Robert Lopez - Good People

A father and son flying a rainbow kite. Teenagers tossing a football back and forth. Married men meeting younger women. Recognizable everyday American people. Overweight women engaged in futile exercise. Old men playing chess and sailing model boats on the man-made lake. Shit like this.

Tell him the scene should be about a widower shopping for tube socks.

If the location manager is attractive, communicate this in no uncertain terms. Tell her, You are attractive. Then see what happens.

Never employ the word career in any conversation.

Style your hair in such a way that it looks unstyled, unkempt. Wear glasses on the bridge of your nose. Maybe a sweater draped over your shoulders.

Take Star and the actor out to dinner. Take them to a quiet restaurant where you can hear one another talk. Make them comfortable. Connect. Reference Buddha, Vishnu, Martin Luther King Junior and Senior, L. Ron Hubbard. Pretend to listen. Pretend to eat solid food.

Note the lack of talent, chemistry, depth. Figure ways to use this.

Recall a time when directing a motion picture seemed like a great opportunity.

Recall a time before that when painting a picture seemed like something one could do every day.

Do not discuss the film with a family member.

Decide on a palette and communicate this to the cinematographer. Tell him every scene involving the dog should feel somehow yellow.

Never say Action when you want action. Say Go instead.

See the actor making this more difficult than it need be. Call him over. Put your arm around him. Call him son. Say, Son, I can tell you all kinds of stories. I can reference this one and that one and some other ones. I can comfort you, shock you, cajole you, threaten you. None of this matters, son. Ask him, You know what matters, don’t you, son?

Before he has a chance to answer, shake your head and walk away.

Turn to an assistant, if there is an assistant nearby, and say, Can you fucking believe this guy?

Never bellow for an assistant.

Always keep antacids on hand. Otherwise, tell the assistant to always keep antacids on hand.

Compile a list of items the assistant should always have on hand.

Remember painting landscapes in the park. Remember the brilliant mornings, the way the light. .

Remember everyone is beneath you. The AD is beneath you such as the camera operator such as the script girl such as the best boy. Communicate this by keeping hands in pockets and never looking anyone in the eye.

Tell whichever yes-man is closest you need a ride to the park. That you need to think and the best place to think is the park. Tell the yes-man to drive you to the park.

Always repeat yourself.

Make an appointment with the doctor. One shouldn’t have to take twelve pills to digest a decent meal.

Tell everyone within earshot that we are a family here. That we have to hunker down and pull together. That we sink the swimmer as a unit.

Let the DP talk about lenses in that ridiculous accent. Look bored. Ask about the tracking shot, the two-shot, the over-the-shoulder. Tell him, We shouldn’t push in like this. Reference Willis and the guy Fellini used, if Fellini used a guy.

Go over budget. Talk about the money people, the bean counters. Dismiss them with a wave of the hand.

Have at least two drinks before watching dailies.

Do not let anyone speak to you while watching dailies.

Take your pills. The woman at the pharmacy called them enzymes.

Consider what else you could be doing with yourself. Consider where you went wrong.

There are no minions when painting a picture.

What the fuck is an enzyme?

Never discuss the project with anyone who identifies himself as an associate producer.

While rehearsing, always remain standing, with arms folded. Sometimes pace while muttering. Say, Listen people.

Say, This scene is about a man taking digestive enzymes. It’s about digestion.

Make friends with whoever is in charge of craft services.

Do not explain yourself. Someone will want to know why he should cross downstage and sit on the sofa. Someone will want to know why he should smoke a cigarette or bounce a ball. Someone will ask ridiculous questions like, Was he an athlete growing up? Did his parents smoke in the house?

Call nearest living relative over forty and ask him how’s his digestion.

Conduct brief meetings with the editing team. Go to the studio where they work. Sit backward on a rolling chair and tell them, This isn’t a music video, people.

Tell the woman who is in charge of craft services that you need bland, easy-to-digest foods. If she asks like what, tell her to do her job.

Don’t get too involved with the music right away. Let the composer compose and then tell him where he’s gone wrong after the rough cut. Never use the word swell in any conversation with the sound people.

When dealing with actors, try to remember. .

Star and actor will ask what the new scene is about, the one in the park. To answer, ask what they think it is about and look grave. Shake your head and squint. Finally, tell them it’s about a homeless man eating an apple and a little retarded kid roller-skating.

When they look puzzled look back at them, disappointed.

Tell the craft-services people to have plenty of apples on hand every day.

Tell them, We will need all kinds of fruits and vegetables. Bland ones.

Every so often, say aloud to no one in particular, Let’s go, people.

Proposition Star’s stylist in a way that makes no sense. Quote an obscure Eskimo poem — one about igloos and ice fishing. Do likewise with the youngest cast member of legal age.

Try to lose your mind.

Tell the actor he can wind a wristwatch or eat a sandwich or look through a photo album but he should do some fucking thing, for Christ’s sake.

Never say, We’ll try it your way. Once you try it their way, you might as well do something else with yourself, something in the insurance business.

Never discuss your digestive problems with anyone involved with the picture. When people ask what is wrong, tell them it’s your gallbladder. Tell them it’s none of their business. Tell them it’s scurvy, shingles.

Give the second unit free reign. Do not show up at a second-unit location.

Dress neatly but devil-may-careless at the same time. How to do this is to wear a frayed white T-shirt beneath your collared long-sleeve, with a sweater draped over your shoulders. Make sure you don’t tuck it in. Never tuck a shirt in under any circumstances.

Remember it is not important how you look so long as the cast and crew fear you.

That they must also love you goes without saying.

Say it anyway.

This actor that won’t smoke, find his mother wherever she works, probably some diner somewhere as a waitress, and go there. Sit in her station and tell her to join you for coffee when she has a break. Ask specific questions and get specific answers. Do not let her avoid any question. She will try to explain why he is the way he is, how she raised him to be the kind of actor he is. All of this is irrelevant and a waste of time, but do it anyway.

Tell the actor you spoke to his mother. Tell him you sat in her station and had coffee with the woman. Tell him you saw his mother smoking a cigarette on her break out back with one of the busboys. Tell him she is good-looking.

Find out who this actor admires and use it against him.

Go to the park and find an unoccupied bench. Watch a black crow chasing after the smaller birds, making that horrendous noise. Then tell the property master, We’re going to need a black crow.

Tell the second-unit director to take all kinds of park footage.

Feel like going for a walk but don’t feel up to it. Feel more like listening to your guts swallow themselves.