because I hadsmall children and film editing is in­credibly demanding and I really didn'twant not to be around my children.

So I had gone to City College atthat time when film was becoming alegitimate academic subject and theywere looking for people with legiti­mate academic credentials as well asproduction credentials. But the yearbefore I went to City College, I hadwritten a script called Women, Sis­ters, andFriends,' and I had gone allaround the country trying to raisemoney to do it. Nobody would giveany money to a black woman to di­rectafilm. This was in 1971. Forget it.It was just ridiculous. And I did thatfor a year, looking for money.

And then I got so discouraged, Isaid no one's ever going to give usany money to do a film. People wouldlove the script, thought it was awonderful idea, but thought I shouldfind a director and a producer. Thatwas proably the most discouragingtime ofmy life. I gave it up, moved outofNewYork City, moved to the coun­try, and started writing plays. I said,'Forget it, I'll never be able to make afilm; I might as well do somethingelse with my life.' And I Ijved prettymuch alone with my kids for two orthree years until 1974, writing plays.That's when I started writing plays.

And then I got this job at City Col­lege in 1974 and started teaching di­recting and screen play writing and alot of film theory courses. And overthat four-years unti.l1979--Cruz Broth­erswasfinished, we did it in 1979, weshot in summer of 1979--it was mystudents who made me do a film.Particularly Ronald Gray, who wasone of my students. And he kept say­ing, 'You're so good. I've learnedmore.' He said, 'You really know film.Why don't you ever make a movie?'And I said, 'No, nobody's ever going

to give us any money to make a movie. 'And he really pushed me· to make amovie. And we got a little bit ofmoney­we got $5,000 from the family of avery close girlfriend of mine. And hesaid if we could get a lab credit, wecould make this movie. He just keptpushing. I had this sort ofcrazy scriptby this good friend, Henry Roth, froma novel called The Cruz Chronicles: ANovel ofAdventure.

I had written a lot of short storiesmyself, but I thought well, ifI'm goingto do a first movie, I should do some­body else's work, because I'll getmore distance from it. And that's howI did The Cruz Brothers, with thatkind of push. It was a terribly hardfilm. It was awful, doing a movie for$5,000. It was like going down a ter­ribly long tunnel. It was frightening-­I was old. Not old, but 37 isn'tyoung-­it's not like you're 21. I had childrenand all that sort of stuff.

But we did it. And we did it be­cause Ronald and I were really verygood partners and have remainedvery good partners. We both have anincredible tenacity.

BFR: I don't remember his namefrom the credits.Prettyman: Ronald lit and shot bothThe Cruz Brothers and Losing Ground.And we edited it together and pro­duced it together. He did a film calledTransmag. He's a brilliant cinema­tographer.

BFR: And after that...Prettyman: After that we were roll­ing. We got money to do LosingGround from all those grants andeverything.

BFR: But just to tie it back, after thisit was that you became ill.Prettyman: Yes. It was in 1980. Wehad just finished The Cruz Brothers,and it had just started getting a lot ofattention. And that's when I got ill.The timing was uncanny. I really feltlike I was just coming out of thisincredible tunnel that I had been infor years and years and I could finallysee the light. I could see where I wasgoing to go. People were saying the

Black Film Review

work was very good and that it wasunusual and itwas a newvoice. It wasjust then.

And then it got kind ofscarey. Forabout four years it was a scarey time.Even though I did Losing Ground inthat period. We did Losing Groundin '81-'82. And then we just finishedthis Gouldtown film, about my fam­ily. It's a short, 40-minute film.

BFR; Let's backtrack a little bit. Whereare you from?Prettyman: I grew up inJersey City,N.J. Butmy family is from Gouldtown,a long-established settlement 1hey'vebeen there since like 1623. It's one ofthose classic situations, like whenRoots came out, I didn't get it in away, because I've been able to traceevery member of my family. It's rightnear Cape May.

BFR: And your academic background.Prettyman: I went to Skidmore Col­lege and then I went to Middleburygraduate school in France. I did allmy graduate work in France. I've neverfinished my thesis, so I don't officiallyhave my degree. But between thecredit and my playwrighting, they'vealways given me academic equiva­lence. I'll never go finish it. I wasdoing it on Andre Breton and thesurrealists and the whole relation­ship between surreal imagery andpoetry. And I finished the mastersand all the credit work. I stayed inEurope for about three years.

BFR: One ofthe things that intriguedme about Losing Grou11fl--after I hadseen it and written the piece about it,someone called me up and said hewanted to write for me because ofthe review. In it, I said it reminded mevery much of Erich Rohmer.Prettyman: That's the only personwho's ever influenced me cinemati­cally.

BFR: In what way?Prettyman: Because of his respectfor language. And because he's veryliterary. And because I think ofmyselfas a very literary filmmaker, which iswhy that I insist that I am a writer

\Vinter 88/89

Scenes from a marriage: Victor (Bill Gunn) and Sara celebrate the sale ofa painting in "Losing Ground"

11

first. I really like language in film, andhe is not the least bit afraid of lan-

"guage in film. My Night at Maud'sprobably influenced me more thanany other movie. All of the MoralTales were very important to me.

BFR: I cannot think of anotherfilmmaker who is also a writer. TheMoral Tales are also available as shortstories.Prettyman: Yes, so there's also thatconnection. I've said it in interviews.

BFR: What I sawwas his interst in re­lationships and the dynami~ofpeoplein odd situations.Prettyman: Yes, that's the other thingthat fascinates me about him. He'svery concerned with subtle issues.Moral issues. Which is my concernand is where I feel very concernedwith Charles Burnett. Charlie is veryinterested in subtle moral issues. It'swhat all his films are about. Basically,

Killer ofSheep is about a man who istrying to decide whether he can in­dulge his depression, or whether hehas a responsiblity to transcend it.And My Brother's Wedding is really...although I consider it a slightly flawedfilm; I consider it flawed incidentally,in the same way that I consider Los­ing Ground fIawed--that both of usattempted a complex narrative filmon almost too little money and wejust barely pulled it off.

But My Brother's Wedding is re­ally about when is one responsible tofamily and when is one responsibleto that circle of creatures that hasformed around one. I am very curi­ous about this new film he's trying todo. I know ultimately it will be aboutsome very slight moral issue. It willtum on some slight moral issue,because Charlie is basically a moral­ist.

BFR: As are you?

Prettyman: Yes. When I saw Kil­ler ofSheep, I went out of my mind.I really lost it. I could not believethere was anybody else around, par­ticularly Black.

BFR: I enjoy talking about CharlesBurnett, but I'd really rather learnabout you.Prettyman: Well, I think Charlie hasbetter cinematic instincts than I do. Ithink that my literary instincts tend toget in the way..-

BFR: Yes, but there are some incred­ible moments inLosingGround. I re­member being struck by the way ascene at the dinner table was shot.Prettyman: I know that I am a verygood editor. And Ron and I together

are a dynamite couple ofeditors. Hehas an incredible sense of musicalediting rhythm. And, from the yearsof working as an editor, I have anincredible sense of timing. So I do

12

respect that--not as boastful--but justas a fact. The craft of editing--I wastrained by some ofthe best editors. Iwas trained byJohn Carter, who washead editor at NBC for 15 years andhe's just a crackerjack editor. And Ilearned editing at a time when therewas still an incredible respect for thecraft. Now, it's not respected. Ifyoulook at movies nowadays, they are sosloppily edited that it is pathetic.

There is no respect for the finetuning of a cut. Which is what I teachmy students--there is a perfect placeto cut a shot. And that's where youcut it--you don't cut it three framesbefore or three frames after--you findthe spot, the perfect frame. And that'sonly because I was taught in that oldschool way. There are only a fewpeople who are still around who aregreat like that. Whoever cut ChooseMe--it is beautifully cut. It is some ofthe finest editing craftsmanship I'veseen in a long time. There is not aflawed moment in the timing ofthosecuts. It's a gorgeous film to watchtoo.

BFR: There seem to be different polesin Black independent film. Some ,ofthe other films we've seen are meteaccessible..Prettyman: It [Losing Ground] hasa more complex audience response.People either love it or they hate it.It's not very lukewarm.

BFR: It's something like what youwere talking about yesterday. Thesynthesise-the people in LosingGround are people who have achievedan imperfect synthesis.Prettyman: I think that's true. Or, Iwould say they are people who arewilling to recognize that being Blackis without purity. That one cannotachieve purity in this culture. Thatone can only achieve some kind ofemotional truth.

I think that the people in YourChildren Come Back to You, or thefilmmaker, is still concerned with somekind of possible racial purity. That ifone could get this adopted countryout of one's blood, one could be aspure as the earth. I don't think tdat

the earth symbols are dirt so much asthey are the filmmaker wantinga kindof innocence to return to Black people.And in that innocence, Africa wouldbe rekindled in the entire bl<XX1stream,until it was purified of the taint ofAmerica.

That's my essential feeling aboutthe subconscious attitude of thefilmmaker. And that to go back tofight for the motherland--it's not somuch that's she's dealing with theissue of what men do or don't do--Ithink she's trying to find a place wheresome wholesome battle can occur.But I don't believe that's possible. Ithink that this is not our adoptedcountry. This is it. We're stuck. Weare already. We are an odd kettle offish.

BFR: The only real Americans?Prettyman: I don't like that phraseonly because I think it's a kind ofphilosophical cliche. Butwe arewhatthese years in this place have madeus. That's what we have to live with.

BFR: So that the struggle...Prettyman: The struggle is to some­how figure out what's made youunique. Because we are unique. Weare not like anybody else because ofthat peculiar kind ofplace. We're notin America and we're not out of it.We're not insiders, and we're notquite outsiders. We're hated and wehate ourselves, yet we have this ink­ling that there's something incred­ible about what we've done, and thatwe have more insight than anyoneelse. We're a really weird kettle offish, and that's what is. That is what isthe fact. That's what we have to beginwith.

BFR: But for the characters in thatfilm. I don't knowthat they ever comeout and say this, but I think it's clearthey are consciousness of this.Prettyman: They have an irony aboutthemselves. The mother says, 'All Ican play is older women withoutsexuality. I'd love to play some gutsyrole.' She's ironic. She knows. It's theway Black people talk about them­selves.

Black Film Review

BFR: Or when Bill says, 'Let's putthis mulatto crisis on hold.Prettyman: Right. They know. Weknow. Because we have this internalconversation with ourselves aboutthe irony of our position. And in away the only intersting thing aboutthese people is--the mother says, 'Iwouldn't have blamed you ifyou werea failure. Race is a great excuse.' Orshe says, 'After all, you're not white.Nothing is guaranteed ifyou're Black'It's that kind of irony towards yourcondition.

Like the piece I'm writing now isabout this Black woman expatriate,who's lived in Paris all ofher life. Thepoint is what I'm after here is againthe manyways in which we have triedto be whole people and yet acceptthe fact that we're fragmented soulsin the culture.

BFR: But it seems to me for thepeople in the film, it's more of aninternal struggle, than it is an exter­nal, political struggle.Prettyman: In the sense that that'swhat characterizes all my work. Whichis that I'm much more pre-occupiedwith... While I'm interested in exter­nal reality, I am much more con­cernedwith howpeople resolve theirinner dilemma in the face ofexternalreality. How do you resolve it? Howdo you deal with it? So that Sarah'squest for ecstasy is on the externallevel an intellectual Black woman whohas locked herself into what a lot ofBlack women dOe-too much intellec­tualism--there's that external part toher. But the internal part to her is stilla woman raised by a mother who wasa little bit libertine and living with ahusband who is a little bit too spon­taneous. And how is she going toresolve her personal connection tothese people and to herself in theprocess.

If I favor anything, I probably al­ways favor the internal resolutionbefore the external resolution. Be­cause for me the internal resolutionis the most potent in the psyche.

BFR: Do we get that in this film?Prettyman: You don't get the reso-

Winter 88/89

lution, but you get the explosivemoment. After that, the resolution isnot your business. In all my work, Itake you to the explosive moment,but that's basicallywhere I leave you.

BFR: Do you have a sense sometimesof going against the grain?Prettyman: I have a sense some­times of going my own way, and Idon't really think much about whetherit's for or against the grain. I don'twant to think about it. It's, again, thatinternal-external thing. I don't reallywant to spend a lot of time worryingabout how I am perceived by otherpeople.

BFR: I don't think I mean it quite thatway. Yesterday, I was impressed bythe responses you gave. They werethoughtful and considered. Do youever worry about being ostracized?Prettyman: I think I have been afraidofbeingalone too much. I thinkthat'swhat was connected to the illness.That a fear that I was going to beconsidered nuts kind of frightenedme. Because when I was going to doThe CruzBrothers, people said, 'Whydo you want to do a movie aboutsome Puerto Ricans and some dyingIrish lady?' I think that's been a fearof mine, yeah. I don't think I have itnow, because I feel more protectednow than I ever did in my personallife.

BFR: That question seems to me tobe essential to the debate that, if it isnot going on now, will have to occuramong Black filmmakers. And that iswhether we are making films for ourpeople for some political purpose.Or whether we are making films asart.Prettyman: But it's not a simplequestions, because the only real ques­tion is that everybody has a privateaudience that they write to. My pri­vate audience is Black people. I don'twrite for anybody else. But I don'twrite for them in a political sense, I'Write for them out ofmy image memorybecause my image memory is full ofBlack people. I write for my aunts, mycousins. I just finished a new play

calledWhile OlderMen Speak, whichis really a conversation with. my fa­ther, even though you wouldn't nec­essarily know that.

You alvvays write, when you're reallywritingwell you're writingwell out ofthe memory bank that you're con­nected to. Memory bank is probablya good way to put it because it can beencompassimg in very curious ways.You can be writing out of one anec­dote that occurred ten years ago. Itspawns a whole piece.

Art, which is a word I shy awayfrom--I would never call myself anartist, never. Only because... I wouldcall myself a craftsperson. I wouldn'tshy away from calling myself a crafts­man either, although no one usesthose terms anymore--everything hasto be personhood. But I would callmyself very committed to a refiningand continuous refining ofthe craft-­whatever craft that is. If it's a film, Iwant to learn from the other filmsand do one that is more finely craftedthe next time. If it's a play, I want tolearn from all the other plays andbring to the next one a higher level ofcraft. If that is artistic, let someoneelse decide that. My decision is tobecome more and more skilfull atwhatever I do.

BFR: To be the best?Prettyman: Of course. What's thepoint otherwise?

BFR: What interests me is why Blackwomen's voices?Prettyman: You mean why can'tBlack men filmmakers be enough? Isthat the question? Well, I'm going toanswer it in a way that's probablygoing to make every Black womanhate me. So, ifyou print it, it'll proba­bly be the end ofmy public presence.

Actually, the only hope ofany sortoffeminine salvation in this country-­and the sad thingis that Blackwomenare giving it up in favor, as far as I amconcerned, ofa quietly growing, kindof strident, white feminism. But theonly residual of softness that's pos­sible in this culture as far as I amconcerned is in the hands of Blackwomen. They must have the capacity

to forgive Black men. Because what­ever cruelty Black men have inflictedis the cruelty that is so extraordinarlyand exquisitely depicted in the char­acter of Uncle Willy in I Know Wh_Vthe Caged Bird Sings. It is a power­lessness that the female psyche has tounderstand is so horrifyingly awful-­particularly in a culture that onlyrespect aggressivity--that they abso­lutely must forgive Black men.

You see, white women don't nec­essarily have to forgive white men,because white"'men had real powerand used it abusively. Black men neverhad real power. So ~hateverpowerthey exercised, they have exercisedout ofan intense and godawful and anightmarish relationship to the cul­ture. We absolutely must forgive them.It is the only possibility of love left inthis culture.

If we do not forgive them, if wecontinue to say, 'Yeah, but I managedto make it and they didn't... ' Thestronger person is only as strong ashis capacity or her capacity to forgivethe weaker person. And to separateoneself fromBlack men is to allowAmerica the final triumph ofdivision.Ifthey can actually suceed in dividingBlack men and Black women, thenthere is no emotional victory left inthis culture. And we are actually al­lowing ourselves as women to fallprey to it. Things like, 'There are nogood Blackmen, ' those kinds ofstate­ments. A growing kind of lesbianismwhich is not necessarily sexual somuch as it is a kind of anger. It is thelast divisiveness.

BFR: So where do filmmakers fit intothis?Prettyman: So it seems to me that ifthere is any possibility for a redemp­tive voice, it'sBlack women who haveto do it. They have to put it in theirwork. Films are part of a larger re­demptive process that Black womenhave to achieve--if it's not redemp­tive, it's not worth it. like a little piecelike Ayoka [Chenzira]'s Hairpiece isimportant in that her desire is to re­claim black women in a sense, reaf­firm black women in a sense of theirown beauty. The final image of that

13

14 Black Film Review

The explosive moment in "Losing Ground;" Victor and Sarah are in the foreground. In background, Maritza Rivera,the late DuaneJones, and Noberto Kerner

film is a very soft, feminine beauty.

BFR: The final still?Prettyman: The final ofall the womenThose women are beautiful and soft.And that kind ofredemptive softness.Which is because we understand somuch...

BFR: When I saw it, I had the senseofunderstanding my sisters. And thenit forced me to look at some of mythoughts of my hair. Maybe it tiesback to what you were saying. 1biswoman, looking at something aboutherself, forced me to look at some­thing about myself. Importantly, too,I think it was done with a sense ofhumor.Prettyman: Incredible sense ofhumor. She has a really incrediblesense ofhumor. I think she's going tobe an interesting filmmaker as shegets older. She has a really powerful

wholeness to her. In that sense, Blackwomen filmmakers are more impor­tant probably than anybody else. Imean, whatever Black women aredoing--playwrighting, whatever we'redoing. Ifwe don't get caught repeat­ing what the white culture wants usto repeat and only repeat it in a moreinteresting, Black style.

BFR: lbere's a problem here--as arule, America focuses only on con­flict.Prettyman: Yes, but you're sayingsoftness is non conflicting. There arereal conflicts, but they are not neces­sarily conflicts with a capital c. Allinternal conflict is with a small c. Andall internal conflict is the only thingthat is really real. Where you're rightis in saying is that American culturetends to like conflict with a capital c.

BFR: Emphasizes the little c conflicts

over the softness.Prettyman: I mean, Rohmer's filmsare all about conflict.

BFR: But they are ultimately aboutsomething else. Through the con­flict, we get to see something aboutthe people and realize somethingabout them and ultimately aboutourselves.Prettyman: 1he guy inKiller ofSheepis in conflict. He's in internal conflict.I'm enjoying being depressed. Feel­ing sorry for myself. Can I permitmyself this liberty?' That's conflict,it's just the internal kind of conflictthat is what actually occurs in people.

BFR: I'm thinking ofThe ColorPurple.So much of the debate has focusedon the negative images ofblack men.Little has focused on the final imageof everybody together. Maybe that'swhat the artist intends, giving us at

Winter 88/89

the end. Sayinglookwhat's possible-­but look what you have to give up.Prettyman: Or look what you haveto go through. They have to go throughthe pain of what that means beforethat can occur. It's the process ofgoing through that allows that to oc~

cur--because you have to choose. Theonly reason I insist on that is thatultimately, one is free to choose to beredemptive or to be destructive.

That's probably why I don't likewatching the final resolution of acharacter. Because the final resolu­tion is a private choice, even of acharacter. It's really none ofmy busi­ness. All I do is take the character tothe point where I can see him throughthe dilemma to the dilemma's climac­tic moment After that, it's a free choice.And not everyone will choose theredemptive path. Which is probablywhy I don't like the ending of TheColor Purple--I don't like when theauthor imposes a conclusion on allthe characters. Which is almost a pic­torial ending, rather than leaving atthe moment when Celie leaves andsays, 'No, it's over.'

Nowwho follows andwho doesn'tfollow... That's really why I con­sider it important--to tell someonethat they must give it up. No, no, no.You can tell them this is what you'vebeen through. This is what looks likeis going to be ahead. But where youwind it up, my dear, is really yourbusiness.

BFR: But maybe some of us needthat.Prettyman: But if you take that pic­ture, then it's going to be a false pic­ture. Which is what I think is wrongwith the book. Because the authorimposes a pictorial conclusion whichone should feel a little more in painabout. The reader should arrive atwho might or might not. Give thereader or the viewer a little morecredit. I think people are alot smarterthan they're given credit for. What Idislike is literature that in any wayguides a reader through a joumery.All you can do is give out the sign­posts.

Then you can say, these people

are interesting because they're in­volved in this dilemma. Isn't this di­lemma interesting? Sarah's the onethat's interesting to me--these are thepossible ramifications: The marriagecould break up, she could even go offon her own, even try to be an actress.

BFR: We also get Victor's dilemma.Prettyman: Throughout, he's alsoin a kind ofquandry. But that's all I'mgiving you is his quandry. I'm notsure that that's all any writer who'sreally working at her best can giveyou--is a really full exploration of thedilemma. And then take the dilemmato a point where it causes somethingto occur. You cheat anyone if youdon't go that far. You've got to take itto a point where it causes a reaction..I'm not so sure that you have a rightto take it much further than that.

If you really give your charactersautonomy. Which is that they...

BFR: Somehow the question of freewill...Prettyman: Bothers a lot ofpeople...

BFR: No, that's not where I'm com­ing from. You've created this uni­verse. You take the characters to acertain point and then, because there'sfree will, you have to let them go.Prettyman: Yes, that's like a capsuleofmy universe. But all of those peopleare me. There isn't any character youwrite about that isn't you--male, fe­male, androgynous, homosexual,heterosexual. They're all you. They'reall arguments you're having withyourself about something. Just likedreams--everybody in a dream is you.Which, as hard as it is to see, is theonlyway to have a dream make sense.To say, 'I put them in there.'

BFR: Howdoyoumanagetowritesomuch?Prettyman: I only teach two days aweek. I think if you like what you'redoing, you figure out time to do it. Inever think of time as my enemy. Imean, sometimes I get a little frus­trated, because I have to run my kidsto soccer 95 times. But that's no bigdeal. I don't really believe in busy-

ness. I do what I have to do. I setmental deadlines. I'll say, 'Finish this,and then submit it for something.' Itwon't be a real deadline; it's not likeI'm going to get it or anything. ButI've got to finish this screenplay soI've said, April 15. Well, Apri115, butno one's looking at it onApril 16. Butif I do that, then I make time work inmy favor.

I sometimes write when I'm doingmy laundry. Nobody with kids canhave a particular time when they write.If you like what you're doing, thenyou just find the time. I just do whatanybody else does--I like to write.Some people like to watch television.I sit at my typewriter, because I thinkit's more fun.

Writing is terribly frightening. You'resitting byyourself; it's so lonely. It's aterrible profession. It's a terribleprofession.

David Nicholson is the foundingeditor ofBlack Film Review.

Editors Note: As this issue ofBlackFilm Review went to press, we learnedof the death of Bill Gunn, co-star ofLosing Ground, and a filmmaker(Ganja and Hess) and playwright.The next issue of the magazine willfeature articles on Gunn and the lateDuane Jones, who was also featuredin Losing Ground.

15

16 BltUk Film Review

On Location:The Making of "Hayti, Mem Bagay"

By Ronald Wayne Boone

T he violence during Haiti's ill­fated attempt at instituting aduly elected president

shocked the world on Nov. 29, 1987.lbose ofus in Haiti at the time couldpredict with certainty that some bloodwould be drawn by a force in Haitithat a true democ:racy would not serve,namely, the privileged class of Hai­tians. That segment of the Haitiansociety had managed to live quitecomfortably during the three dec­ades of Duvalierism, while 85 per­cent of the population, hopelesslypoor and uneducated, lived in abjectmisery.

On Aug. 12, 1986, my wife and 1arrived in Haiti, she to begin a gov­ernmentjob, and myselfto begin pre­production on a film on Haiti, A.D.(After Duvalier). Having lived in M­rica and having traveled extensivelyin the Third World, we were thor­oughly prepared to make Haiti ourhome for the next two years.

As an independent filmmaker andphotojournalist armed with 4,000 ft.of 16 mm raw stock and a flexiblescript, 1 recognized that Haiti pos­sessed all the elements for a success­ful feature-length film.

The country possessed a culturerich with legends, myths, intrigue and,unfortunately, danger. Asimple gameof word association with the nounHaiti, evokes nwrierous controver­sial responses: Voodoo, PaIXl and BabyDoc, merciless Tonton Macoutes,Michelle's fur coat wardrobe, boatpeople, abject poverty, andAIDS. Mytask as a filmmaker: to examine theanomaly ofHaiti from the standpointof cause and effect, then to find theseldom viewed positive side of Haiti,and a way to combine it all within theplot of a dramatic screenplay.

Ronald~ Boone at the editing table.

My first stop in Haiti was the Na­tional Tourist Board, for 1felt their as­sistance and cooperation would serveour mutual interest. During my firstmeeting with Tourist Board officials,it became apparent that any assis­tance for my film project was lost. Myoriginal script called for soldiers andgunplay, etc. The last thing they wereinterested in, much less cooperatingwith, was a feature film with soldiers,guns and violence. Since 1 wasn'tinterested in making a pro-govern­ment "Come back to Haiti" film, 1had no choice but to go somewhatunderground with my project. Theensuing effort gave an entirely newmeaning to the term independentfilmmaking.

Having lived in other Third Worldcountries (1 have traveled through­out sub-Saharan Africa) 1 know the

importance of friendship in gettingthings done. As a BlackAmerican andas a Black filmmaker, there is a com­fort level in traveling and working ina black country, where you are con­sidered one of the people, at leastuntilyou openyour mouth and speakEnglish. 1 joined the Tennis Club ofPort-au-Prince, becoming the onlyBlackAmerican and the only foreignerin the club. Some ofthe people 1metthere later helped me in the makingof the film, lending me equipmentand offering the use oftheir facilities.

1had earlier approachedALM, theAntillean airline, which 'provided freeairfare for actors and equipment; IDlofMiami, which rents motion pictureequipment, offered me a reduced rateon rental of a 16 mm sync soundGUllera, in exchange for a screen creditAn expatriate American woman, mar-

Winter 88!89

ried to a Haitian, has a couple ofclothing boutiques, provided thewardrobe. And, because I have beena professional photographer since1972 and my work has appeared inmajor travel magazines, I was able touse that to my benefit when approach­ing hotel managers and art galleryowners to use their property as sets.

This search for services continuedonce the film was completed: I was

able to arrange with Bono Labs inAr­lington, Va., for processing and post­production facilities at a reduced rate,and Musifex recording studios pro­vided sound and music recording andspecial audio effects, also at a re­duced rate.

While Haiti was going through itstransition from the savagery of 30years ofDuvalierism to (so its peoplethought at the time) democracy, Ibegan to research the history andpossible storylines for my film. Theresearch and pre-production proc­ess would take 12 months before myactors arrival and actual productionstart on Sept. 14, 1987.

My original concept was a featurefilm about a Haitian man, exiled for25 years, who returns home afterBaby Doc's departure. Although hehimselfhad escaped, his entire familywas murdered by the Tonton Ma­coutes. Upon his return, he learnsthat his baby brother also survivedthe attack, so he sets out to find him.During his search for his brother, hediscovers that not all the bad guys areexiled to the south of France.

Shortly before production began,it became apparent the rapidly dete­riorating political situation would determy ambitious efforts. Add to this, thephenomena of Murphy's Law as itapplies to filmmaking, and in particu­lar filmmaking in the Third World.Having little success in casting myfilm in Port-au-Prince, I decided tobring in three Black American actorsfrom the United States. Since none ofthem had ever traveled outside theU.S., much less to a Third Worldcountry such as Haiti, I tried to pre­pare them emotionally for the experi­ence. The poverty and environmentoften causes major culture shock for

even seasoned travelers, so I tried tomake the assimilation ofmy neophytetravelers as painless as possible.

For instance, a week after I arrivedin Haiti, I was walking with my daugh­ter in downtown Port-au-Prince, whena man tapped me on the shoulder.There was partially dried blood com­ingfrom a wound on his forehead. Hesaid something in Creole, and thenasked for a dollar. A few weeks later Ilearned the blood on his face wasactually chicken blood, and that hesought out unsuspecting tourists.These are the desperate measures towhich Haiti's poor are driven.

Two of my three actors adjustedquite well; the third returned homeafter less than a week. One actor shortand facing an ever-threatening pOliti- ,cal situation, I began yet another re­write of my script.

My leading lady, Cheryl Cochran,was every bit as professional as I hadhoped. Although she missed her flightout ofNew York, which shortened analready tight shooting schedule to thepoint of controlled hysteria, once webegan shooting she made my job a loteasier with her thespian skills.

The days were physically demand­ing and the locations strenuous. Addto that tropical weather conditions ofa temperature close to 100 degreeswith the overpowering humidity, andvve couldn't wait to get home to showerand the blessed air-conditioning fol­lowing a day's work.

Making this film was as tough onthe humanity of my actors as it wastheir bodies. While on location infront of the Notre Dame Cathedral indO\VIltown Port-au-Prince, O1eryl wasfinally overcome. I was directing along shot, not aware that just out ofcamera view, but right in front ofCheryl sat an old woman eating some­thing Cheryl could not identify, butfound culinarily traumatic. Being thetrouper she is, Cheryl finished thescene. But when she got back to thecar she began to cry, finally over­whelmed by the poverty.

The day after I had finished princi­pal photography, in Port-au-Prince,Oct. 14, 1987, there was what_eat first-­I thought was a common scenario in

Haiti. An innocent civilian was shot,the killer was immediately indicted aTonton Macoute, which in turn trig­gered protest demonstrations androadblocks ofburning tires, followedby paralyzing strikes that shut downthe entire city. Over the 16 months Ispentworking on my film there, I sawthe scenario develop more times andbodies than I care to count.

It wasn't until weeks later while inSan Francisco on business that Ilearned the identity of the victim,Yves Volel, a popular presidentialcandidate. Ironically, he was killed atthe very same location we were shoot­ing across from the palace only thedaybefore. While we had been shoot­ing, a soldier with an Uzi machinegun gestured to us to leave. We did;one thing I have learned working inThird World countries is that whensomeone with a gun tells you to leave,you leave. Volelwas the secondpresi­dential candidate murdered while cam­paigning for office. A few weeks ear­lier, another candidate had beenhacked to death by villagers afterbeing accused of being a communist.

Those familiar with Haitian his­tory recognize the unfortunate pat­tern of a nation's history commonlywritten in blood. Of the 35 HaitianpreSidents, kings and emperors, onlysix managed to finish their terms inoffice. Twenty-twowere overthrown,seven died in office, two were assas­sinated, one was executed and· onecommitted suicide. With this historyand the pre-election violence leadingup to the Nov. 29 election, it was veryhard to be optimistic and realistic atthe same time.

Nov. 30, 1987, forever known inHaitian history as the day after, I was

interviewingJunmy, a 28-year~ld poor,but educated man, when I saw the re­sults of the previous day's massacre.Such hopelessness, such despair. Withtear-swollen eyes he explained to me" ...we are suppose to suffer, we are aBlack country." As a BlackAmerican,his words were both foreign and yetfamiliar to me. And this dichotomykilled me, but a new vision was bornin my film. If Jimmy and the other

Continued on p. 20

17

18 BltUk Film Review

On Location:Filmmaking in Greece

Donna Mungen, secondfrom left, and crew shooting (~ffairsofthe Political Hearl"

By Donna Mungen

H aving temporarily escapedthe clutches of Hollywood,how would I go about pro-

ducing my own my film on foreignsoil?

My undergraduate studies atHoward University had left me withan enduring mission for translatingthe African-American story to thescreen, whereas my directing train­ing at the American Film Institutebrought me actual experience andtwo awards: a William Wyler Awardand a Ralph Andrews Fellowship.

I had laid a few seeds and scaled afew hills including assignments as as­sistant to the producer, assistant tothe director, and distribution assis­tant at MGM-1V, Universal Studios,New World Pictures, and on severalindependent productions. For themost part, however, the industry wasclosed to women directors, not tomention Blacks. Taking an inventoryofmy creative assets and value to thefilm dream machine did little to quellmy desire to direct. However, bychance while during some research,I became aware of an opportunity tostudy abroad under the auspices ofthe Rotary International Foundation.

I leaped at the option After a round­robin cycle, I ended up in Athens,Greece, in 1983. From the beginning,I had wanted to produce and direct a1'6 mm-film. The first three months, Istudied the language, before enroll­ing (it was required by the RotaryFellowship Program) in an advancedindependent course of study at theStavrokos Hellenic College of Cin­ema and Television.

My film advisor, George Skalenakis,an aficionado ofAmerican musicals,served as a mentor through the en­tire process. He quickly explained

that the school had only the barest ofequipment. Anyfilm I wantedto makewould have to be made entirely onmy own. But the friendships I madethrough school would be extremelyinstrumental in connecting me withthe professional film community.

Over the next six months I ex­plained, proposed, and lobbied formy project with a number of inde­pendent producers, but to little avail.I was also developing and research­ing an idea that matched my political,social, and creative values, and rec­onciling that idea with budgetaryconstraints. Now comfortably housedin Athens, I quickly realized that myfirst major production could not centerexclusively around Black culture; therewere few Blacks in the city. Howeverunderstanding that art is universal, Ipushed on.

From the beginning of my two­year stay, I was repeatedly impressedby the anti-American sentiment in thecountry, much ofit a result of the re­cently fallen dictatorship that theUnited States had generously sup­ported. The alienation and hostilitybetween family members and friendsbrought to mind the reactions in theBlack community during the volatilelate 1960s. After discussing the ideawith my film advisor, he rejected it asoutside of my scope as a foreigner.However, after working intensivelyon the half-hour script for two months,he was sufficiently impressed withthe finished script to give me his re­luctant blessings.

The film, called Affairs of the Po­litical Heart, is about a Greek manand a Greek-Americanwoman whoserelationship is marked by conflict over

Winter 88!B9

political concerns. The man, Phillipos,. is tom between love of the womanand love of his country. The woman,Christine, is apolitical and cannotunderstand the importance of poli­tics in his life.

I now seriously began to canvassthe film community with my proposal.After securing the commitment of oneproducer, I witnessed this evaporatewhenhe experiencedequipment fail­ure. Nevertheless, he introduced meto George Emirzas, a major televisionproducer, who occasionally aidedyoung filmmakers for a governmentaltax benefit. Emirzas made it clear hewould assist me with equipment, twocrew members (a cinematographerand his assistant), and access to somepost-production facilities. A quiet smallman in his early 50s, he explainedone day in a nonchalant manner thatduring the 19508 he had studied danceunder Martha Graham in New York,and the reason he really Wanted tohelp me was that the only peoplewho were really nice to him duringthat stay were Blacks.

I said a small prayer to those invis­ible souls whose good deeds I wasgoing to collect on, hoping one dayothers might collect on mine.

The joy in developing the ideawould not prepare me for the diffi­culty I'd encounter in casting thescript. The role for a young Greek­American women would be the mostdifficult After much searching, I foundSusie Crippens from Seattle. AnotherAmerican friend introduced me toMichael Maniastis, one of Greece'sleading male stars, who agreed onreading the script not only to per­form, but to let me use his home forsome of the filming. The role of theBlack expatriate would go to a womanjazz singer from Los Angeles, Kia Cole­man.

As I continued to address techni­cal issues, I immediately developedan affinity with Elias Konstantakopou­los, my cinematographer. Also mynewly found film friends helped meidentify other technicians, while Irelentlessly searched for more funds.It was an experience I had not hadbefore. I'd already squirreled away

some of the living stipends from myfellowship funds, begged from familymembers, scored a few freelancewriting assignments, saved my last in­come tax return, emptied my entiresavings account, uncovered a fewprivate investors aswell as unearthedseveral donors.

Still even with this, I was short ofmy financial goal of $60,000 (count­ing both in-kind and monetary con­tributions). With this in mind, I settledthat it would be best to shot with a 3­1 ratio, which would leave little roomfor mistakes and countless retakes. A5-1 ratio would have been morecomfortable; by comparison, majorstudios often use a 10-1 ratio.

I rehearsed the cast for two weeksand, after bartering and renting moreequipment, we began a six-day shoot­ing schedule in November 1984 witha crew of 15 and a cast of 10. MyFrench and American girlfriends vol­unteered to help with the food and torun errands. We lit the set the daybefore shooting and I ran the castthrough one last rehearsal. Exhila­rated and excited, I decided to restfor just a few hours; I was close toaccomplishing one of my dreams. Iawoke at 6 a.m. the next morning,only to discover my phone was dead.I was informed on a neighbor's phonethe problem would be correctedwithin two days. Without a link to mycast and crew, I knewthis spelled dis­aster.

In a feat that could only be accom­plished under duress, I stormed downto the main phone office at 8 a.m. Ijumpedonthe counterand screamedin Greek demanding a return of myservice. It both startled and amusedthe attendants, forcing them to begme to come down. They promisedthat I'd have my phone service. Need­less to say, the phone was ringing asI walked in the door.

And then the use ofthe male star'shome turned into a nightmare. Forthe first three days of production,he'd intentionally delay us by twohours. This slowly ate up future cam­era set-ups. I discovered too, thatdespite my eagerness, my unfamiliar­itywith some of the crew's personali-

ties and the difference in work habitsretarded the pace.

Yet the biggest hurdle would beoverall communication. By this pointmy language skills were reasonable,but under stress nearly everyonereverts to her native language, whichat times found me isolated from cer­tain crucial discussions. I found myselfconstantly remi.f1ding the crewto speakmore slowly, or to attempt to explainit to me in English.

After a major power blowout andthe loss of seven hours of produc­tion, I knew I'd have to cut somescenes. Each night, the cinematogra­pher, my assistant director, and I woulddrop scenes, but this did not prepareus for the fifth day of shooting whenthe leading actor failed to show. Irewrote the script quickly and changedthe storyboard and everyone quicklymade their adjustments.

Shooting in Plaka, an historicalneighborhood of winding streets atthe base of the Acropolis, wouldpresent another major challenge.There were many people, and so ourtask was not to get distracted and atthe same time to handle the touristswho gathered to watch But as a bonus,I was able to include a Gypsy womanin one scene. And, the chance to usethis ancient site where Plato andSocrates had spoken and taughtseemed an attractive payoff. After thelast shot, we all gathered at a PlakaTaverna where we partook of anenormous festive Greek meal com­plete with olives, restina, ouzo, andfeta cheese.

That night I put the remainder ofthe film in the lab and went about theprocess of raising the balance of thelab fees. It would take me anotherweek to find the remainder of themoney.

Once the film was out of the lab, Ihad the usage of George Emirzas'editing booths. I'd previously metwith one leading editor who explainedthat he would not be able to actuallywork on the film. However he had awoman assistant who just completedfilm school in Paris that he recom­mendedfor the job and that he would

Continued on p. 20

19

20 Bl~kFilm Review

Photograph by Ronald Wayne Boone

Actors Cheryl Cochran andJohn Vital, dUring the shooting of "Haiti Mem Bagay"

Filmmaking in GreeceFromp.

also supervise. The editing processwould take more than a month andstretch into the Christmas holidays.Our days lasted 18 hours and oftenbegan at any hour, depending on theavailability of the editing booths.

It became my home, except for athree day-trip to the island of Cretefor a intimate traditional Christmas ina small mountain town. There thepeasant women dragged me to thefields to help them gather olives. Itwas great therapy.

I returned for another week ofed­iting before presenting the finishedwork to my film advisor, who finallyadmitted that I'd succeeded in bring­ing the idea to the screen. I also helda screening for close friends and as­sociates.

I left Greece in February with twoheavy cans of film, traveling throughIstanbul, Barcelona, Paris, Londonand Sevilla, before arriving in Los An­geles. Once home there would be ad­ditional funds raised for the final cut,but through the process, I'd alwayshold dear the involvement and lovemy Greek friends gave in helping meto produce, direct, and write Affairsof the Political Heart..

Donna Mungen is a Los Angeles area

filmmaker

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Filmmaking in HaitiFromp.17

poor and oppressed Haitian majoritywere willing to brave life-threateningconditions for the chance to vote onNov. 29, then I had no choice but torestructure my film to, ifnothing else,prove him wrong.

The lead character, Louis Noisette,went from becoming a Haitian re­turning to his homeland, to anAmeri­can journalist covering Haiti's transi­tion to democracy. In his time there,he changes from an objective jour­nalist to someone who cares deeplyabout the country and becomes in­volved in the struggle for freedom.

Driving home from the interview, Ifocused on the cause and effect ofJimmy's words. His entire life underthe hell of Duvalier's rule could pro­duce no other man. Now the ball wasin my court. My mind raced withmany unsolved questions; I had shottwo-thirds of the film. How was I to

get this new material to restructureit? How would I present it in relation­ship to my original storyline? Wherewas I going to get additional funding?On Dec. 31, 1987, my wife and I wereevacuated from Haiti. I shot addi­tional footage in the States and wasable to return twice in 1988 to com­plete the film. The film is done, and Iam entering it in film festivals andattempting to get it screened. Thefilm is in English. I would like to haveit dubbed in Creole and to show it inHaiti for the poor and the disenfran­chised, the majority of the popula­tion. The political situation may notallowit now, but I knowone day I amdestined to return, to find Jimmy andsay, ' 'You seeJimmy, you were wrong. "

Ronald Wayne Boone, a filmmakerlphoto­

grapherlwriter, is president of the Nubian

Renaissance Production Company.

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