Authoring Hal Ashby: The Myth of the New Hollywood Auteur 9781501308437, 9781501308468, 9781501308444

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Authoring Hal Ashby

Authoring Hal Ashby The Myth of the New Hollywood Auteur Aaron Hunter

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Inc

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

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www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2016 Paperback edition first published 2018 © Aaron Hunter, 2016 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hunter, Aaron, author. Title: Authoring Hal Ashby : the myth of the new Hollywood auteur / Aaron Hunter. Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016001799 (print) | LCCN 2016005625 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501308437 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501308451 (ePub) | ISBN 9781501308444 (ePDF) Subjects: LCSH: Ashby, Hal–Criticism and interpretation. | Auteur theory (Motion pictures) | BISAC: PERFORMING ARTS / Film & Video / General. | PERFORMING ARTS / Film & Video / Direction & Production. | PERFORMING ARTS / Film & Video / History & Criticism. Classification: LCC PN1998.3.A7635 H86 2016 (print) | LCC PN1998.3.A7635 (ebook) | DDC 791.4302/33092–dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016001799 ISBN: HB: PB: ePub: ePDF:

978-1-5013-0-843-7 978-1-5013-4-019-2 978-1-5013-0-845-1 978-1-5013-0-844-4

Cover design by Eleanor Rose Cover image: Still from The Last Detail (1974) © COLUMBIA / THE KOBAL COLLECTION Typeset by Newgen Knowledge Works (P) Ltd, Chennai, India

To Betti & Otis

Contents List of Figures Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction

1

xi

Part 1 History, Historiography, and Hal Ashby’s Reputation 1 Hal Ashby and the New Hollywood Establishment 2 Auteurs and the New Hollywood Canon

15 41

Part 2 Tracing Ashby’s Authorship 3 Authorship, Narrative, and Themes 4 Authorship, Form, and Style

73 101

Part 3 Multiple-Authorship 5 Being There: A Case Study

125

Final Thoughts: Re-thinking New Hollywood as a Cinema of Multiple-Authorship

161

Notes Bibliography Filmography Index

167 191 201 211

List of Figures 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10 3.11 3.12 3.13 3.14 3.15 3.16 3.17 3.18 3.19 3.20 3.21 3.22 3.23 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6

Harold hangs himself in the film’s opening sequence Harold sliced and bloodied in his mother’s bathtub Harold drowned in the swimming pool as his mother swims past Harold about to shoot himself in the head Harold performing self-immolation, through the window Harold chopping off his hand with a meat cleaver Harold performing an act of ritual seppuku Harold driving his car over a cliff  Harold blowing bubbles after sleeping with Maude The Landlord: Nixon on TV as Elgar dances past Harold and Maude: Nixon on the wall in Uncle Victor’s office The Last Detail: Mulhall reacts with exasperation as two liberals pester him about Nixon Shampoo: A framed poster of Nixon on election night, 1968 Shampoo: Lester and George watch Nixon’s victory speech Being There: Chance watches the president celebrate a Chinese trade deal Dissolve cut begins the Steadicam sequence The crane lowers to find Guthrie tying his shoes Guthrie makes his way through the camp Guthrie pats a young girl’s head Guthrie makes his way through the crowd Meeting Lester at the corral Guthrie walking back towards the campsite with Lester Guthrie stops, swallowed up by the dust and the crowd George, cramped in a small kitchen, talks down to Jill George in the immense bank, while the banker “talks down” to him Shampoo: George outside the bank after being refused a loan Coming Home: Sally spots Val soon after Billy’s death The Last Detail: Buddusky and Mulhall wrestle Meadows to the ground in the snowy park Harold and Maude: Harold and Maude in a field full of daisies

77 77 78 78 79 79 80 80 82 88 88 89 89 90 90 95 96 96 97 97 98 98 99 105 106 107 108 108 109

x

List of Figures 4.7 Being There: Chance walks out onto a pond during Benjamin Rand’s funeral 5.1 Chance gauges the depth of the pond with his umbrella in the closing moments of Being There 5.2 The Black Stallion: Alec befriends “the Black” 5.3 The Black Stallion: Alec and Henry take the Black on its first timed run 5.4 The Right Stuff: Jets fly over a pilot’s funeral  5.5 Being There: Lawyers arrive at the Old Man’s house, which will lead to Chance’s eviction 5.6 Being There: In a visual echo of the lawyers’ arrival, Chance leaves the Old Man’s house for good 5.7 Chance walks towards the US Capitol building on his first night after having left the Old Man’s house 5.8 Chance walking on water towards the Rand mansion 5.9 Chance’s eyes redden at Benjamin Rand’s deathbed

109 134 137 137 138 138 139 141 142 148

Acknowledgments My thanks must first go to Daniel Martin for his sensitive encouragement and invaluable suggestions for strengthening this book. I am extremely grateful for his constant belief in the promise of this project and in my abilities as a scholar. I thank Des Bell for his early confidence in the book. I would also like to thank my colleagues Des O’Rawe and Gary Rhodes who were generous with their time and attention throughout the process. I owe massive thanks to Katie Gallof, Mary Al-Sayed, and Michelle Chen at Bloomsbury Academic, without whom this book wouldn’t be here. I salute their dedication to the book and their patient guidance throughout the process of writing it. I am grateful to the Department of Film Studies at Queen’s University for funding two research trips to Los Angeles. Barbara Hall of the Margaret Herrick Library provided generous assistance at the special collections, and Val Almendarez suggested and assembled valuable research materials for this project. Both of them, as well as the rest of the formidable staff at the Herrick made my LA trips wonderful research experiences. Nick Dawson and Christopher Beach, who have both published monographs on Hal Ashby, were generous in sharing information and suggesting resources. Nick was especially open to helping me come to a fuller understanding of Ashby’s personal life and relationships, for which I am extremely grateful. His biography of Ashby is a wonderful read and I can only hope this volume might sit on bookshelves next to it one day. I sincerely thank Haskell Wexler and Robert C. Jones for making themselves available to me for personal interviews. Their insights into Ashby’s working methods and their personal recollections of him were invaluable in the writing of this book. Jeff Wexler displayed great reservoirs of patience and generosity in promptly answering numerous email queries for which I am exceedingly grateful. I am extremely indebted to Matt Houston Ellis. His attentive, thoughtful editing during the final stages of this project is responsible for much of what is good about its writing. Likewise, Jennie Carlsten provided invaluable advice for tightening the final structure of the book (and so much more!). Many individuals helped me throughout the process of writing this. Special thanks go to Paul Roy and Renee Krumweide for providing lodging and so many other generosities during my trips to Los Angeles. I salute my mother Gail for supporting all my hopes for this entire process, and my father Mark and sister Mara without whose support and encouragement it is unlikely I would have completed the project. I would like to thank my wonderful English teachers from school, Isabel Bishop, Michelle Pulley Pike, Mary Jane Poole, Julie Grab, and Carol Farthing. Anything good about my writing started with them. Much of what is bad comes from ignoring them. Lastly, I thank Bernadett Haász, my partner in life, for her absolute faith and limitless support, and our son Otis, for bringing so much joy into our lives.

Introduction

The New Hollywood era of American cinema is so intimately wedded to a particular set of films that the mere mention of a few titles can bring to mind a raft of associations related to theme, tone, and style. The French Connection, The Godfather, Nashville, Taxi Driver, Manhattan, films that depict troubled heroes, question American values, and resist closure or resolution, all while pushing elements of style beyond the welldeveloped norms of Classical Hollywood cinema. Furthermore, titles immediately call forth the names of the men who directed them: Friedkin, Coppola, Altman, Scorsese, Allen. For as much as New Hollywood can be described as an era of a particular type of film, even more has it come to be regarded as an epoch of iconoclastic filmmakers. Roughly encompassing the years 1967–1980,1 New Hollywood has come to represent a directors’ cinema, an era of auteurs, men who stamped their thematic and stylistic imprimatur onto their films with such determination and vigor that the individual nature of their genius is readily apparent across their bodies of work. Hal Ashby’s career as a Hollywood director (1970–1986) neatly overlaps with New Hollywood, and the seven films he directed through 1979 are generally considered his most successful films both critically and commercially. These films are rich with textual and formal subtleties. They also offer insight into this intriguing period of Hollywood history, which remains the subject of much research and debate. Interest in New Hollywood within both academic film studies and general film criticism has been growing at a rapid pace, with numerous texts, both popular and academic, having been published regularly over the past fifteen years.2 The critical discussion about New Hollywood and the canon of films that has grown up around it is predicated largely on a general acceptance of the auteur paradigm that has long dominated understanding of the era. Unlike many of his contemporaries, however, Ashby rejected the auteur label throughout his career. Ashby was consistently and conscientiously vocal about his reliance on collaboration and his desire that his cast and crewmembers contribute to the authorship of the films he directed. While clearly acting as one of those authors himself—his own hallmarks of narrative and style can be traced across his body of work—the contributions of collaborators such as writers, cinematographers, performers, and editors are just as possible to discern. As a result, a typical Ashby film is noticeable for the ways in which it bears the marks of its multiple authors.

2

Authoring Hal Ashby

Ashby’s openness about this collaborative practice has long relegated him to the margins of New Hollywood canon formation. Examining New Hollywood from the vantage point of emerging scholarship on multiple-authorship provides a counter narrative to the auteur approach that has for so long dominated film studies definitions of the era.3 In such a formulation, Ashby and his films become, rather than marginal affairs, central examples in a re-articulation of the era that enriches understanding of its films and filmmakers in a way that the auteur-driven model has not allowed. New Hollywood was a period of great upheaval in the American film industry. By the late 1960s, Hollywood was in the midst of a recession and it was becoming apparent that its business model was out of date. This resulted most dramatically in the purchase of almost all of the major Hollywood studios by nonfilm conglomerate corporations, beginning with the purchase of Paramount Studios by Gulf + Western in 1966. These corporations entered the film business at a time when the studio-dominated model of production, distribution, and exhibition had been undergoing massive changes over the course of nearly two decades. The studios’ slow response to those changes was partially responsible for the disarray that the industry was facing. The conglomerates, such as Charles Bluhdorn’s Gulf + Western or Steven Ross’s Kinny Corporation (Warner Bros.), were thus not only tasked with their own ambitious goals of refashioning Hollywood studios as singular (if enormous) links within vast conglomerate chains, but also had to do so while navigating the late 1960s financial crisis in the industry.4 Additionally, the production of a host of new movies in Hollywood was influenced by such divergent factors as great technological advances,5 the influence of foreign (particularly French) cinema, and the political and social upheavals that were taking place across large sections of American culture.6 The result of all these changes was a great amount of uncertainty in late 1960s Hollywood about just how to produce films that would attract large audiences. Among the first people to come to some understanding of this situation was a group of filmmakers who saw the disarray as an opportunity to make a new kind of American film:  films with darker themes of confusion and paranoia that were critical of the government and American culture, and more despondent and cynical in their outlook than Hollywood cinema had traditionally been. At the same time, these films introduced new approaches to such formerly taboo issues as sex, race, language, and gruesome, realistic violence in ways that made them highly attractive to members of the youth culture. Many of the directors of these films—men such as William Friedkin, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert Altman, and Martin Scorsese—were able to convert their success at filmmaking and their seemingly clear understanding of shifting cultural trends into powerful positions within the Hollywood industry (albeit often short-lived). Hence, it seemed for a time that in New Hollywood the director was king. Ashby was one of the filmmakers of the era who appeared to have an insight into the kinds of themes and narratives that the young generation was interested in seeing. His films, even the more serious dramas, remain off-beat and quirky as they address such topical issues as interracial relationships, political awareness and involvement, life inside and after the military, labor struggles, and the growing effects of increased media saturation on society. Like many of his peers, he was also willing to depict these

Introduction

3

themes with a sense of nuance and ambiguity that would demand participation on the part of viewers. And he did so in cinematically challenging ways, taking advantage of new stylistic approaches to sound and image and new technological advances in areas such as sound design, camera technology, and editing practices. However, Ashby was unwilling to take sole credit for the films he directed, and he eschewed attempts to label him an auteur. During an era when directors were given significant control, the auteur paradigm became the foundation on which their power rested: if a director was an auteur, he was a genius, and his genius was not to be trifled with. This paradigm as a foundational Hollywood production model would eventually be undermined by a variety of factors, not least of which was a sense of hubris on the part of some of these directors that, by the end of the decade, led to the production of several high-budget, high-profile failures that disappointed at the box office and struggled to find positive critical assessment.7 However, even as studio heads and producers reconsolidated their hold on the reins of power by the end of the 1970s, and even as the growing dominance of the blockbuster era has, to a certain extent, diminished the allure of the edgy director, the auteur paradigm has continued to dominate the way New Hollywood has been framed, and not only by scholars but also critics, filmmakers, distributors and, ultimately, audiences. Ashby, by rejecting the auteur mantel, effectively both barred himself from attaining any type of significant power during the era and marginalized himself within scholarly consideration of the era: if he was not an auteur, then he could not have been one of the era’s great directors. Following such a reductive formulation has meant that, until recently, he and his films have rarely been deemed constituents of New Hollywood in any way that might warrant close analysis. However, while Ashby was indeed resistant to the auteur concept, his own role in the authoring of his films can still be detected. Ashby was a thoughtful practitioner with very specific ideas about the role of films in society and how films could be used to convey complex themes and concepts to the cinema-going public. Furthermore, he was a dedicated craftsman who actively participated in all stages of a film’s production. Ashby’s interest in marginalized characters embroiled within fraught political situations can be read across his films, as can his belief that politics and narrative can be wed in a fashion that is not reductive or didactic. Furthermore, his proclivities for particular shot selections and editing strategies, and his distinctive use of music, can also be detected across his body of work. Typically, pointing out such defining characteristics would be the work of an auteurist study, one attempting to reposition Ashby and his work based on a new understanding of him as an auteur. Such a reading is not my intention. First, an auteurist reading of Ashby is undermined not only by his own repeated insistence that the label did not apply to him, but also by his film practice, which was highly collaborative in all phases of production. Second, any attempt to wedge Ashby into the New Hollywood canon by way of endowing him with auteur status would only serve to perpetuate the auteur paradigm as an intrinsic aspect of New Hollywood’s critical reception. On the other hand, interrogating Ashby’s collaborative approach to film practice, one that resulted in a recognizable form of multiple-authorship, has the potential to expand current conceptions of New Hollywood and its canon rather than simply

4

Authoring Hal Ashby

replicating existing ones. This is because Ashby’s collaborative approach to filmmaking was not unique to him, but was much more widespread an approach during the era than is often understood. To argue that Ashby was one of several authors of his films is not to diminish his role in the making of his films. Rather, it is to demonstrate that Ashby was intimately aware of and open to the process of filmmaking that was predominant in the industry, but that has been rarely recognized by scholarship. This book, then, reconsiders Ashby’s films and filmmaking not in an effort to recover him as a lost auteur, but to do precisely the opposite: to argue that Ashby was a consummate practitioner of a style of collaborative filmmaking that resulted in films of multiple-authorship. This introduction provides an analytical foundation—including settling questions of dates and terminology—on which I shall construct my inquiry of Ashby and his films. Furthermore, it delineates the scholarly context that has created the conditions for how Ashby and his films are understood, providing the groundwork for a recontextualization of New Hollywood.

New Hollywood New Hollywood is a somewhat fluid term, and discussion persists about how long the era lasted, what exactly the term “New Hollywood” defines (e.g., a movement, however loose, or a confluence of narrative and stylistic challenges to Classical Hollywood), and which films and filmmakers fall within that definition. The term is often used interchangeably, and somewhat confusingly, with the broader description “1970s American Cinema.” For example, in The New Hollywood, Peter Krämer, settling on the years 1967–1976, describes New Hollywood as “all American films, the film industry and the wider film culture during these years.”8 On the other hand, Peter Lev’s American Films of the 1970s (2000) makes a clear distinction between New Hollywood films, which he categorizes as “experimental and socially critical,”9 and other films of the era, including the disaster film genre and what he labels the “right-wing cop film.” However, even when New Hollywood and 1970s Hollywood are not conceived of as being exactly the same in their critical import, when film scholars discuss 1970s American cinema, their choice of films suggests that it is often to the more experimental and critical New Hollywood they are referring. The Last Great American Picture Show (2004), edited by Thomas Elsaesser, Alexander Horwath, and Noel King, collects together a number of essays in which the authors sometimes elide the distinction between New Hollywood and other films of the period (in fact, the book’s subtitle, New Hollywood Cinema in the 1970s, indicates the precariousness of the relationship). In this book, I consider New Hollywood to encompass the years 1967–1980. With the release of Bonnie and Clyde and The Graduate, 1967 is the generally recognized starting year of the era, although it is easy to find films that could be categorized as “New Hollywood” or at least “proto-New Hollywood” from the preceding years. The end year is a more contested question. Like Krämer, many scholars argue that the era ended sometime between 1975 and 1977, the years of Jaws and Star Wars, respectively. The blockbuster model—which had been slowly cohering and exhibiting flashes

Introduction

5

of promise since at least Love Story in 1970—was cemented by these two films as a wildly successful financial strategy. Furthermore, by the mid-1970s, ongoing corporate realignment had begun to include replacing so-called creative production heads such as Robert Evans at Paramount with more financially oriented heads such as Barry Diller.10 These developments combined to make it increasingly difficult for directors to acquire studio backing for the personal, idiosyncratic films that had done so much to demarcate New Hollywood as a distinct era. However, as with all eras, one does not simply begin or end completely on a given day. And for some years after Star Wars, Hollywood continued to produce and distribute challenging, nonblockbuster films in the same vein as those from earlier in the decade. Thus settling on 1980, albeit well into the era of blockbusters and reconsolidated studio power, allows for overlap between New Hollywood and the early blockbuster era and for the inclusion of such key New Hollywood films as Days of Heaven (1978), Manhattan (1979), and Raging Bull (1980), as well as Ashby’s own Coming Home (1978) and Being There (1979). Whatever the exact nature of the difference between New Hollywood and 1970s Hollywood, recognizing the existence of the distinction is necessary in understanding the current state of the New Hollywood canon. The canon has been constructed by film scholars who seek to identify a particular set of stylistic and thematic concerns— such as loneliness or alienation—that characterize this subset of films from the period. Scholars then search out films that nest comfortably within that taxonomy (a practice that is typical of canon construction across the arts). Films that do not share or exhibit those concerns tend to be excluded, regardless of financial or critical success. For example, a film like Love Story—a proto-blockbuster in terms of promotion and distribution and a massive money maker—is rarely considered a New Hollywood film because its thematic concerns and stylistic flourishes do not conform to the criteria developed by New Hollywood scholars. The nature of the discourse on New Hollywood and the corpus of films it includes helps to explain Ashby’s positioning within the critical conversation of the past three decades. For while scholars are aware of Ashby, and many even seem to share a sense that he should be included in a more complete description of the era, they have not yet found a way to grapple with him, his films, or their place within the set of formulations that continue to define New Hollywood. One example of the way this uncertainty has manifested itself comes in the introduction to Elsaesser’s essay “The Pathos of Failure.” Originally published in 1975, the essay was one of the first attempts to categorize elements of a recognizable narrative and stylistic coherence across a range of early 1970s films. In constructing his argument, Elsaesser includes mention of the Ashby-directed The Last Detail (1973). The 2004 edition of the same essay includes a still shot from Shampoo (1975), and yet neither film is discussed in any kind of depth, and The Last Detail is mentioned only once again in the entire essay. Setting the stage for much of the writing on New Hollywood, Elsaesser’s text at once deems Ashby’s films relevant to its analysis while remaining unable to incorporate them within the analysis. The films might have something to contribute to a discussion of New Hollywood, but Elsaesser’s text is unable to ascertain what that contribution actually looks like.

6

Authoring Hal Ashby

Similarly unsure about how to handle Ashby is Christian Keathley’s “Trapped in the Affection Image,” a chapter from the same volume, which seeks to dramatize Deleuze’s theorization of cinema to make an argument about a paralysis of action in American film between 1970 and 1976. Early on, the article introduces Shampoo as an example of one such film and then, somewhat peculiarly, never mentions the film again. The Last Detail and Coming Home (1978) are each mentioned once, but Ashby’s name does not appear in the text, even as a parenthetical directing credit.11 Much the same can be said of other texts discussing the era. For example, Krämer’s account of the films people were actually going to see during the 1970s does not refer to Ashby once, despite the massive commercial success of Shampoo and Coming Home.12 Little or no mention of Ashby or his films appears in such seminal New Hollywood texts as Robert Kolker’s A Cinema of Loneliness (3rd edition, 2000) or Robin Wood’s Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan . . . and Beyond (2003).13 Peter Lev’s American Films of the 70s does pay slightly more than cursory attention to Shampoo (in its chapter “The End of the Sixties”) and Coming Home (“Feminisms”), although in Lev’s ideologically driven approach, neither film fares particularly well on account of not being “radical” enough.14 Ashby’s virtual absence from so much New Hollywood analysis might, in part, be explained by how these writers have decided they want to characterize New Hollywood. Much can be learned simply by looking at their titles (“Pathos of Failure,” “Cinema of Loneliness”), which allude to themes that the texts generally elaborate upon. Keathley describes the New Hollywood cinema as one of “disaffection, alienation, and demoralization.”15 Elsaesser examines the films’ “lack of motivation” and their “pervasive pessimism.”16 Kolker’s ambitious project builds a dense, ideologically driven argument about what constituted New Hollywood, explores how it was able to flourish, and asks why it died out.17 He asserts that, “Film tends to support the dominant ideology,” but that “During the late sixties and early seventies, some film questioned assumptions, as some directors became more independent and more in control of their work.”18 That Kolker does not judge Ashby worthy of mention, let alone discussion in any depth, is curious at least: Ashby’s politically charged films regularly challenged dominant conceptions of American ideology, albeit often in subtle fashion. This book will demonstrate how thoroughly Ashby’s films were concerned with political questions, how vital were his attempts to address them, and how inextricably linked were his approaches to politics, narrative, and character. The historical context of New Hollywood opens the era to such ideologically driven discussions, and each of these writers certainly illuminates the era by engaging in close readings of the films that, in addition to offering aesthetic analysis, pay attention to the cultural and economic situation of film production in this period. If their approaches to New Hollywood tend to overlap, there is a reason for this: the counterculture was very real, the breakdown of the studio system did wreak havoc on the industry, the French New Wave and other international trends did influence American cinema, and Vietnam and Watergate did lead filmmakers (and other artists) to question longheld American presumptions through a lens of skepticism and cynicism. Ashby’s films exhibit some of the qualities that these writers discuss, which may be why so many of them feel compelled to mention him. But his films do not entirely fit the model that

Introduction

7

most analysts of New Hollywood have settled upon, whether in terms of production, tone, or thematic content. Although notions of alienation, frustration, and failure are discernable in most of Ashby’s films, they are not the engines that drive his narratives, nor do they constitute the motivation behind the stylistic boundaries the films are pushing. Ashby’s framing of the era’s troubles and their repercussions marks him as distinct from his peers. Many of the era’s key films were highly confrontational in their approach to American ideology and institutions. Films by canonized directors Martin Scorsese, William Friedkin, Robert Altman, and Francis Ford Coppola often attempt a complete dismantling of such American institutions as the family, the government, religion, the police, the media, and even that most American of icons, the individual. The protagonists of these films are often disaffected or rebellious, and much of their aim is either to tear down or to reject completely received conventions of what it means to be living in contemporary America. Ashby’s films sometimes share similar concerns, but his approach to them is different. Ashby’s protagonists operate in a marginal realm. They do not want to dismantle society, nor do they want to reject it completely. In their struggles to find likeminded individuals, the protagonists in Ashby’s films tend to operate in a space that is neither ensconced within mainstream society nor completely removed from it. The resulting ambiguity creates one of the difficulties in reconciling Ashby’s themes with the criteria that have been constructed for inclusion into the New Hollywood canon. As a result, Ashby himself can be described as a marginal figure within New Hollywood and the writing about it—he is present within the discourse, but never close to its center. Ascertaining just what constitutes this center—which films and filmmakers reside there and who makes such determinations—leads directly to the questions of canons and their formations. To argue that Ashby has generally been excluded from the New Hollywood canon presupposes that such a canon exists and that it can be mapped in some quantifiable manner. Once the composition of such a canon— however amorphous—is outlined, it can then be interrogated in more precise detail to determine whether Ashby can accurately be described as having been marginalized or excluded from it. In exploring the nature of canon construction, I  argue for the existence of a fairly specific New Hollywood film canon. Arguing that exclusion is a fundamental by-product of canon construction, I consider the exclusion of both Ashby and his films from the New Hollywood canon. This exclusion has much to do with the current definitions of New Hollywood, definitions shaped and limited by the prevailing theories and conceptions of authorship.

Theories of authorship It would be difficult to overstate the intimacy of the relationship between auteurism and New Hollywood. The auteur concept played a significant role in the branding of the era as one of a directors’ cinema and in the perpetuation of that image, via production deals, film promotion and distribution, and popular criticism. Furthermore, it also

8

Authoring Hal Ashby

dramatically shaped the critical reception of the era due to scholarship’s acceptance of it as an almost singular reality.19 There can be little doubt that the conception of the director as cinema’s primary artistic force was being reinvigorated as a central component of American film critical discourse at precisely the same time that the American filmmakers who would dominate New Hollywood were falling under the sway of the French directors and critics who had first articulated the politique des auteurs in the 1950s.20 As a result, many of these filmmakers were influenced by both the films and the “theory.” At the same time, American film critics were being forced to confront auteur theory and its implications for watching, understanding, and writing about film. Even the likes of veteran film critic Pauline Kael, who famously and consistently argued against an auteur-based approach, had her own favorite directors whom she championed based on what she saw as their highly individual approaches to filmmaking. Understanding the development of a particular brand of auteur-based thinking, one that dominated much of Hollywood and American criticism in the 1970s, is vital when considering the impact of this dominance on both Ashby’s career and his subsequent reception by film studies. Within the historical privileging of the New Hollywood auteur, no scholar has yet taken the time to construct a strictly auteurist framework for Ashby and his films. Perhaps this is because it is difficult to categorize Ashby as an auteur in the sense that is most often applied to New Hollywood—a director in complete control of production, with a recognizable approach to theme and style.21 I contend, however, that there is another likely reason for this apparent oversight:  an in-depth analysis of Ashby’s work—his films and filmmaking practice—challenges or perhaps even undermines the auteurist project of New Hollywood scholarship. It is worth noting that, while nearly all film criticism of New Hollywood discusses the role of the auteur, not all of it has been driven by auteur theory. It is difficult for critics of the era to ignore the distinct contributions of performers (De Niro, Nicholson, Beatty, Fonda, Burstyn, et al.), producers (Robert Evans, John Calley, and actor-producers such as Beatty and Fonda), writers (Towne, Chayefsky, Goldman), cinematographers (Kovács, Zsigmond, Chapman, Wexler), and editors (Allen, Lucas, Schoonmaker, Murch). As Robert Stam argues, “The filmmaker is not an untrammeled artist; he or she is immersed in material contingencies, surrounded by the Babel-like buzz of technicians, cameras, and lights of the ‘happening’ which is the ordinary film shoot.”22 Richard Corliss made substantial efforts to promote an alternative, writerdriven analysis of film and to articulate a filmmaking strategy built on the concept of the “multiple auteur.”23 In the early 1970s, Graham Petrie articulated a coherent multiple-authorship approach in which he used formal analysis to argue that— depending on the particular production—cinematographers, writers, and performers could conceivably take authorial credit.24 Even when scholars do accept the possibility of the multiple-authorship of a film work, it can seem like a cloak draped over a deeper argument about how one particular author was so individualistic that his vision transcended the culture of multipleauthorship in which he was embedded. Alan Lovell and Gianluca Sergi describe the phenomenon in their monograph Making Films in Contemporary Hollywood:  “While writers often acknowledge the collective nature of filmmaking, their acknowledgement

Introduction

9

is usually a token one. Typically, the collective nature of filmmaking is declared to be obvious but, in the discussion that follows, the obvious is ignored and the focus is on the director.”25 Lovell and Sergi prove a rare exception, and their text (which is not specifically concerned with New Hollywood) describes precisely how a film’s authorship is necessarily the result of the collaborative process. Their work is part of the emerging body of scholarship that is challenging the traditional single-author understanding of Hollywood filmmaking. Among that work, and of particular importance to this book, is the writing of C. Paul Sellors, whose elaboration of a compelling approach to multiple-authorship underlies much of my own attempts to articulate a multiple-authorship intervention into New Hollywood studies. (Sellors is serious enough in his intent to challenge the single-author paradigm that he consciously eschews the standard practice of providing parenthetical attribution for films’ directors, a practice that I take up in this book as well.) It must be noted that a historically very different approach to multiple-authorship, one with its roots in the poststructuralist auteurist tradition, has been vigorously performed. Critics such as Geoffrey Nowell-Smith and Christian Metz, drawing on the work of Roland Barthes and others, argued for the multiple-authored nature of film work. Such critics have tended to work within a context of historical, authorial, and audience relationships in their interrogations of the single-author theory. In other words, they generally locate their multiple authors beyond or outside the film, in its reception, but not in the crafting of the film at the level of production. Thus, even in these cases, the focus remains on the director—and the distinction becomes the famous one of Hitchcock vs. “Hitchcock.”26 So while these re-examinations can be useful to any demythologizing of a strict auteurist reading of New Hollywood, their conception of the “author” is much more theoretical in nature than the practice-based inquiry that New Hollywood scholarship has been lacking. As a result, it tends to perpetuate the director-only model of analysis. Undertaking an approach to filmmaking that not only pays lip service to, but actually centers the concept of multiple-authorship is integral to any discussion of Ashby’s career. One might object that there is nothing new to the approach I am outlining in this introduction. The notion that New Hollywood—or any era of Hollywood for that matter—was highly collaborative is not a novel idea by any stretch. Even the most ardent auteurist would happily discuss Scorsese’s collaborative relationships with De Niro or Chapman, Thelma Schoonmaker or Michael Ballhaus. Directors as celebrated but disparate as Stanley Kubrick or John Cassavetes are well known for their own unique approaches to collaboration. However, once the nod has been made to the collaborative process, the discussion almost always returns to the director alone. It becomes necessary, then, to point out that multiple-authorship is not the same thing as collaboration, although the two are inextricably linked. Collaboration is a process—people come together, they work together, they share ideas. In describing film as collaborative, however, the possibility always remains for the argument to re-emerge that the director is the chief collaborator, the person who makes the final decision, and so the person who gets credit for all the decisions. Robert L.  Carringer takes this approach when he casts questions of authorship in terms of coercion and control and argues that a collaborative approach to authorship

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Authoring Hal Ashby

“ultimately enhances, not diminishes, the primary author.”27 I  would argue, however, that multiple-authorship is not concerned with “diminishment,” but rather with broadening our understanding not only of how a film is made, but the dialogic, polyphonic nature of its final “utterance.”28 It is a conceptualization that includes the film itself, in addition to the process of making the film. If collaboration indicates all these people worked on the film together, multiple-authorship recognizes that we can demarcate the distinct results of that process in the films: we can trace the authorial contributions of those collaborators. In doing so, we can recognize—we must recognize—the distinct authorial contributions to theme, or tone, or style, or any number of measurable categories of such people as screenwriters, cinematographers, editors, actors, and more. As an example, several writers, including Carringer29 as well as Pauline Kael30 and Jack Stillinger,31 have engaged in analyses of Citizen Kane (1941) that allow for multipleauthorship (some more successfully than others). In arguing for authorship from contributors in addition to director Orson Welles, they have conducted interviews and examined archival and production evidence to make claims for screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz and cinematographer Gregg Toland. Adding to this work, Philip Cowan performs close formal analysis of Toland’s cinematography both on Kane as well as on films he shot for directors John Ford and William Wyler, both before and after Kane.32 In doing so, Cowan is able to tease out a stylistic signature that is strictly Toland’s, thereby buttressing his argument for Toland’s authorial contribution to Kane. The combination of the approaches by these different writers allows for a dialogue of form and style that extends beyond the films that Welles directed to include Toland’s other work as well. Locating the filmmaking process and the resultant films within such a framework allows for an analysis that is at once both more nuanced and more open to a dialogic understanding not only of filmmaking, but also of film history.33

Methodology Performing such a re-examination of Ashby’s work likewise requires a multifaceted methodology that includes archival research, interviews with collaborators, historical contextualization, and formal analysis. The Hal Ashby Papers, which are housed in the Margaret Herrick Library of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles, California, help position Ashby within the political and economic climate of 1970s Hollywood. They also illuminate his often troubled relationships with studios and producers. There are countless letters between Ashby and studio representatives, or between Ashby’s lawyers and studio lawyers. There are also contracts, studio press releases, and a wealth of other documents related to Ashby’s personal life, political views and activism, and career. Such documents shed a great deal of light onto Ashby’s working methods—how he conceived of his projects (including many that were never completed), whom he wanted to work with, and how he envisioned their creative partnerships as an important strategy for making the best possible film. In doing so, they provide clear evidence—beyond Ashby’s own statements in interviews and seminars— of his collaborative approach to filmmaking.

Introduction

11

The archives are supplemented by interviews—published, unpublished, and some conducted myself—and in particular by Nick Dawson’s Being Hal Ashby:  Life of a Hollywood Rebel (2010). Dawson’s biography is mostly laudatory in its efforts to rehabilitate Ashby and his films. As a result, and quite usefully for this project, it teams with anecdotes about the making of the films and Ashby’s relationships with casts, crews, producers, and studios, particularly the ways Ashby encouraged—expected, even—his colleagues to contribute to the filmmaking process. Dawson also performs exhaustive work on the topic of Ashby’s drug use and, in doing so, provides a subtle but substantial clarification of some of the events surrounding Ashby’s late career setbacks, one that informs the discussion in Chapter 1 of this book. The struggles that Ashby faced in making his final films become a story, not so much of professional or artistic decline, but rather of how Hollywood’s reconfiguration in the post-blockbuster era found ways to shunt filmmakers such as Ashby aside. The recontextualization of his career directly relates to the reception of Ashby and his films by film critics and scholars writing during and since the New Hollywood era. Evaluating this reception requires some rehearsal of the many overlapping, sometimes contentious, approaches to authorship that dominated so much of 1960s and 1970s popular and academic discourse. My intent here is not so much to settle any lingering questions about which auteur “theory” may have been most accurate in its elucidation of director-driven authorship, nor, necessarily, to dismiss any of them completely. Rather, I intend to demonstrate how nearly all forms of auteurism—even of the poststructuralist, death-of-the-author variety—ended up valorizing the director as the seat of film authorship. In doing so, auteurist critics and scholars did not only create much of the context for the director-as-genius culture that pervaded Hollywood in the 1970s, but they also established a framework for popular and scholarly reception of the decade and its film and filmmakers since then. As a result, the canon that has been constructed around New Hollywood is heavily auteurist in nature, much to the detriment of a better understanding of the era. Finally, I  engage in a great deal of formal film analysis. The sense of multipleauthorship that pervades this book is one in which the fingerprints of various authors can be detected within any given film utterance. This requires close analysis not only of the films that Ashby directed, but also of other films on which his collaborators worked with different directors. In Part 2, this analysis focuses mainly on Ashby and the films he directed. One of the slights against Ashby has long been that his films have no recognizable style, and so he cannot be an auteur. While I do not hope to rescue him as an auteur, I do contend that he is clearly one of the primary authors of all his films and that his films do indeed display consistent approaches to theme, narrative, and style. However, as I demonstrate in Part three of the book, Ashby’s authorship is supplemented by his collaborators in ways that were vital to the films’ success.

Conclusion Hal Ashby, his films, and his approach to filmmaking practice are deserving of more sustained critical attention than they have received. This is not simply a matter of

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Authoring Hal Ashby

arguing for reconsideration of a previously misunderstood filmmaker, nor is it an attempt to redefine that filmmaker as a particular type of auteur. Rather, reconsidering Ashby, his films, and his film practice opens new lines of inquiry about New Hollywood, suggesting its films and filmmakers be re-viewed through a lens of collaboration and multiple-authorship. In delineating the presence of multiple-authorship in the films that Ashby directed, this book argues that Ashby and the films become, rather than marginal affairs, vital components to a redefined, varied, and finely nuanced understanding of New Hollywood.

Part One

History, Historiography, and Hal Ashby’s Reputation

1

Hal Ashby and the New Hollywood Establishment

Seventies Hollywood represents an era of transformation, innovation, and experimentation in film culture that marks it as an anomaly in the history of American studio production. There is little disagreement about this. For example, Lester Friedman describes the era as “a wrinkle in time fashioned by a confluence of events that turned the world upside down and put the madmen—at least for a short time—in charge of the asylum.”1 More prosaically but no less dramatically, David Cook claims, “The American film industry changed more between 1969 and 1980 than at any other period in its history except, perhaps, for the coming of sound.”2 While this anomaly’s occurrence is not in doubt, how it came about has been the subject of much critical discussion. Certainly all of the following contributing factors played significant roles throughout this transformative period: changes in the economic structure and function of Hollywood studios; technological development in film production; the influence of massive cultural and political upheaval within the United States; changing patterns in film viewership; and the first appearance of film school graduates as filmmakers. What continues to fascinate scholars and the general public alike is the particular and collective role each of these events or trends played in shaping the Hollywood culture of the period. In fact, recent years alone have seen the publication of dozens of book-length studies of the era, as well as genre studies and works about particular directors and performers. The difficulty of establishing Hal Ashby’s place on the fringe of a broader canon of 1970s Hollywood cinema has its roots in a widely held set of assumptions and markers about both Ashby and the era, many of which appear contradictory or even paradoxical. Ashby has often been described as a “maverick” or a “rebel,” terms that should denote him as central to some of the more commonly accepted descriptions of the New Hollywood era, yet he continues to hover on the margins of most mainstream conceptions of New Hollywood. This results not solely from his particular type of maverick having been an odd mixture of cantankerousness and idealism. Nor does it stem simply from his having made films that are difficult to classify because of their refusal to accept or replicate particular conventions of the era (although both of these must be read as factors in his marginalization). In short, the era itself has proved hard to define. Hollywood’s evolution has been a process of starts, stops, and new beginnings from the time of its infancy, yet few moments are as difficult to categorize simply as the

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transitional period between the mid-century breakdown of the vertically integrated studio system and the late 1970s re-entrenchment of a new system of horizontalized studio domination via conglomerate control that continues to typify Hollywood today. To determine Ashby’s place in such a chaotic production landscape, it is worth delineating just what New Hollywood was, how it got that way, and who benefited from its specific organizational architecture. For while Ashby was clearly an active participant in the era, he remains a peripheral figure in much recent work dedicated to exploring it. Ashby’s career as an editor and director of Hollywood films, which began in 1956 and ended in 1986, neatly encompasses the New Hollywood era: his work as an editor began during the waning days of the Classical period; he directed his first seven films during the height of New Hollywood; and he spent the final years of his career witnessing the unraveling of that era. However, he never achieved the institutional prowess within the studio system of many of his contemporaries, directors such as Altman, Scorsese, Coppola, or Friedkin, who were able to make increasingly extravagant demands on Hollywood studios throughout the decade while maintaining reputations as “mavericks.” As a result, although Ashby was respected as a filmmaker by his contemporaries, he never developed a reputation as one of New Hollywood’s dominant personalities, its star directors. This was partly due to Ashby’s own demeanor—his sense of disdain towards producers and others whom he regarded as being simply “money men.” However, it was also partly due to Ashby’s conception of a film director’s role, which differed from the widespread auteur-driven concepts of what a director should be. Ashby’s approach to filmmaking and his ideas about the kinds of films he wanted to make were forged in the heart of this complex era of change. On the one hand, Ashby wanted to make Hollywood films—films that would have as wide an audience as possible—so it was vital that he remain ensconced within the Hollywood system. He benefited from working within that system in that he was able to develop a highly collaborative film practice in which he could put a great deal of trust in and delegate a considerable amount of responsibility to his casts and crews. On the other hand, he was highly suspicious—even contemptuous—of the money-driven nature of Hollywood filmmaking, which led him to distrust and antagonize producers, studios, and production companies—even as he relied on them to fund his career. This particular combination of collaborative practice and institutional distrust limited Ashby’s ability to attain a position of power within the New Hollywood studio structure, however “alternative” or even “maverick” that structure might have seen itself as being. This in turn has led to film scholarship taking Ashby and his films less seriously than it does his contemporaries. Having a full understanding of the roles Ashby saw himself playing is vital to any discussion of how he positioned himself within—and was accommodated by—Hollywood, while never being held in the same esteem as the select group of star directors. This chapter, then, contends that because of his very individual approach to his career as a Hollywood film director, Ashby never became nor developed a reputation as an empowered, controlling 1970s-style auteur. The chapter begins by briefly examining the various definitions of New Hollywood and elucidating some of the major

Hal Ashby and the New Hollywood Establishment

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events and relevant arguments that mark the change from Old to New. Building on this foundation, the chapter explores the uneasy relationship Ashby had with New Hollywood as he attempted to remain part of the system while keeping it at a distance. The concept of what a successful Hollywood film director was and how he (and it was almost always “he”) should act changed rapidly during the era, and Ashby’s hesitance to embrace that concept fully was complicated by his unwillingness to embrace the system itself. With this in mind, the chapter goes on to explicate the factors, both industrial and personal, that kept Ashby from becoming central to the culture of New Hollywood filmmaking. In illustrating how the problematic nature of the debate about the meaning of “New Hollywood” is rooted in the era itself, I argue that Ashby’s peripheral positioning within the industry and the era has led directly to his continued marginalization within film studies.

The state of Ashby’s Hollywood By the time Ashby directed his first film, The Landlord, in 1970, Hollywood, as a production system, was in the midst of a massive upheaval. In addition to major changes to the old, vertically integrated studio system of production, distribution, and exhibition, there were changes in technology, aesthetic appreciation, understanding of generic elements, and the composition of audiences for new films. This is not to mention the growing influence of competitors—both close to home in domestic US television, and farther away in the form of exciting and newly accessible films from Europe and Asia. Because the upheaval in the Hollywood of the 1960s and 1970s comprises so many threads, it is difficult to demarcate exactly when or why Hollywood became “New.” In fact, the term “New Hollywood” has been used since at least 1959 to describe several of the successive waves of change that have advanced within the American film industry since the breakdown of the Classical-era studio system.3 While the roots of these transformations and their analyses have been outlined and performed elsewhere,4 it is worth noting a few of them in order to make clear how difficult it is to pinpoint a particular moment when Old Hollywood became New Hollywood and the effect this transition had on Ashby as a filmmaker and Hollywood figure. One generally accepted starting point for the demise of the Classical Hollywood system is what has come to be called the Paramount Decree, the 1948 Supreme Court decision that ordered the divorce of the major Hollywood studios from their exhibition holdings; in other words, the legal decision that studios could no longer own cinemas.5 Like most historical markers, the Paramount Decree is best understood as one point on a continuum of change, albeit a highly significant point. For example, while David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristen Thompson all posit that, “the Hollywood mode of production changed continually [between 1917 and 1960],”6 they acknowledge the profound impact the Paramount Decree had on how Hollywood films were subsequently made.7 Likewise, Murray Smith discusses the level of shock and instability that the breakup brought to Hollywood.8 Yet even this simple, mostly accepted starting point has been contested. David Welky argues that the anti-trust suits brought

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Authoring Hal Ashby

by the Federal Government might have broken up the vertical integration of the studio system much earlier (in the 1930s), if not for the Government’s reliance on Hollywood as its unofficial propaganda arm during the Second World War. While the danger of the potential dismantling of the studio system as a result of federal anti-trust legislation was temporarily allayed by studio rearguard action throughout the war years, the studios must have seen the breakup coming even as they tried to prevent it.9 Thus, while the studios did their best to protect and prolong vertical integration, changes to the system were taking place and studios were adapting to those changes before the reading of the Paramount Decree verdict. The Paramount Decree, however, was not in fact the first of the major court rulings to begin the dismantling of the studio system. In 1944, actor Olivia de Havilland successfully sued Warner Bros. in a California Court of Appeals over the extension of her seven-year contract by means of “suspension”—the process whereby studios would suspend an actor from her contract for refusing to take a particular role, and then add the accumulated time of suspension onto the end of an existing contract, thereby extending the contract indefinitely. The de Havilland case significantly shifted “negotiation power from studios to talent . . . allowing agents like MCA’s Lew Wasserman to usher in the era of top-dollar star salaries,” which gradually shifted the balance in power away from the studios to their stars.10 This shift would come to play a major role in the way films are produced and financed in Hollywood, including several of the films Ashby directed, most notably Shampoo (1975), with its producer-star Warren Beatty, and Coming Home (1978) with producer-star Jane Fonda. In addition to these legal blows to studio dominance, the ensuing years of 1948 to 1970 witnessed the rise in prominence of color and widescreen formats, the influence of television and foreign films,11 the introduction of a new ratings system, Lew Wasserman’s ingenious decision to incorporate individual actors, and the Screen Actors Guild (SAG) strike of 1960, which led to widespread studio acceptance of sharing percentages of films’ profits with actors.12 Furthermore, actors were not the only ones grasping for power in the wake of the Paramount Decree; the late 1950s and 1960s also saw the rise of a large number of independent production companies. These played an increasingly dominant role in the development and production of films. David Bordwell describes this as a shift from the “producer-unit system” of the studio era to a “package-unit system” that still dominates today.13 This shift was so dramatic, so rapid, that by the early 1960s there were over 160 different companies producing feature films in the United States, the majority of them “independent.”14 The effect of all these influences was, at least temporarily, to weaken the hold major studios had on filmmaking in the United States and to expand avenues to power for directors, stars, and independent producers. It took decades for this flux of new trends, business and industrial practices, and ownership battles to be resolved. Perhaps the most significant early development in this decades-long process of resolution came in 1966 when Paramount Studios was purchased by Gulf + Western, a multi-national conglomerate that had its roots in the Texas auto industry. By the mid-1970s, the conglomerate, run by Austrian-born Charles Bluhdorn, controlled an auto-parts company, New Jersey Zinc, Madison

Hal Ashby and the New Hollywood Establishment

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Square Garden in New  York (and its professional basketball and hockey franchises, the New York Knicks and the New York Rangers), Stax Records, Esquire magazine, and Simon & Schuster book publishers, all in addition to one of Hollywood’s premier film studios.15 Such a vast array of seemingly unrelated industries represented the first real step in Hollywood’s transformation from being a vertically integrated, film-only industry to co-existing as one component in a horizontally integrated network of conglomerations. This reconstructed system would come to define American filmmaking by the end of the New Hollywood era. Actually, Gulf + Western’s takeover of Paramount was not the first instance of a major Hollywood studio being bought out wholesale. Lew Wasserman’s talent agency MCA had set a precedent for studio takeover with the purchase of Universal in 1959. However, that deal’s overall impact on the repositioning of studios within a new Hollywood system of production was far less significant than Gulf + Western’s action. As a talent agency, MCA was seen as being part of the “business.” Furthermore, after the takeover, Wasserman was pressured by government antitrust regulators to divest of the talent agency component of MCA’s holdings in 1962. Thus MCA continued as the owner of Universal, and running Universal became its main business. In contrast, Paramount would become just one entity in its parent company’s vast network of holdings, film and nonfilm alike. The Gulf + Western takeover of Paramount was only the first instance of an entity outside the “business” wresting control of a major studio. This was quickly followed by Transamerica’s purchase of United Artists (1967), the merger of Warner Bros. with the Canadian company Seven Arts (1967) and that entity’s subsequent acquisition by Kinney National Services Corporation (which sold shoes, managed parking lots, and ran a string of funeral homes) in 1969, and the purchase of MGM by real estate financier Kirk Kerkorian, also in 1969. Each of these corporations handled their studio acquisitions differently, but all of them came into the business with a keen eye for profits. A complication arose, however, because this created the impression that the studios were now being run by “the suits.” At first, the Hollywood community looked upon this with great disdain. George Lucas said at the time, “the studios are corporations now and the men who run them are bureaucrats. They know as much about making movies as a banker does.”16 Thus, while Bluhdorn and others may have been savvy enough to appoint such insiders as Robert Evans and John Calley to run their newly acquired studios, among the film community the image long persisted that they were financial interlopers’ intent on turning Hollywood into even more of a bottom-line business than it already was.17 Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, however, the lack of specific film knowledge on the part of many of the new studio owners would come to serve the film directors of the ensuing decade. With a burgeoning youth population and the well-documented social upheaval of the late 1960s and early 1970s, a large portion of the audience for films was dramatically changing its viewing patterns, and it was the directors (along with their collaborators, including writers, editors, and cinematographers) who would first discern what this new generation of filmgoers wanted to see on the big screen. While this success would briefly give American filmmakers a level of independence and power that had rarely been seen before in Hollywood, the studio heads—be they movie men

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Authoring Hal Ashby

or bankers—would never relinquish complete control. Throughout the 1970s, any individual director’s level of independence generally depended on his hubris and intensity, his ability to sell himself, and the passion with which he embraced and promoted a vision of himself as an auteur. In the documentary film A Decade Under the Influence, writer and director Paul Schrader describes walking into a producer’s office with confidence: “and you just tell them, ‘I know what the audience wants . . . This is the luckiest day of your life because I have come into your office and I am going to save your ass because I am going to tell you how to make some money.’ ”18 Schrader’s claim may oversimplify the complexity of Hollywood film financing. However, there was definitely a sense, at least through the mid-1970s, that certain filmmakers had an understanding of what the movie-going public wanted and knew how to provide it. The persuasiveness with which any given director could sell that formulation could play a key role in determining whether a particular film got made and how much freedom the director had in making it.

Inside and outside the system Ashby’s formative years in Hollywood took place just as these trends were destabilizing the studio dominance of the Classical era, roughly during the period that Gerald Mast has labeled “Hollywood in Transition: 1946–1965.”19 Peter Biskind’s popular text Easy Riders, Raging Bulls traces the story of Ashby’s early days in Hollywood. In his typically breezy manner, Biskind writes: It was 1950. Ashby was broke. After three weeks pounding the pavements, he called his mother collect to ask for help. She accepted the call, but refused to help . . . [Four days later] he went to the California Board of Unemployment and asked them to find him a job at a studio. They found one: operating a Multilith at Universal . . . The following year he became an apprentice editor at Republic, then at Disney. He and [Jack] Nicholson both worked at Metro in 1956 and 1957. Hal was an assistant editor.20

In his zeal to tell a good story, Biskind perpetuates a commonly accepted anecdote in which Ashby arrived in Hollywood, got a job right away, and worked his way up the ladder to director. This is partially accurate, but, as is the case with much of his description of Ashby’s life, Biskind’s recounting favors elements of apocrypha over fact. Ashby arrived in Los Angeles, with a friend, in 1949, and they were indeed broke; they had forty dollars between them and no prospects. But Ashby worked odd jobs for nearly a year before walking into the unemployment office and the Multilith job at Universal, and that position was only temporary. After his stint at Universal ended, Ashby returned to working a string of odd jobs.21 He would not land his first assistant editor’s job until the autumn of 1955.22 But, as Biskind intimates, the Multilith job did become the impetus to Ashby’s work in editing. The time Ashby spent working at Universal convinced him to become serious about a career in the film industry, and

Hal Ashby and the New Hollywood Establishment

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to him, the best job in Hollywood was that of director. He briefly considered becoming an assistant director, but “the directors he spoke with kept repeating the same advice. ‘Get into editing,’ ” so “during his time at Universal, Ashby made it his aim to learn as much as he could about editing.”23 Once he finally did acquire an editing position,24 he was required by union rules to spend eight years as an apprentice before he could become a full editor, which he did working on films by directors such as George Stevens, Franklin J. Schaffner, and William Wyler (on the latter of which he generally worked closely with editor Robert Swink). The first film for which he received a full editor’s credit was Tony Richardson’s The Loved One (1965). Thus, Ashby’s early career in Hollywood occurred exactly during the years that scholars such as Schatz, Cook, and Bordwell describe as an era of transition between Classical and New Hollywood. Consequently, much of his practical formative training as an editor was grounded in Classical-Hollywood era approaches, as practiced by Swink and others. On the other hand, his conception of how the business of Hollywood worked and of the relationship between filmmakers and film producers was heavily influenced by the new, talentdriven production model that had its roots in the demise of the old studio system and which would play a major role in the way that Hollywood films were packaged, shot, and distributed in the 1970s. Ashby’s route to directing films was quite unlike those taken by his contemporaries in 1970s Hollywood. He neither attended university film school like such directors as Scorsese and Coppola, nor did he develop his filmmaking practice by directing other media as did Altman with industrial films and television, Arthur Penn and Mike Nichols with theater, or William Friedkin with television documentaries. However, learning the business as the industry was changing, he experienced the transitions from a variety of vantage points. He worked on B-movies, produced independently (The Naked Hills, La Salle Productions/Allied Artists), films financed completely by a major studio (The Big Country, United Artists), and, perhaps most importantly, several “package deal” co-productions, most significantly with the Mirisch Company, which co-produced five of the films Ashby worked on as assistant editor or editor and also coproduced (with United Artists) the first film he directed (The Landlord). Consequently, Ashby’s on-set training imbued him with the notion that each picture would live or die on its own merits, regardless of which type of entity might be backing it. This was a direct by-product of a film-business tutelage undertaken in the midst of the studio system’s demise. According to Ashby and many of his former collaborators, he learned three other fundamental lessons during his time as editor that would affect his filmmaking and his position within the industry for the rest of his career. The first was a strong belief that much of filmmaking’s vitality comes from its nature as a collaborative medium. Ashby began to develop this conception of filmmaking during his earliest years as an assistant editor, working with Robert Swink for William Wyler. Interviewed about Wyler in 1985, Ashby discusses Wyler’s influence on his own filmmaking: It was that very strong attitude about being able to listen to what other people had to say, like the first thing I was hit with when [Wyler] said, “Let us hear what you

22

Authoring Hal Ashby have to say.” It’s something that I’ve carried and it’s the only way for me . . . It was through [Wyler and Swink] that I learned what it meant to direct a film; I didn’t have a clue before that. And what was good about it was bringing it up, making one talk about what their ideas and thoughts were. That’s the creative process.25

This communal approach to filmmaking—Ashby’s actual celebration of collaboration— ran counter to the notions of the auteur that the industry was cultivating in the 1970s. Sound engineer Jeff Wexler, who worked in some capacity on all of Ashby’s films except his first, told me emphatically, “Hal was NOT an auteur” (emphasis in the original). Elaborating, he describes Ashby in a similar manner as Ashby had described Wyler: He did have very strong opinions and a well thought out vision, and he could be very stern with crew people who put up resistance to doing things his way. Hal was very good at making his case, however, and usually after a brief discussion, we would do things his way. The mere fact of the discussion I think removes Hal from the category of auteur.26

In Wexler’s description, Ashby takes the role of director very seriously; at the same time, however, he recognizes how that role is one of many on a film set that has practical contributions to make in the creative practice of making a film. The truth is, most of Ashby’s contemporaries relied just as heavily on collaboration as he did. What distinguishes him from them was their public willingness to embrace and advance the concept of the auteur—the notion of director as all-powerful. Arthur Penn described how “Enormous power had devolved upon the directors because the studio system had kind of collapsed. We were really running it.”27 As David Cook and many others have pointed out, directors of the era cherished this perception and it rapidly became a key strategy of New Hollywood distribution: “Auteurism thus became a marketing tool that coincided nicely with the rise of college-level film education among the industry’s most heavily courted audience segment.”28 Ashby’s determination to lend consistent, vocal support (via interview and publicity events) to a collaborative rather than an auteurist approach to filmmaking differentiates him from his contemporaries.29 Predictably, Ashby’s approach contributed to his popularity among Hollywood actors and film crews. On the other hand, it also made it easy for studio heads and producers to relegate him outside the cadre of auteurist filmmakers. In this sense, one can demarcate a direct connection between the way Ashby was positioned within the New Hollywood industry—by both himself and the industry leaders he worked with—and the way his career and reputation have been received and accommodated (or not) by film scholarship. A second lesson Ashby took from his career as editor, one that would remain fundamental to his vision of filmmaking throughout his career, was that American films could be commercially successful and politically relevant at the same time. After Ashby achieved full editor status, he spent the latter half of the 1960s working closely with director Norman Jewison.30 While Wyler and Swink had served as Ashby’s first guides

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into the world of Hollywood production, that role was taken over by Jewison, who also came to mentor Ashby in the ways of incorporating political subject matter into his filmmaking. Jewison made two successful political films during the era:  The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming (1966), a Cold War satire about a Soviet submarine that mistakenly surfaces in a small Massachusetts seaside town; and In the Heat of the Night (1967), a crime drama set in the American south that revolves around the explosive racial dynamics when a northern black police detective (Sidney Poitier) and a small-town southern sheriff (Rod Steiger) must work together to solve a murder that might have been racially motivated. To modern eyes, these films may come across as labored in the way they so earnestly try to make strident, liberal political points. At the time, however, the filmmakers believed they were making serious statements couched within popular film entertainments (a war satire and a crime thriller, respectively). In the Heat of the Night, coming as it did while the Civil Rights debate was still raging, and with its positioning of Poitier’s Virgil Tibbs as a self-assured, independent black man holding his own in the racist south, was a particularly striking example of popular film as political expression. And yet, in addition to their charged political themes, both films delivered narratives compelling enough to draw huge mainstream audiences.31 About In the Heat of the Night, cinematographer Haskell Wexler, who shot films with both Jewison and Ashby, said: “We wanted to make a film that would make money, that people would see, and would express our awareness that progress was being made and that human values can supersede bigotry.”32 This propensity for making popular films that tackled political themes in a thoughtful albeit sometimes comical manner would stay with Ashby throughout his career and would become a marker of noticeable difference from many of his 1970s peers. Few American filmmakers of the decade (if any) so consistently addressed political topics—both in the broad sense of governmental and institutional decision-making and in the quieter, “personal is political” sense—as Ashby would in each of his films. A final lesson Ashby learned as an editor, particularly under Jewison’s tutelage, was a distrust of producers.33 According to Dawson, “Jewison had long told Ashby that [producers] were ‘the enemy,’ moneymen who couldn’t be allowed to interfere with their creativity, and Ashby . . . felt very strongly about this.”34 It is not mere coincidence that Ashby’s distrust of producers coincided with the conglomerate takeovers of the Hollywood studios, when much of the industry was already put on edge by an invasion of “moneymen” (George Lucas’s “bureaucrats”). In Jewison, Ashby found a teacher who reinforced his skepticism and nourished a distrust of producers and “suits” that would last throughout his career, often to quite detrimental effect. Thus, by the time Ashby directed his first film in 1970, he had developed a fiercely independent-minded approach to filmmaking, at least in terms of the relationship between the “talent” and the “money.” In regards to the talent, he celebrated filmmaking as a collaborative process, often acting in defense of cast and crewmembers who might be having their own difficulties with producers. At the same time, he maintained a belief that Hollywood films had the ability to make personal statements while being politically relevant. This combination of traits sets Ashby apart from his

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contemporaries, and goes some length towards illustrating the difficulties of placing him within received definitions of New Hollywood and how it worked. It also served to set him apart from the financial backers he would depend on throughout his career to get his movies made—a gulf that quite frequently became nearly unbridgeable and set him up for one power struggle after another.

On the outside: Ashby’s fractious relationships with producers One such struggle, where an intractable gap between Ashby and his financial backers enabled a production to devolve into a complete shambles, occurred with his final film as a director, 8 Million Ways to Die (1986). The film was shot in the autumn of 1985, with principal photography wrapping on November 26. The production was twenty-six days behind schedule, but nearly $3 million under budget. The film had been plagued by troubles from early in pre-production and throughout the shooting, with Ashby and the film’s production company, Production Sales Organization (PSO), developing a contentious relationship due to circumstances surrounding the script, the budget, casting, location, and the film’s ending.35 Nearly three weeks into post-production, in midDecember of 1985, PSO took control of the entirety of the filmed material. They barred Ashby and his editor, Bob Lawrence, from seeing or working with the film. Ashby was fired the next day. Backed by the Director’s Guild of America (DGA), he sued PSO in Los Angeles Superior Court, and he was deposed over three days in January 1986. The suit was eventually arbitrated by a DGA panel and, while though technically settled in Ashby’s favor, it awarded him only $550,000 of the $60 million he had been seeking (for punitive damages and damages to his reputation).36 It was an ignominious way for Ashby’s filmmaking career to come to an end, even though at the time he had no way of knowing that it would be his last feature film.37 During the deposition, Ashby makes several statements that shed light on his position within and attitude towards the business of filmmaking in Hollywood. He spends much of his testimony outlining the offence he felt, as a former editor, on having a film taken away from him during the editing process, especially as his contract with PSO stipulated that he was allowed “full and meaningful consultation” on every aspect of the film. More importantly, in a contentious back and forth with a PSO lawyer, Ashby outlines an understanding of film production that had been his working model for nearly twenty years. In a discussion about “creative control”—specifically both what that term generally means in the industry and who had such control on 8 Million Ways to Die—the following exchange took place during the first day of the deposition. PSO lawyer Drapkin is identified as “Q,” “A” represents Ashby, and Mr. West is Ashby’s lawyer; additionally, Mr. Roth was a co-producer not affiliated with PSO who had ceded his share of creative control to Ashby, and Mr. Damon was the head of PSO. In the original document, Mr. Drapkin is sometimes identified as “Q” and sometimes as “Mr. Drapkin.” I have maintained the original text: Q. Would an example of creative control, incidentally, be that if you were dubbing and dealing with soundtrack and you liked the sound one way and the producer

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Mr. Roth, Mr. Damon, liked it another way, that the final call would be yours on the dub? Mr. West: I object to the form of the question. Mr. Damon wasn’t the producer of this film. Mr. Drapkin: I said Mr. Damon or the producer. A. The answer would be the same. If it is the way I like it, that is the way I would like it. That would be what I would want. Q. All right. And if you had creative control, that is what you would be able to get, right? Isn’t that what creative control means to you? A. Does creative control mean that is what you get? Yes. Creative control means that is what you get unless they decide they don’t want to pay for it. It costs money to make movies, and if they say they don’t want to pay for it, then there isn’t any creative control any more, is there? It is real simple. Q. If two choices cost the same amount of money. A. If two choices cost the same amount of money—doesn’t matter what the cost is. I am talking about if they decide to pay for it. Q. You have got creative control but they never have to take your decision because they have business control? A. They have the purse strings. If they decide not to pay for it, I can have all the control in the world, and if they haven’t anybody to pay to do it, it doesn’t get done.39

His language here may be a bit slippery, but Ashby expresses his stance:  ultimately, creative control should lie with the director, and in an ideal world, the final cut of the film would reflect the artistic vision of the filmmakers. Yet, at the same time, he is keenly aware that films in Hollywood do not get made without money, and that the people who control the money will almost always have some stake in controlling the film as well. From his very first film and throughout his career, Ashby fought repeated battles with producers and studios over what would go into the films he directed and who had the power to decide. Despite the critical and sometimes financial success of his films, he was repeatedly chastised, warned, cajoled, and threatened by producers who would not accept his former successes as proof that he had a compelling vision or that he was competent enough to make a film in a way that would be financially successful. During the 1970s, when Hollywood was still reconsolidating itself in the wake of so many industry and cultural upheavals, Ashby sometimes won these battles. However, even when he lost them, he was still trusted enough to turn in what he thought should be the final cut of one of his films, even if studios would then demand changes. That the films he directed met with increasing financial and critical success throughout the decade contributed to his reputation as a maverick who might be difficult to work with but one who achieved worthy results. By the 1980s, however, when blockbusters and high-concept films were becoming more desirable in the industry, producers increasingly felt little need to afford Ashby (and others) any kind of patience. One ironic result of this being that, in Ashby’s case, the director they wanted was also an editor, but each of Ashby’s final three films were taken away from him in the editing process (perhaps

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only coincidentally, these three films were also commercial flops). Several examples will illustrate both how Ashby had faced this type of treatment throughout his career, long before 8 Million Ways To Die, and how, when afforded a modicum of trust in all the phases of production, he delivered “successful” films. When the films were taken away from him, though, the results were vastly different. During his first stint as director, on The Landlord, such skepticism about Ashby’s ability to deliver a quality film is understandable. He had yet to direct a Hollywood production. In fact, he was only given The Landlord to direct because Norman Jewison, who had been hired to helm the film, arranged for Ashby to direct it while agreeing to stay on himself as producer.39 Although executives at the Mirisch Company (who co-produced, along with United Artists) were familiar with Ashby, having produced four of Jewison’s films on which he had worked, Ashby was seen as a potentially risky investment when it came to directing. Still, he was given a great deal of latitude while making the picture. He had full say over casting and permission to shoot on location in Brooklyn. Furthermore, he faced no objections to his decision to move accommodation for cast and crew from Manhattan to rental properties in the Park Slope area of Brooklyn, the neighborhood in which much of the film was set.40 However, even with this freedom, the producers were wary of Ashby’s approach to filmmaking. Walter Mirisch was upset about the film’s look, claiming it was too dark for a comedy,41 and the company sent regular missives from the West Coast voicing their concerns about the shooting schedule and budget overruns (the shoot eventually went several days over schedule and $400,000 over its original $2 million budget). In the face of these complaints, Ashby developed a tactic that he would resort to during troublesome times on many of his films—he simply ignored them.42 In Ashby’s mind, his behavior was a matter of protecting the films from the meddling of the “moneymen,” an attitude that would plague him with a reputation for being “difficult” for much of his career. While the consternation of the Mirisch brothers may be typical of producers towards first-time, unproven directors, it was during post-production that Ashby encountered a situation that would regularly frustrate his filmmaking intentions: the truism that, as he would later state in his 8 Million Ways to Die deposition, “if they decide not to pay for it, then there isn’t any creative control anymore.” Since his early days as an assistant editor, Ashby had developed the practice of editing visual sequences to the rhythms of the music he was listening to at the time.43 While editing The Landlord, he had been listening to the music of Neil Young, which he wanted to comprise most of the film’s soundtrack. Ashby and Young spent six weeks together developing the plan to use both previously recorded and newly composed songs, and Ashby worked closely with his editors (William A. Sawyer and Edward Warschilka) to create rhythmic matches between cuts and existing Young tracks. While Young was composing new music for the film, United Artists informed Ashby that they would “require 50 percent ownership of the publishing rights to Young’s music. As Young himself only owned 25 percent— his record company held the other 75 percent—the deal was suddenly in crisis.”44 The deal eventually fell through, and Ashby had to forgo using Young’s music, replacing it with original music by long-time Bob Dylan collaborator Al Kooper and the Staples

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Singers.45 It was a solution that ended up working very well for the film, adding subtext to its themes of interracial relationships in America. But the notion that his artistic conception of his first film could be upended by an argument over rights percentages infuriated Ashby and reinforced his belief that producers did not have at heart the best interest of the films they were bankrolling. On January 8, 1970, before the soundtrack crisis was resolved, Ashby wrote a long letter to Jewison delineating in great detail his complaints about United Artists, particularly the manner in which their decisions were distorting his vision. At one point he writes: If I can reach Neil, I’ll ask him, as my friend, to give, and give, and let them all take. If I am unable to reach him, or he is unable to give, for whatever reasons, then we will move immediately to get someone else . . . but from this point on, I will never again let myself be put in a position where someone, or some thing, can dictate who I must use in the creating of my film, and especially in an area as important as the music. I know they aren’t telling me who I must use, but they sure as hell are telling me who I can’t use, and it all has to do with money. It doesn’t have one damn thing to do with creativity. So I say Fuck UA and fuck anybody else who feels they have to put the possibility of some remote profit in the way of my doing what I feel is the best thing for my film.46

This struggle with the commercial side of filmmaking would bedevil Ashby throughout his career. Early on, his inability to surmount this obstacle could be seen as a result of his films not attaining the commercial success of those of some of his contemporaries; because his early films did not generate enormous revenues, he could not command the same level of respect and influence as directors such as Mike Nichols, Arthur Penn, or Peter Bogdanovich. Furthermore, because he was reluctant to take on the mantle of auteur, there was never a metamorphosis of his reputation as a “maverick” into that of “genius” as there would be with other filmmakers who had a reputation for being difficult, such as Altman, Coppola, or Friedkin. So he was never able to use the sheer force of his personality to get his way in these battles—to walk into an office and demand respect in the fashion that Schrader described. Moreover, even when the commercial success of his films did improve dramatically from his fourth film (Shampoo) onward, he continued to be hampered by studio doubts about his working methods and decision-making. Additionally, it was not only over production that Ashby had battles to fight. In the case of The Landlord and later films, he was also constantly at odds with studios over how to market and promote his films. The Landlord is a difficult film to categorize in typical Hollywood terms. Like most of Ashby’s films, it does not easily conform to one specific genre. It is a dark comedy—with moments of both cynicism and levity—which foregrounds questions of gender, class, and especially race in the United States in the guise of an ostensible fish-out-of-water farce. Elgar Enders (Beau Bridges) is a young man in his twenties, white and very rich, who still lives at home with his family in their palatial estate on Long Island, New York (shot on location in Great Neck). At the beginning of the film, Elgar decides it’s time to leave home, so he buys a brownstone

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apartment building in what was then the predominantly working-class black neighborhood of Park Slope in Brooklyn, New York. His plan is gradually to evict all of the tenants, each of whom is African-American, and remodel the entire building, including ripping out all the floors to the skylight and hanging a giant chandelier from the ceiling. The fish-out-of-water elements come early in the film as Elgar tries to find the appropriate ways to communicate with his new tenants, whom he both patronizes (mainly because he is their landlord) and fears (mainly because they are black, but also because several of them are eccentric in ways for which Elgar’s sheltered upbringing has not prepared him). However, as Elgar slowly comes to see the complicated nature of his plans (which include tenants outright refusing to pay their rent, let alone agreeing to move out, or the black militants who distrust him at every turn), various types of social commentary come to the fore. Elgar is embarrassed by his racist family (who have black servants), but at the same time is an affront to his tenants. He wants to be “progressive” and treat his tenants as equals, but the entire impetus for his project rests on a type of institutional racism that Elgar is utterly blind to. He thinks that being “kind” to his tenants proves he is not racist, while remaining unable to see the inherent racism in a rich white man being able to control the destiny of several black families simply because he wants a beautiful apartment building. Elgar’s situation becomes more complicated when he falls in love with Lani (Marki Bey), a light-skinned black woman (whom he first mistakes for white) who does not live in the building but works as a dancer in the neighborhood. At the same time, though, he has an affair with Francine (Diana Sands), a tenant from his building who is married to Copee (Lou Gossett), a radical militant who may also be insane. Elgar gets deeper into trouble after Francine becomes pregnant with his baby. Copee finds out, tries to kill him with an axe, and is subsequently taken away in an ambulance. Lani, who, in a subplot, must deal with the aspersions of her “realer,” “blacker” dancing colleagues, also finds out about the pregnancy and must decide whether to stay with Elgar or not. Through all of this, even as Elgar tries to convince his conservative parents that he loves his black girlfriend, he always has the option to leave the situation behind. Many of his tenants are well aware of this, and well aware of Elgar’s hypocrisy. In one of the film’s most effective set pieces, there is a party at the apartment of Professor DuBoise, the building’s resident black pride elder who holds classes in the basement for some of the neighborhood children. Elgar arrives at the party, meets the tenants and neighbors, and flirts with Francine. He then finds himself surrounded by a circle of black men and women who tell him what it’s like to “be black” in that day and age and what it’s like to “feel pride for the first time.” The sequence is shot and edited so that the tenants deliver one coherent monologue, but with each of them taking turns speaking the lines individually in a series of close-ups spoken directly into the camera, and so directly to the viewer.47 The “monologue” is intercut with shots of Elgar as a child learning about American civics at school, and Elgar standing alone on a squash court, drink in hand (the squash court as a symbol of upper-class leisure is a recurring motif in the film). As the monologue winds down, there is a brief pause and one of the men says in close-up, with a smile on his face, “You whities screamin’ about miscegenation . . .” and laughs.

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This is followed by a cut to a close-up of a different man who finishes the speech: “and you done watered down every race you ever hated.” This moment takes the film beyond any pretence of being simple comedy. “Miscegenation” is certainly a worry of Elgar’s parents later in the film (especially his mother, who talks about “open hybridization” and worries about his son marrying a “negress”). But the concept of “watering down” can be read as a very pointed foreshadowing of Elgar’s situation with Francine. After she becomes pregnant, he abandons her emotionally, and when the baby is born, he makes it clear that he wants nothing to do with fatherhood. Francine decides to put the baby up for adoption and tells Elgar, “I want him adopted as white. I want him to grow up casual, like his daddy.” This is her parting shot at Elgar, but would also seem to confirm the partygoers’ notions about race relations in America: the son of a black woman being raised white and “casual” in his relations towards women and minorities is just the sort of “watered-down” transformation they were talking about. The history of the representation of mixed-race couples in Hollywood is complicated: “miscegenation” was forbidden by the Production Code, but mixed-race couples did find their way into nonstudio American films throughout the Production Code era. Even so, in 1970 it was still a taboo subject in much of America—it had only been in 1967, the year of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, that the United States Supreme Court ruled anti-miscegenation laws as unconstitutional in Loving v. Virginia. The Landlord’s depiction of the two mixed-race relationships is frank without being exploitative. Elgar leaves Francine because he is shallow and callous, because he does not love her, because she is still married to Copee, and because he feels shame about having abandoned her, but not, so it seems, because she is black. His relationship with Lani is more complicated. As the film ends, Elgar leaves the apartment building behind (in the care of Francine), having disappointed even those residents who wanted to like him. He then decides to raise his and Francine’s baby himself and takes the baby to Lani, who is understandably angry and confused. In the film’s final scene, she takes the baby from him and walks off up the street, but not before yelling an angry “come on” at him. He follows her, the credits role, and the open ending leaves viewers never to discover how the situation will play out. The film’s depiction of late 1960s race relations in the United States might have been highly controversial for the time—Roger Ebert described the film as “a more honest, if less optimistic, portrait of American race relations than we usually see in the movies” (1970), and Derek Malcolm called it “provoking” (1971). But while the film received widespread positive reviews from publications including the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the Village Voice, it failed to attract a wide audience, so any impact it might have had as a topic of controversy went largely unnoticed. The Landlord can still be read, however, as an indictment of white America’s treatment of and attitude towards black America. Elgar is particularly colonially minded in his treatment of the black tenants. His status as a rich white male allows him to take what he wants—including property—and use it for personal or financial gain: he abandons the people who trust him, and he leaves when the situation becomes difficult. But the film adds hope to its indictment. Elgar always seems to think he is doing the right thing, and he does, in the end, attempt to take some responsibility for his actions; he

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accepts the guardianship of his child, and he tries to repair his relationship with Lani. Consequently, the film avoids a typical Hollywood rendering of the mixed-race relationship as doomed to failure.48 The film’s depiction of race is not all that sets it apart as unconventional for its time. While the main story is told in linear fashion, the narrative is often broken up by fantasy sequences, flashbacks to Elgar’s childhood (or what may be false memories; this is never made explicitly clear), and instances of breaking the fourth wall when characters address the camera directly.49 It features such future Ashby hallmarks as ambiguous endings and the interweaving of diegetic and extra-diegetic music. Additionally, it is quite explicit in its use of language—including early (for Hollywood) uses of the word “fuck,”50 an issue that would become a significant problem for Ashby and the third film he directed, The Last Detail (1973). Keeping all this in mind, it may be difficult to understand why the Mirisches were so insistent on releasing and promoting the film as a ribald comedy. They had seen the dailies, and both they and United Artists (UA) were reportedly happy with the finished product, especially when, after a limited release, the film began to garner its very positive reviews. They seem to have thought that the comedy angle would sell the film to a young audience, especially if they ratcheted up the sex appeal. Thus, UA chose an ad campaign that hinted at a broadly comic sex romp. Writing about the film in 1981, Paul Frizler observes: “Offering sophisticated pleasures, [it] did not get the advertising campaign it deserved and did not do as well as it should have.”51 Even in hindsight, it is difficult to say with any precision what type of advertising campaign a film “deserves.” Certainly, with films such as The Magnificent Seven (1960), West Side Story (1961), and The Pink Panther (1963) along with many others, the Mirisches had worked together well with UA to package and promote a wide array of idiosyncratic but highly successful films. Furthermore, in producing several of the Norman Jewison films on which Ashby had worked, the company had developed a solid working relationship with Ashby. So it seems highly unlikely that they would want to undermine him or the film in any way that might weaken the film’s earning potential. However, as solid as their working relationship with Ashby had been, in their eyes he had already proven difficult in the areas of the film’s look, schedule overruns, and the soundtrack situation. Thus there was little reason to compromise with him when it came time to develop the film’s marketing strategy. It does seem somewhat odd, however, that the producers would look at the film’s early critical success—based, as it was, mainly on the film’s deft handling of controversial subject matter—and decide to promote it via a strategy based on the film as a genial sex romp. UA seems to have realized their mistake quickly and eventually pulled the ads in favor of a different strategy. But by then it was too late. With its “R” rating and badly managed ad campaign, the film ended up taking in $1.5  million, which disappointed Ashby immensely, especially as in his estimation the film had never been given the opportunity to find its proper audience.52 On the back of the Neil Young fiasco, Ashby regarded the marketing campaign as another early example of how producers could interfere with creative ideas about what a film should be and how it should be promoted. From that point forward in his career, Ashby would try to have written into his contracts some form

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of consent over his films’ marketing campaigns, but even when such consent was a part of his contract, studios would often go against his wishes and market the films as they so desired. That the studios would attempt to appeal to the youth audience is not surprising. Ashby’s perception of studio missteps in marketing the film was representative of a major conceptual gap between Classical and New Hollywood understanding of audience tastes that had been growing throughout the long period of transition that began in the late 1950s. The success of such films as Bonnie and Clyde (1967), The Graduate (1967), and Easy Rider (1969) had taken old Hollywood completely by surprise and had contrasted considerably with the unexpected but often total failure of more standard, big-budget fare of the same era. By the time of The Landlord’s release in 1970, Hollywood executives had finally begun to realize that a new audience was emerging— a demanding audience with tastes antithetical to those of their parents. The Landlord was a film well suited for its time. That it did not reach the audience it might have represents another example of the gaping misunderstanding between the filmmakers and the producers and studio whose job it was to represent and promote the film they had produced. Such misunderstandings, during shooting, postproduction, and marketing, would become typical of Ashby’s career. On his next film, Harold and Maude (1971), the distrust of Ashby started even before he was hired to direct the picture. Peter Bart, a close assistant of Robert Evans at Paramount, first had the idea of asking Ashby to direct the odd film about a love affair between a twenty-year-old man and an eighty-year-old woman. Although Bart thought that the film had a potential market, he also supposedly told Evans, “if it doesn’t work, we’ll blame it on Ashby, say he went crazy.”53 In fact, even in the earliest stages of pre-production, Ashby felt his choices were being undermined by the studio. In a long letter to Robert Evans from December 1970, Ashby offered to leave the production for a variety of reasons—including issues with the budget, potential on-set auditors, and Ashby’s choice of cinematographer.54 He complained that “Paramount’s faith and trust in us could be scaled at about one-fifteenth of an inch” and ended the letter with the despairing postscript, “I feel I could make this film about as funny as the Viet Nam war.”55 Ashby was eventually convinced to stay with the film. However, Paramount, like United Artists before them, continued to meddle throughout production. Robert Evans tried to remove one of the film’s key scenes, Harold in bed with Maude, and fought Ashby over the ad campaign. “Paramount attempted to attract a broader audience by representing it as a heart-warming film about the friendship between a young man and an old woman,”56 a strategy that failed miserably. The film opened and closed in most parts of the country in less than a week. It did, however, play in some spots—Baltimore and Minneapolis, for example—for much longer, and thanks to campus viewings and Paramount re-releases, Harold and Maude finally recouped its $1.3 million budget in 1983.57 The list goes on. On his third film, The Last Detail, Columbia fought Ashby over the length of the film and its use of profanity, and almost chose not to release it widely until Jack Nicholson won the Best Actor award at Cannes that year. Ashby’s problems with producer/star Warren Beatty on his next film Shampoo are well documented, with

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Beatty and his director clashing over shot selections, number of takes, line readings, and even editing. On Being There (1979) Ashby had to fight to keep the now iconic ending of Peter Sellers’s protagonist Chance walking on water across a pond. And as the 1980s progressed, Ashby’s relationships with producers and studios rapidly deteriorated. While Ashby’s troubles on 8 Million Ways to Die have been briefly outlined above, perhaps the greatest indignities he faced came in his three-picture deal with Lorimar (which included Being There).58 The relationship was fraught with tension and distrust from early on (with Lorimar joining the long line of producers who mismanaged the marketing of a film, in this case, Being There, the advertising of which Ashby described as “a lie”). The relationship reached its nadir in the late summer and early autumn of 1981. In the spring of 1981, while Ashby was in the midst of editing the third and final picture for Lorimar, Lookin’ to Get Out (1982), Dustin Hoffman approached him to direct his upcoming film Tootsie (Pollack 1982). Hoffman had been in talks with Ashby since the late 1970s about the possibility of the two of them working together,59 and in Tootsie they finally found a project that seemed right to both of them. Ashby spent the summer of 1981 working on the script, casting the film, hiring a crew,60 and scouting locations, while still editing Lookin’ to Get Out in hopes of readying it for an autumn release. As late as October 3, 1981, Ashby was still set to direct Tootsie, but on October 6, one of his lawyers received a letter from Columbia vice president, Kenneth Lemberger, stating: This is to confirm our telephone conversation of October 5 in which Arnie Messer and I  informed you that Columbia has withdrawn its offer of employment to Hal Ashby for his services as Director of the motion picture tentatively titled “TOOTSIE.” Consequently, there will be no further negotiation of the terms of Mr. Ashby’s proposed employment.61

A letter from Lorimar’s lawyers to Columbia (October 7) reads, in part: Please be advised that Hal Ashby is not free to perform any services for Columbia or any other person prior to completion of all services for Lorimar (including delivery of a final print acceptable to Lorimar) on the property entitled “Lookin’ to Get Out.” Any contract, agreement, understanding or commitment which interferes with Ashby’s obligations to devote his full time services to Lorimar at the present time will be viewed by Lorimar as interference with its contractual relationship with Ashby as well as interference with Lorimar’s prospective business advantage.62

Over the next few days letters were sent back and forth from lawyers representing Ashby, Columbia, and Lorimar. Ashby’s lawyers found themselves in the position of having to argue against both other parties—that Lorimar was not free to prevent him from working on Tootsie, and that Columbia was not free to fire him from the film. Despite Ashby’s contract with Lorimar stipulating that his agreement with them was nonexclusive and that he could accept deals from other companies,63 and despite

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his having signed a contract with Columbia and spending several months on Tootsie pre-production, Ashby’s fortunes once again fell victim to the vagaries of producer decision-making. Because Ashby’s contract with Columbia, which promised him $1.5  million, was contingent on Hoffman making a formal commitment, which he had not yet done, Columbia chose not to pay him. So for his work over the preceding months, he received nothing. At this point in Ashby’s career, he had directed one recent critical and financial flop (Second-Hand Hearts 1981), but was still well regarded as the director of his two previous films, Coming Home and Being There. That a director of such highly admired and acclaimed films could be treated with such disdain is testament to Ashby’s lack of power and the lack of seriousness with which he was treated, even at the height of his directorial career. What becomes clear from these examples is that throughout all the phases of his career as a director—from his days as a journeyman, through the heights of commercial and critical success, to the lows of his final film output—Ashby rarely enjoyed fruitful relationships with the producers and production companies that were in charge of financing the films he directed. Even when Ashby’s career was in its ascendancy or at its zenith and he was in demand as a director, producers maintained a level of distrust and skepticism about working with him that proved troublesome to Ashby during at least some phase of production on almost all of his films. That he could continue to garner work on high-profile films with moderate budgets was due in part to the increasing success of the films he directed both at the box office and during awards season. It also had to do with Ashby’s working relationship with his casts and crews— many of whom had more power in Hollywood than he did, and who used that power to acquire Ashby’s services despite studio reservations.

On the inside: Ashby’s relationships with casts and crews Ashby’s reputation for being a maverick followed him through the heights and depths of his career as a director; yet, somewhat paradoxically, so did his reputation for being something of a pushover. His “hippie” persona and penchant for marijuana use led many studio executives—including, in some cases, friends of Ashby—to believe that regardless of his reputation for being difficult, Ashby would be easy to control. In addition to Robert Evans and Peter Bart’s attitude when hiring Ashby to direct Harold and Maude, there is the case of Warren Beatty, who both starred in Shampoo and acted as its producer. Peter Biskind, in his biography of Beatty, describes how the star “did not intend to let Ashby do much in the way of directing.”64 That Beatty saw Shampoo as his chance to practice directing in his own right, and the ensuing on-set difficulties between him and Ashby (and screenwriter Robert Towne) have become an oft-repeated Hollywood tale, but it is also yet another example of Ashby’s being hired in part because his producers thought he would be easy to manage. Throughout his career, producers would continue to be lured by Ashby’s apparent docility. Many of Ashby’s contemporaries justified their stubbornness and difficult personal natures by invoking the auteur paradigm. It was a defense that would work throughout much of the decade, but one

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that Ashby continually refused to resort to. However, despite his similar reputation for difficulty, and despite his lack of auteur-based power in Hollywood, he continued to be hired to direct high-profile Hollywood films based in large part on the perception that, maverick or no, studios and producers would be able to keep him on a short leash. Additionally, though, part of what briefly made Ashby an attractive choice for studios was that prominent actors and crewmembers increasingly wanted to work with him. Not only had Ashby developed a reputation as an “actor’s director,” but his films were regularly nominated for and won awards for the actors and crewmembers who worked on them. Throughout the 1970s, Ashby’s films were repeatedly nominated for Academy Awards, BAFTA awards, Golden Globes, and awards at Cannes in acting, writing, cinematography, and other categories. And while Ashby himself was rarely nominated,65 his pedigree for garnering nominations for the people he worked with helped to keep him in demand as a director with Hollywood’s talent. That Ashby was rarely nominated himself likely fomented his appeal with other talent—it contributed to the image of his apparent ability, as a director, to let the talent around him shine, which was a direct extension of his aversion to the auteur label. Such an image was rare in New Hollywood. So, where actors and others often wanted to work with Scorsese and the like because those directors were “geniuses,” they wanted to work with Ashby because he was perceived as allowing them to do their best work. This support by highprofile cast and crewmembers also contributed to studios and producers continuing to want to hire him. Thus, while in one sense, Ashby was very much a Hollywood outsider, his close relationships with high-profile cast and crew meant that he remained an industry insider as well. Holding both roles at the same time is an example of Ashby’s historically marginal position in relation to the Hollywood film industry. Although the support Ashby was afforded by the people he worked with never completely prevented producers from interfering with what he saw as his (and his colleagues’) vision for his films, he continued to accept these hindrances to filmmaking because he continued to believe that some good could come from making movies in Hollywood. From his years as an editor on The Russians Are Coming . . . and In the Heat of the Night through the end of his directing career, he never stopped believing that films could encourage people to think about the world, and could even make the world a better place. Furthermore, as difficult as Ashby’s relationships with producers and studios often were, he continued to value his relationships with the casts and crews he worked with, so much so that people who worked with Ashby regularly wanted to work with him again. In a 2003 interview, Jon Voight tells a story about shooting a scene for Coming Home: There was a scene when the camera was supposed to come up in a close up and I was blowing the lines. And he sits down . . . and says, “what’s the difference? Look, we’re having a good time, aren’t we? We’re in good company. Isn’t this great that we’re all together, making a movie?”66

Ashby’s remarks and calm demeanor had the effect of helping Voight relax and hit his lines. Actor after actor tell similar stories about working with Ashby, and it is not

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uncommon to hear a cast member of one of Ashby’s films describe working with him as one of the best professional experiences of their life. In 1973, Jack Nicholson said of working on The Last Detail, “Hal is the first director to let me go, to let me find my own level. I’m playing this character Billy on two, three, four different levels, all at the same time. And that is the difference between college and pro football.”67 Later, after not having won an Academy Award for the film (his first nomination), Nicholson said, “I like the idea of winning at Cannes . . . but not getting our own Academy Award hurt real bad. I did it in that movie, that was my best role. How often does one like that come along?”68 Actors raving about their most recent role may come with the territory: perhaps they are promoting the film, perhaps as part of their process they internalize a particular character so much that their most recent role will always be their “best” role. So it may not seem extraordinary to hear them proclaim such after just having worked with Ashby, but several actors, looking back on their careers many years later, have made similar statements about the projects they did with Ashby. In a 2008 interview, David Carradine called his role as Woody Guthrie in Ashby’s Bound for Glory (1976), “maybe my best movie.”69 Speaking twelve years after Harold and Maude’s release, Ruth Gordon, who played Maude, said, “If I’d never gotten a profit check, it would have been worth it.”70 And it is not just about Ashby’s better-known films that actors have such fond recollections. In 2009, speaking about Lookin’ to Get Out, Jon Voight said, “When my life is gone, and they look back on my career, they’re going to have to visit with Mr. Ashby to understand my work.”71 About Ashby’s last film, 8 Million Ways to Die, Jeff Bridges said, “Hal gave us the space to create . . . He’s one of the best directors I’ve ever worked with.”72 One must be careful when evaluating this type of praise because there is often an element of self-approval that goes along with it. Like Bridges, many actors praise Ashby for allowing them to be creative—the idea being that it was in working with Ashby that their own natural strengths as an actor were able to come forth: in other words, Ashby was great because he allowed them to be great.73 Still, even when keeping this in mind, it is the rare actor who has anything other than praise for Ashby’s work as a director,74 however backhanded some of that praise might be. In fact, it was not just the experience of working in an actor-director partnership that impressed so many cast members of Ashby films, but the way Ashby managed his sets. With so much chaos surrounding some of his productions, Ashby found a way to keep his sets calm and allowed his actors and crew to focus on the job at hand. Speaking of 8 Million Ways to Die, the set of which was regularly visited by representatives of PSO intent on micromanaging the production, the only turmoil actor Rosanna Arquette noticed was the presence of the PSO representatives:  “the only bad thing was them coming to the set and hovering with their bad vibes.”75 Ashby’s ability to maintain a sense of calm and order on set in the midst of an otherwise chaotic situation stretched back to his first films, and he had various methods for making his casts feel comfortable. According to Dawson, while filming a party scene for The Landlord, “Ashby put on a Chambers Brothers record, and everyone in the scene danced and hung out. Ashby just let the camera run, his editor’s instinct telling him not to limit the possible ways the scene could be cut.”76 During the filming of Shampoo, as Ashby was constantly tested by his producer/star Warren Beatty, actor Lee Grant got upset

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with Beatty for giving her direction: “I got a migraine and went home for two days, and when I came back . . . I told Hal that I couldn’t work like that and had to quit. He never got exercised about it. I felt like he was on my side.”77 Grant went on to win an Academy Award for her performance in the film. With one film after another, it becomes apparent that Ashby’s “difficult” temperament was directed outwards—at producers and studio representatives—so that on-set he and his actors could benefit from his “laid-back” personality and his approach to directing. As much as actors loved working with Ashby, crewmembers—including the professionals Ashby relied on as coauthors—tend to be just as steadfast in their fondness for working with him. Sound mixer Jeff Wexler, who has since worked with Cameron Crowe and David Fincher among many others, describes working with Ashby as the most important experience of his career: Almost everything I learned about movie making I learned from Hal . . . The most important things I  learned from Hal were not technical, per se, but rather the importance of understanding the whole process, not just sound, or makeup, or camera. Hal had an amazing capacity to involve all those who worked with him— he had an innate sense of the value of all those who participated.78

Randy Wurlitzer, who made uncredited contributions to the script of Coming Home and who worked with Ashby on several unrealized projects (who also worked with Sam Peckinpah and Bernardo Bertolucci among others), said, “I haven’t worked with a director who was so open to the writing process . . . That was one of the marks of his work, how well he got on with writers.”79 Cinematographer Caleb Deschanel, who shot three films with Ashby, said soon after working on Being There, “to this day, it’s one of the best experiences I’ve had on a movie.”80 Soon after wrapping 8 Million Ways to Die, Assistant Director L. Andrew Stone wrote a letter to Ashby: From the moment I arrived for my interview . . . you treated me with more courtesy, warmth, understanding and friendship than any other director for whom I have worked. You allowed me to do my job with total support and without censure or restraint. This breeds loyalty and support in return—not only me, but the entire crew would march into battle with you anytime.81

Such praise for Ashby, his efforts, and his methods comes from crewmembers who worked with him throughout his career. This is evidence of the kind of atmosphere Ashby strived to create on set, of his belief that the making of a film should be a collaborative effort wherein each individual is integral to the whole. For example, in a 1977 interview Ashby told Tay Garnett, “I’ve found with film that the more creativity you can get out of other people, the better chance you have of making a good film.”82 While Chapter 5 will discuss the process of collaboration in much greater detail, it is important to note here not only that Ashby took such an approach on all of his films, but also that he regularly touted that approach in interviews and talks that he gave. Thus Ashby’s reputation for relying on capable collaborators stems not only from the reminiscences of his various colleagues, but it is also a reputation that Ashby cultivated

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for himself. Such a conception of filmmaking may seem obvious, with so much to be done by so many different participants, but it ran counter to the image of the visionary auteur that so many of the era’s filmmakers were invested in. As Chapter 2 will demonstrate, Ashby’s contemporary reputation as a director with a weak hand has had a direct and profound effect on the way that scholarship has received him and his films as lacking the immense personality that is understood to be typical of the era. Of course, it is quite possible that people describing their work with Ashby in such glowing terms is the result of two superficial but noteworthy realities: first, he seems to have been a likeable person who got on well with artists; second, now that he has passed on, people’s natural inclination may be to speak highly of him. But these claims are corroborated by the number of times people returned to work with him. In terms of cast, for example, Lee Grant, Jon Voight, and others made two films with him and Randy Quaid made three. Jack Nicholson always wanted to make another film with him after The Last Detail and they remained friends throughout Ashby’s life.83 In terms of crew, Caleb Deschanel shot three films with him; Haskell Wexler shot four; Robert C. Jones edited four films for him and worked as a writer (both credited and uncredited) on three others; Michael Haller served as production designer on six of his films. Additionally, because Ashby wanted to help young filmmakers just as he was helped by the likes of Wyler and Jewison, he gave several people key opportunities early in their careers: Michael Chapman’s first film as cinematographer was The Last Detail (he had worked as a camera operator on The Landlord); and Garrett Brown, inventor of the Steadicam, had only shot commercials until Ashby hired him to shoot some key sequences of Bound for Glory along with Haskell Wexler.84 Some of the recollections of those who worked with Ashby are contemporaneous to the making of a particular film, some arrive years later. They come from cast and crew, and they span Ashby’s career, from his first film through the heights of his mid1970s peak to his last, lesser films. At the same time, each of his productions (with the possible exception of Bound for Glory, the film Ashby made immediately after the huge commercial and critical success of Shampoo) was beset by interference from studio executives. Many filmmakers of the 1970s were enamored with location shooting for a variety of reasons, but in part because it allowed them to escape Hollywood and be left alone by studio representatives. For Ashby, though, even when he was on the opposite side of the country, as when filming The Last Detail or Being There, he was followed by studio personnel, who watched his every move, tallied budgets, and objected to his approach to filmmaking.85 Ashby succeeded at making several memorable films under such conditions because he was determined to make films in Hollywood with people he enjoyed working with. To do so, he was willing to accept the frustrations that came with not being regarded as a first-tier director or auteur.

Ashby’s marginality The battle between art and commerce in Hollywood is nothing new and Ashby is certainly not alone in having waged it. Much of the liberated spirit of 1970s Hollywood cinema is the result of idiosyncratic directors butting heads with producers and

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studios—the stories of directors such as Dennis Hopper, William Friedkin, Francis Ford Coppola, and Robert Altman fighting to the point of tantrum to get their way are numerous. Often, however, the stories of them quarreling with cast and crew are just as widespread. The combination of an unsettled studio situation and auteurminded directors was a potent concoction out of which much hubris was born. Some, like Coppola, thrived on it, while others, like Hopper and Friedkin, fell victim to its excesses. Others chose to opt out in one way or another. John Cassavetes maintained only the slightest of contact with the Hollywood system proper, surfacing occasionally as an actor in studio films in order to raise enough money to film and distribute the majority of his films outside the studios. Woody Allen, while not quite so fiercely independent, chose to remain in New York, rarely visiting Los Angeles at all, making small-budget films that even when less than successful would be guaranteed to make their money back and keep the studios happy.86 Ashby chose an alternate route. He continued to want to make Hollywood films, and he never made a film that did not have some sort of major studio support, at least on the level of distribution. Like some other directors of the era, he tried on several occasions to set up his own production companies so that he would be able to assert more control over the filmmaking process, but each of the entities he created met with limited or no success.87 However, he continued to insist on making what he considered small, independent films that had “entertainment at [their] base but [had] something to say.”88 Discussing the growing studio trend towards financing blockbusters, Ashby said:  “The fact that a Star Wars or a Close Encounters can gross millions of dollars is very attractive to those who finance films. But I  intend to keep making personal pictures.”89 Consequently, Ashby managed throughout his career to walk a fine line between immersing himself within Hollywood culture and maintaining distance from it. In doing so, he became a peripheral figure, one neither of Hollywood nor outside it. This trait manifested itself in various aspects of Ashby’s life and career. Personally, he lived in Los Angeles (on Appian Way in the Hollywood Hills and, later, in Malibu), but never completely embraced the 1970s lifestyle of Hollywood parties and glamour, and he was known to retreat to his house and not emerge again for long stretches of time. Professionally, he embraced technology—in addition to working early and often with the Steadicam, he was one of the first Hollywood directors to make use of video playback, to shoot on video, and to work with primitive nonlinear editing systems.90 He went to the early Dolby demonstrations in Hollywood and would eventually incorporate the system into some of his later films (particularly the 1982 Rolling Stones concert film Let’s Spend the Night Together). At the same time, however, he never used technology for its own sake (the “bigger, faster, louder” aesthetic that the blockbuster era ushered in), but rather used it to further the story and make a better, more watchable film. This is why, for example, as fascinated as he was by Dolby (Jeff Wexler, who went to the demonstration with Ashby, describes them as being “blown away”), and as important as sound and music were to Ashby, he did not begin to work with the system until he felt he had a reason to—to support the sound in Let’s Spend the Night Together. Thus, while Ashby was fascinated by the rapid changes in technology that took place throughout the New Hollywood era, he never felt compelled to make use of

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any technology until he deemed its use essential to a given film—noteworthy in an era that, particularly after Jaws and Star Wars, became increasingly obsessed with technological advancement in sound and special effects. What is perhaps most interesting is not that Ashby himself was a peripheral figure, but the way in which his marginal position within the industry led directly to his marginalization within New Hollywood scholarship. As mentioned earlier, David Cook not only describes the auteur concept as a great marketing tool of the 1970s era, but he also describes it as something more: “auteurism was the dominant mode of aesthetic discourse among American film critics, and its single-author perspective was institutionalized as film study entered the academy during the same period.”91 The level of dominance that this mode of discourse attained and its continued influence within film studies have played an integral role in determining which directors and which films from the era merit study or even discussion. Ashby’s refusal to claim auteur status served to diminish his importance in the eyes of studio executives—his stubbornness was a result of his being “difficult” rather than being a “genius.” Because Ashby never considered himself an auteur (particularly in the “single-author perspective” that Cook mentions), and because the industry never considered him an auteur, scholarship has similarly not accorded him auteur status. To be sure, Ashby is not the only filmmaker of the era whose anti-auteurist stance has made it difficult for scholarship to approach him. Other directors who neither saw themselves as embodying the single-author, auteurist paradigm, nor chose to promote that paradigm were also distanced from the “dominant mode of aesthetic discourse” and marginalized from the canon within both the academy and the popular imagination. For example, Sidney Lumet—whose career straddled the New Hollywood era, and who contributed three vital films during the era92—regularly shirked off the contention that he might be an auteur. In a 1982 interview, he claimed that the notion embarrassed him and put forth the argument that widespread acceptance of the auteur theory had been bad for film: “It’s had a bad effect critically, because it’s trained critics to look for the wrong things. It’s had a bad effect on the young movie people.”93 Lumet, much like Ashby, distanced himself from the “dominant critical paradigm” of the era, thus distancing himself from the cadre of directors who would come to be canonized as representative of the era.

Conclusion The drawback to this type of marginalization comes not specifically from the failure of a particular director to be included in a film canon. If one of this book’s aims is to contest the primacy with which the auteur has been positioned in New Hollywood studies, it should hardly matter that particular directors—Ashby included—have not been accorded the status of auteur, nor that those directors as individuals have been excluded from (or marginalized within) the canon. More important is that, because New Hollywood is so closely identified with the American auteur, and because those directors deemed auteurs are the ones whose films are “worthy” of study, many key

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films of the era that were directed by nonauteurs go unnoticed or receive scant attention. Film scholarship is aware of Ashby and it seems to accept that he played an important role as a New Hollywood film director. His name is mentioned, his films receive comment, but he has rarely been written about in a critical fashion at any length. The reason for this, as the next chapter reveals, is that scholarship has constructed a definition of New Hollywood based largely on the era’s own conception of itself as one of genius directors (temperamental and otherwise), single-handedly responsible for anything great about the films they made. Moreover, a canon has developed that reinforces this definition, both of which are limited in scope. This limitation has served to extend Ashby’s peripheral position from his historical place on the margins of the Hollywood industry to the edges of a canon that has yet to come to terms with its own inconsistencies.

2

Auteurs and the New Hollywood Canon

As a Hollywood film director, Hal Ashby is certainly not unique in having been marginalized by the very system that was benefitting from his work and creativity. Hollywood history abounds with the stories of directors and other talents who were ostracized or worse by an industry that has often had little time for so-called mavericks imposing their iconoclasm on a business model that otherwise worked very well and made its corporate backers very rich. Hollywood has unquestionably made room for such outsiders on occasion, but it more frequently casts them aside the moment their ability to produce money-generating films is subsumed by their insistence on doing things their way. Orson Welles is perhaps the best-known example of this phenomenon, but the list includes many others. Even with this acknowledgment, though, Ashby’s particular situation demands scrutiny for at least two reasons. First of all, his career reached its peak during an era when Hollywood celebrated—or at least tolerated— iconoclasts to a far greater degree than at any other time in its history. Robert Altman, Francis Ford Coppola, Roman Polanski, William Friedkin could all be described as unorthodox practitioners with anti-authoritarian tendencies who continued to receive studio backing even when their work had become far less financially successful than Hollywood is usually comfortable with. Second, and somewhat more perplexing, is the way Ashby’s institutional marginality leads directly to his precarious positioning within the academic reception of the era. While it is true that fairly recent work by Nick Dawson and Christopher Beach has hinted at a possible blooming of interest in Ashby and his films, it is still too soon to assess what impact that work will have on scholarship’s broader conception of Ashby and his place within the New Hollywood era. Furthermore, until Dawson’s and Beach’s books were published in 2009, Ashby’s decentralized positioning within the industry had been perpetuated by most of academia for nearly twenty-five years. Conversely, a solid core of perennial subjects—for example, the film Bonnie and Clyde (1967) or the director Martin Scorsese—have remained central to the study of New Hollywood and the formulation of a canon of films and filmmakers from the era. Perhaps no single factor has influenced the construction of a New Hollywood canon more than the auteur cinema paradigm. And while the auteur as a concept has undergone numerous changes—from its early inception in the pages of Cahiers du

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Cinéma through the auteur-structuralist model, the “director-as-genius” model, and others—each iteration lends itself to the continued definition of New Hollywood as an era of single-author auteurs: great directors whose films were solely the result of their own individual vision. As discussed in Chapter 1, Ashby was not widely recognized as an auteur during his lifetime. As a result, it has been easy for scholarship to continue in the same vein, framing Ashby as a nonauteur and, therefore, peripheral to New Hollywood and the canon (or even a set of overlapping canons) that has subsequently developed in support of its definition. As a result, scholarship has been somewhat at a loss as to how to situate Ashby and his films within the academic narrative that has developed around New Hollywood. I contend that Ashby has remained marginal to studies of New Hollywood not necessarily based on critical evaluation of his film practice or on any particular qualities that might be found in his films. In constructing such an argument, in this chapter I will set out by delineating the existence of a New Hollywood canon and the nature of its composition. In doing so, I also consider how the teaching of film studies and the worlds of film journalism and popular film-going reinforce this canon. I then consider the profound role that the auteur paradigm in its various guises has played in the construction of that canon. Such a consideration will, necessarily, include some background information on the shifting critical definitions of the auteur as well as the rise in prominence of a particular definition of the auteur in the imagination of American filmmakers, critics, and the cinema-going public during and since the 1970s. I  will then interrogate Ashby’s positioning within received scholarly definitions of New Hollywood in regards to his complicated relationship with the concept of the auteur. The chapter builds on emerging reassessments of the auteur in its relationship to a more nuanced conceptualization of film authorship. Such an unpacking of the concept of the auteur is necessary so that later chapters can elucidate more clearly Ashby’s role in the authorship of his films, why that role has been undervalued, and how a deeper appreciation for that role will serve to expand current conceptions of the New Hollywood era and the filmmakers who worked within it.

New Hollywood canon formation The composition of canons—whether official or otherwise—has been the subject of occasional, sometimes vociferous debate. Even the term “canon” is problematic for some scholars, implying, as it does, a level of codification on par with the books of the Bible.1 However, use of the term has persisted. As the “canon wars” of the 1980s–1990s unfolded in English departments across academia, scholars from other fields, including film studies, joined in the discussion to examine the ways in which canon construction was affecting the teaching of a variety of academic disciplines. By the first decade of the twenty-first century, the canon wars had for the most part come to an end. If there were any “victory” to be had, one must say it was on the side of opening or expanding canons, literary or otherwise. The growth of such academic fields as women’s studies, African-American studies, queer studies,

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and post-colonial studies demonstrate that there continues to be a great deal of scholarly interest in the works of previously marginalized artists. In film studies this can be seen in recent and fascinating work in fields such as Third Cinema or New Queer Cinema. At least since Paul Rotha published The Film Till Now in 1930, scholars have constructed lists and codified films of special merit or quality, works that exemplify “good” filmmaking. Engaging in one form of canon formation or another, film critics have continually reassessed existing canons based on new theoretical models, proposed new criteria for evaluating quality films, or attacked pre-existing canons as outmoded, obsolete, or politically incorrect. For example, much of the project of the Cahiers du Cinéma critics in 1950s France concerned a complete re-evaluation of both French and Hollywood film canons. Andrew Sarris’s The American Cinema (1968) consists of a sustained attempt to demarcate a “pantheon” of Hollywood directors, as well as to categorize those filmmakers who exist outside the pantheon. Sarris claims that his study “will start at the top with the bundles of movies credited to the most important directors, and work downward, director by director, movie by movie, year by year, toward a survey of what was best in American sound movies between 1929 and 1966.”2 Sarris argues for the inclusion of some directors who had not previously been considered “canonical” (particularly Howard Hawks), while also demoting some directors from the list of greats (John Huston and Billy Wilder, among others), thereby engaging in both reassessment and re-creation of existing notions of what constitutes the great American films and filmmakers. Sarris, much like the Cahiers critics, was interested in constructing a canon primarily of directors as auteurs. While many of the canons of film-as-art have been director-based, this is not always the case. Organizations such as the British Film Institute (BFI) and the American Film Institute (AFI) have contributed film-based rather than director-based canons, with their publication of lists of all-time “best” films. The BFI does so regularly with its decennial Sight & Sound list of the ten best films of all time (and an increasing number of accompanying lists). In 1998 the AFI published its first list of the 100 best American films of all time. Like the BFI, the AFI has taken to publishing its list once per decade and released its first update in 2008. Citizen Kane (Welles 1941) topped both AFI lists. Citizen Kane also led the BFI’s list in every iteration except the first (1952), when the list was topped by Bicycle Thieves (De Sica 1948), and the most recent (2012), when Vertigo (Hitchcock 1958) knocked Citizen Kane out of the top spot for the first time in fifty years.3 And while both the BFI and AFI lists do include films by directors who would not themselves be considered canonical, both lists are still dominated by filmmakers regularly considered auteurs by most contemporary definitions of the term. Looking only at English-language films, one finds on the BFI’s most recent list (expanded to top-fifty format) Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Welles, Stanley Kubrick, John Ford, Francis Ford Coppola, David Lynch, Martin Scorsese, Buster Keaton, Billy Wilder, and Charlie Chaplin. The only English-language film on the BFI’s list directed by a nonestablished auteur is Singin’ in the Rain (Kelly, Donen 1952).4 Similarly, canonical, auteurist directors dominate the AFI’s list, its top ten including—in addition to Welles—Hitchcock, Coppola, Scorsese, David Lean, and

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Steven Spielberg. Additionally, the AFI has published several lists of top genre films, all of which, again, are dominated by preeminent directors who have generally been considered auteurs. In response to AFI’s original list of 1998, which he found wanting in a variety of ways, film critic Jonathan Rosenbaum published an alternative top 100 (1998). In 2004 he expanded the list to 1,000 films in Essential Cinema: On the Necessity of Film Canons, in which he also weighed in on the canon wars of the previous decades whose reverberations were still being felt. Rosenbaum’s starting point is that the canon wars resulted in a diminishment or even destruction of canons, which he sees as misguided, claiming that many of the arguments in favor of expanding the canon were, at their core, anti-art.5 As a result he builds his lists around the idea of establishing a film canon contrary to what he sees as the more commercial, conservative list offered by the AFI. Both of Rosenbaum’s lists are far more wide-ranging than the AFI’s, including, as they do, many more non-American and non-English-language films. However, on examining his top-100 list for English-language films, one finds two films each by Charlie Chaplin, Kubrick, and Cassavetes, three by Hawks and four by Welles. Additionally, the list includes films by Spielberg, William Wyler, Anthony Mann, John Ford, and Nicholas Ray, all of whom have been considered auteurs at least by some critics during the past half century.6 Thus, when examining such film-based lists—even an “alternative” list like Rosenbaum’s—it becomes clear that they are regularly dominated by the same directors who have tended to dominate director-based lists for decades. This is especially true in relation to the New Hollywood era. Looking at the AFI’s top-100 list (2008) for films that date from 1967 to 1980, one finds twenty-nine films, at least sixteen of which can be said to be the product of canonical directors (Coppola with three films, Scorsese, Kubrick, Polanski, Allen, Penn, and Altman with two films each, Spielberg, Friedkin, and Bogdanovich each with one film). Similarly, examining Rosenbaum’s top films from the same years, one finds that of the forty-one Hollywood films on the list (including two English-language films by Michelangelo Antonioni), twenty-nine can be considered the films of canonical directors, with the possible addition of films by David Lynch, Brian De Palma, Sam Fuller, and Dennis Hopper. No film by Ashby appears on either of Rosenbaum’s lists—top 100 or top 1,000. In fact, no film by Ashby appears on any of the best-film lists.7 Furthermore, the AFI has also made public its nominating list of 400 films from which its voters chose the top 100. That list does include two films directed by Ashby:  Harold and Maude (1971) and Coming Home (1978). Thus, in the minds of the critics and institute members who compose the voting population for these lists, it can be reasonably argued that neither Ashby nor his films have been regarded as in any way “best,” much less canonical. However, it is not only from such regularly published lists that canons are constructed. In fact, it is most likely that within academia, such lists tend to be the subject of as much skepticism as interest; more fodder for argument and discussion than persuasive evidence. Stronger evidence comes from the realm of publishing, and a cursory glance at this locale reveals close concord with most of the best-of lists. Since 1980, monographs published in English on the subject of New Hollywood era film directors have heavily favored auteurs, with Woody Allen, Stanley Kubrick, and Martin Scorsese

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being the most regular subjects of publication. Other popular subjects include Sam Peckinpah, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert Altman, Roman Polanski, George Lucas, and Steven Spielberg.8 Before 2009, the number of monographs on the subject of Ashby’s name sat at zero, though recently that has changed. The years 2009–2010 saw a blip of Ashby activity: the first biography of Ashby, Nick Dawson’s Being Hal Ashby: Life of a Hollywood Rebel, and Christopher Beach’s The Films of Hal Ashby, both in 2009, and, in 2010 Dawson’s Hal Ashby: Interviews (part of Mississippi’s Conversations with Filmmakers series). Thus while Ashby cannot be described as completely absent from a list of New Hollywood publications, attention to him has been a long time coming and could still be described as slight and sporadic at best. This is one reason that “marginal” and “peripheral” are apt terms to describe Ashby’s position in regard to a New Hollywood canon; he is not completely excluded from critical consideration, but exists simultaneously both outside and inside the canon.9 Recent publications are, perhaps, most informative about the current nature of any given canon because they best demonstrate where critical attention is being paid and which films and filmmakers remain or are emerging as the dominant topics of scholarly discussion. However, they are not the only indicators of canonicity at any given time. Older texts often have profound impact on canon development: they frequently make arguments for inclusion with such force that the subjects of their analysis remain central long after the texts themselves have become of more interest historically than critically. Thus, for example, while the influence of Andrew Sarris’s presentation of his auteur theory has largely diminished over time, the historical weight of his pronouncements about particular filmmakers still influence the discourse on the historical development of auteur studies. Furthermore, publications that arrive during the formative stages of a particular era or transition can also provide vital information about how contemporary scholars and critics perceived a new canon as it was emerging. By the end of the 1970s, it had become readily apparent that Hollywood studios were producing and distributing a wide number of films that were vastly different from anything that had preceded them, and scholars and critics began the process of demarcating the terms by which these films and filmmakers would be considered, both scholarly and popularly, by future writers. In doing so, they presented the filmmakers that they considered to be best representative of these chances, informally positioning them as foundational members of what would become the New Hollywood canon. Some of these formative texts have already been mentioned. Thomas Elsaesser’s 1975 essay “The Pathos of Failure” was one of the earliest attempts to propose a set of characteristics by which one could recognize a New Hollywood film. Robert Kolker’s A Cinema of Loneliness, first published in 1980, was a much more substantial analysis of the era’s key filmmakers. I have already mentioned how these texts marginalize Ashby’s work or ignore it completely. Other texts that contributed to the development of a nascent New Hollywood canon include James Monaco’s American Film Now (1979) and Robin Wood’s Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan (1987). Monaco and Wood both attempt comprehensive overviews of New Hollywood, albeit from different critical perspectives: whereas Monaco’s text tends to focus on the changing nature of the film business in America and how those changes affected the types of films being produced,

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Wood’s is a more culturally focused approach in which he attempts to map the “ideological shift” or shifts in American culture that led to the rise of these New Hollywood films.10 Both texts break the era into distinct categories, with Monaco’s being more production-driven and Wood’s including such considerations as the interplay between genre and cultural change and the horrors hidden beneath the veneer of normality in American society. Additionally, Wood’s book, coming a few years after the end of New Hollywood, has the added benefit (as his subtitle indicates) of being able to incorporate that end into his discussion of the cultural factors that shaped the era and its demise. Both books have proved tremendously influential on current scholarly understandings of New Hollywood. As a result, both books have been instrumental in the construction of the era’s canon. Monaco pays cursory attention to Ashby. In a chapter dedicated to discussing the ways in which American filmmakers attempt to fashion meaning out of the American cultural experience, Monaco frames Ashby as a filmmaker who “aspires to mythic importance or something very much like it,”11 and he argues that what successes Ashby finds by way of this approach stem from his concern for his characters. In this framing, Monaco finds elements to admire in Ashby’s first three films, but posits that Shampoo, Bound for Glory, and Coming Home12 all suffer for immersing their characters in heavyhanded political overtones.13 While such an approach to Ashby’s filmography might prove enlightening with sustained analysis, in the case of Monaco’s text, the discussion is concluded after three paragraphs. Monaco does mention a few of Ashby’s films by name throughout the text, generally as entries in lists of types of films (e.g., Harold and Maude as a cult film or Coming Home as a film about the physically disabled).14 However, none of the films generate any more than a sentence or two of consideration. Thus Monaco’s text resembles many of the other approaches to New Hollywood: he recognizes that Ashby played a role in the era’s unfolding, but lacks clarity in exactly how to categorize that role or include it within his own formulations. Wood, on the other hand, does not consider Ashby or any of his films at all. While one cannot measure the impact that a single text might have on canonicity, Wood’s Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan has been immensely influential, and celebrated as such, in shaping the academic discourse about New Hollywood. Expanded and republished in 2003, Wood’s text is one of the few evaluations of New Hollywood that attempts to map the presence of ideological streams within the era’s films. To disregard Ashby, then, would seem to discount one of his immense contributions to New Hollywood cinema: the pressing political inquiry that runs through all of his films. In ignoring Ashby, Wood’s text subtly implies that a filmmaker who seems, at least on the surface,15 to be one of the most politically ambitious of the era has little to offer a broader understanding of the ideological functioning of culture in the production of New Hollywood films. A noteworthy exception to these instances of marginalization and exclusion comes in Diane Jacobs’s 1977 monograph Hollywood Renaissance. Jacobs dedicates an entire chapter to Ashby’s career to that date (the 1980 edition also includes Coming Home).16 Like Monaco, Jacobs has positive things to say about the way Ashby’s films present their characters.17 She also discusses the editing of his films. She admits that, “Ashby

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is a difficult director to categorize,”18 thus showing a prescient recognition of the lingering difficulty in classifying Ashby and his films. She does, however, offer careful consideration of the political nature of Ashby’s first six films, while also making clear that he is “not a polemicist”19—she reiterates on several occasions that his films are “about people first and issues only peripherally.”20 In this way her assessment of the Ashby films opposes Monaco’s. In fact, Jacobs is one of the very few writers on New Hollywood to recognize not only that the politics of Ashby’s films can be subtle, but also that the films are, in fact, political at all. In this regard, she recognizes a quality in Ashby’s films that Robin Wood’s later text did not:  in an era marked by shifting ideological grounds, Ashby was the rare Hollywood director who was consistent in his attempts to confront contemporary politics on film. Jacobs’s evaluation of Ashby might have begun a longer, more probing dialogue about his location within New Hollywood, but few seemed willing to take up that conversation. Much like Monaco, hers is a journalistic account with little of the formal or theoretical rigor that Elsaesser, Kolker, or Wood bring to their assessments of the era. As with the exclusion of Ashby by Kolker and Wood, it is likely impossible to assess exactly how much impact Jacobs’s text has had on the construction of the New Hollywood canon. Two factors are worth considering, however. First of all, unlike Kolker and Wood, Jacobs’s text has not undergone any updating or republication since its 1980 edition, while Wood’s was expanded and republished in 2003, and Kolker’s text has been republished several times, most recently in 2011. Thus, whatever merits their various arguments might have, Kolker’s and Wood’s texts have remained influential enough to warrant new editions by their publishers. A second factor is that other filmmakers considered by Jacobs, but not by Wood, Kolker, or Elsaesser, have also seen their reputation diminish since 1980—specifically Paul Mazursky and Michael Ritchie, neither of whom are given much consideration in Wood’s or Kolker’s texts.21 Returning, then, to the subjects of recently published texts, it would seem that the constructions developed by Elsaesser, Kolker, Wood, and other early writers on the subject of New Hollywood have persisted, aided by an often uncritical acceptance of a prevailing canon. Furthermore, widespread assumptions about an auteur-driven cinema concerned with themes and narratives of isolation, loneliness, failure, and rebellion come across as unconcerned with the subtle interplay of narrative, character, and politics that Jacobs found so intriguing in Ashby’s 1970s work. While Jacobs’s analysis of Ashby and his films provides some indication that early New Hollywood writers recognized qualities worthy of analysis and discussion in Ashby’s work, that recognition has not held up in the minds of publishers, list makers, and other recent contributors to the apparatus of canon construction. Examining, then, the way the entrenched formulations of Elsaesser, Wood, and others has influenced writing on the era, a canon of 1970s Hollywood must be said to include the following filmmakers and their films: Woody Allen, Robert Altman, John Cassavetes, Francis Ford Coppola, Stanley Kubrick, Terrence Malick, Sam Peckinpah, Arthur Penn, Roman Polanski, Martin Scorsese, and Steven Spielberg.22 These are filmmakers who have been consistently and regularly considered the pre-eminent directors of the era, as attested to by the number of books and articles published about them

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and the regularity with which their films are issued and re-issued. An argument could also be made that these are the New Hollywood filmmakers who are most likely to be taught as part of university film studies programs. A secondary canon might be said to include: Peter Bogdanovich, Brian De Palma, William Friedkin, Mike Nichols, and Bob Rafelson. These are directors whose careers are regularly considered “uneven,” but who each made at least one film so strongly associated with New Hollywood that their reputations as significant filmmakers of the era have outlasted their diminishing status over time.23 George Lucas is a special case: his early films THX 1138 (1971) and American Graffiti (1973) are generally considered canonical New Hollywood films. Star Wars (1977) maintains a complicated position in that it is the most financially successful film of the decade and one of the most influential films in Hollywood history. It is also often credited as the film that simultaneously struck a death knell for the New Hollywood era and heralded—post Godfather (1972) and Jaws (1975)—the nascent blockbuster era. Regardless, however, of his position as a New Hollywood or a postNew Hollywood director, Lucas is a key figure of 1970s Hollywood and would certainly be considered a canonical American filmmaker in his own right, whether or not he can be more strictly defined as a New Hollywood filmmaker or auteur. None of the names on this list are surprising. They represent some of the most vital filmmakers in Hollywood history, regardless of era. And when New Hollywood is the topic under consideration, whether in academic texts or popular journalism, it is their names and their films that become the stock examples of what “New Hollywood” means. Stills from their films grace the covers of textbooks, and their names have become synonymous with 1970s Hollywood, “New” or otherwise. On its surface, such a development is unavoidable; canons have been and continue to be constructed within every field of art, from painting to theater, from literature to popular music. That a canon would have been constructed around one of the most vibrant and influential moments of American cinema is not at all surprising. Perhaps, however, Ashby’s films can be located not within the canon that has developed around the era during which he worked, but in other overlapping canons. For example, the AFI’s list of best comedies includes Harold and Maude and Being There (1979), and nearly every consideration of the Vietnam War movie includes Coming Home. Another area of canonicity that might be expected to be more inclusive of Ashby’s films comes in regard to the cult film. The existence of cult films, if not the terminology, pre-dates the New Hollywood era by several decades. However, because of rapidly changing patterns of distribution and exhibition, the 1970s saw the release of many films that have since developed cult followings: Blaxploitation films such as Sweet Sweetback’s Badaasssss Song (1971) and Shaft (1971); horror films such as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) and The Hills Have Eyes (1977); or the quintessential “midnight movie,” The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975). What exactly marks a film as “cult” is subject to some debate, as definitions of cult films—like those of genre films more generally—are routinely contested. Ernest Mathijs and Xavier Mendik, the editors of The Cult Film Reader (2008), suggest four broad and overlapping criteria relating to a film’s “anatomy” (content, style, etc.), “consumption” (distribution, reception), “political economy” (ownership, promotion, exhibition), and “cultural status”

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(“the way in which a cult film fits its time or region”).24 Writing several years earlier, Bruce Kawin provides a simpler definition:  a movie with a following.25 Kawin also discusses a slightly more expansive, overlapping pair of conditions: “any picture that is seen repeatedly by a devoted audience, and . . . a deviant or radically different picture, embraced by a deviant audience.”26 These broad and overlapping canons of cult films include such classics-with-followings as Casablanca (1942) or The Wizard of Oz (1939) as well as lesser-known, less mainstream films such as those of Kenneth Anger or the early films of John Waters. However exclusive or inclusive the definition of “cult” may be, at least a few of Ashby’s films seem ripe for such categorization. In particular, Harold and Maude meets many of the definitions of cult: it was little seen or appreciated on release; it is difficult to categorize generically; it depicts a love affair that, while hardly “deviant,” is radically different from typical Hollywood fare; and it was slowly embraced by a growing audience of enthusiasts over time. While the film alights upon several subjects and includes trenchant political observations, at its heart is the romantic relationship between a seventy-nine-year-old woman (Ruth Gordon’s Maude) and a young man of approximately twenty (Bud Cort’s Harold). Paramount was unsure of how to market the film and on its initial release for Christmas of 1971, Harold and Maude performed miserably at the box office, closing in most cities within only one or two weeks. Furthermore, it suffered scathing reviews from critics such as Roger Ebert and Vincent Canby, the latter writing: “Mr. Cort’s baby face and teen-age build look grotesque alongside Miss Gordon’s tiny, weazened frame.”27 However, the reactions of filmgoers at some small independent cinemas breathed a different kind of life into the film. It ran for over two years straight at the Westgate Theater in Minneapolis as well as running nearly as long in Paris. By the mid-1970s, it had become such a popular request at university film clubs that Paramount re-released the film in both 1974 and 1978.28 With this blend of cult appeal, extended runs in small cinemas, and potentially transgressive subject matter, Harold and Maude is ideally suited for consideration as a cult film. Many film critics and journalists agree. Writing in the A.V. Club in 2008, Scott Tobias describes the film as “the birth of modern indie quirk,” and discusses the debt that filmmakers such as Wes Anderson owe it. In a recent post on the website of the Sundance Channel, Harold and Maude is number one on a list of Top Ten Cult Films, and it is included in Steven Jay Schneider’s 1001 Films You Must See Before You Die (2011)29 as well as appearing in Schneider’s 101 Cult Films You Must See Before You Die (2010). Writing in Total Film magazine in March 2013, George Wales listed Maude’s singing of the Cat Stevens song, “If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out,” as number 26 on a list of the “50 Greatest Cult Movie Moments.” These are only a few of the sources that indicate an expansive collection of support for Harold and Maude as a vital component of any canon of cult films. However, much as with the New Hollywood canon, academic writing on cult film canons has shown less interest in centralizing or even locating Harold and Maude, or any other Ashby film, for that matter. In The Cult Film Reader, no Ashby film makes an appearance in what is a lengthy text that makes mention of nearly one thousand films. Defining Cult Movies, a collection of academic essays published in 2003 and edited

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by Mark Jancovich,30 Antonio Lázaro Reboll, Julian Stringer, and Andy Willis, likewise avoids any discussion of Ashby or his films, including Harold and Maude. In The Cult Film Experience (1991), Harold and Maude warrants two brief references: as an example of a “midnight movie” in an essay by Timothy Corrigan31; and as one of many “midnight movie comedies” mentioned in Gregory Waller’s market study about the profitability of such films in the first half of the 1980s.32 Thus while it would be inaccurate to say that Ashby, or more specifically Harold and Maude, cannot be deemed central to a canon of cult films, there appears to be a quite noticeable discrepancy between scholarly and journalistic or fan approaches to Harold and Maude, a discrepancy that further indicates academia’s struggles to locate Ashby and his films. Analyses of cult films and their audiences seem particularly apt vehicles for the discussion of Ashby and the “indie quirk” of his films, but as of yet, film scholars have not arrived at such a conclusion.

The roles canons play At this point, it is important to mention that canons are more than just lists of films and filmmakers or books and courses about them. The installation and curation of canons has wide-reaching implications not only for how people watch films, but how they understand particular historical and cultural eras. In her 1985 essay, “The Politics of Film Canons,” Janet Staiger discusses at length how film canons are established, how they are sustained, what purposes they serve, and who benefits most from their maintenance. She argues for a re-evaluation of contemporary film canons based on nonpatriarchal methods of discussion and analysis in order to “expose the assumptions of ‘authority’ and ‘value’ in previously canonized texts.”33 Whether one chooses to adhere to Staiger’s sound feminist approach to the ramifications of canon construction, her delineation of that construction and the patterns of its perpetuation is instructive. In outlining the creation of mid-century film canons (often autuerist in nature), Staiger demonstrates how tightly the very notion of film as art (or, to be more precise, certain, chosen films as art) is bound up with inclusion or exclusion from accepted canons. If film were, indeed, an art, then like all other art forms, it needs to have representative models of instruction. All of the arguments about which films could serve as those models ignore or reject other films that do not fit the mold. The distinction between exemplary and rejected films and how they are settled upon is important because it gets at the heart of why certain films and filmmakers—in this case Ashby and his films—might be excluded from a particular canon. Staiger writes that, “in purely practical terms, a scholar of cinema cannot study every film ever made. Selection becomes a necessity and with selection usually comes a politics of inclusion and exclusion.”34 This trend, she goes on to argue, “can too easily slide into a politics of denigration and of exclusion that is based on the mistaken notion that those films regularly chosen are necessarily unique or superior.”35 In other words, scholars make lists for practical reasons, but those lists tend to support arguments about quality. The lists then become self-justifying: the lists are made, so the films on the lists must be

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good, which is why the films were on the lists in the first place. If other films were good enough, they would be on the lists already. Staiger discusses several of the criteria by which critics have typically evaluated a film’s quality, the main three being ease of discussion, grouping (as in genre, national cinemas, etc.), and qualitative and evaluative. Each of these, however, rely on the same, self-perpetuating construction that a film in the canon is good because it is in the canon, while a film outside the canon is, in some way or other, not good or it would have already been included. Staiger admits early in her essay that “escape from canon formation will be difficult to achieve,”36 but she does not call for such an escape. She does, however, put forth the argument that the mechanisms of canon construction have greater ramifications than simply which films make yearly “best of ” lists. Of main importance is the effect on the academy and students: “As a student, one must master not only the canon of films on a filmography list, but a canon of articles and books, so that one can supersede that work and be admitted into the group of professional canon-makers and canon-analyzers.”37 Thus, the existence, construction, and maintenance of canons affects which films a student will encounter, which films will be discussed in the academy, and which films will continue to receive the academic stamp of approval. Writing on this same question in a short article in Sight and Sound in 1992, Ian Christie takes this discussion of canon impact a step further: Not only does the canon directly govern what future generations of students will learn about, but indirectly it affects what is bought for television, what’s programmed in cinematheques and repertory cinemas, what’s released on video, what appears in cinema-related publishing and, perhaps most important, what archives prioritise and preserve.38

Accepting Staiger’s and Christie’s arguments—and they are arguments that make practical sense—one realizes that the construction of film canons, as inevitable as the practice may be, has consequences beyond simply which films and filmmakers are added to the syllabuses of film studies courses. In addition to the restrictions that canon construction can inadvertently place on students’ and the public’s access to and encounters with particular non-canonical films, there is also the possibility that the limitations that necessarily come with canons “can suppress a number of interesting questions about styles, genres, national movements, and the relation between signifying practices and groups of people.”39 This is a potential constraint on how academic film studies aligns and models itself. It may be a necessary truth that students, the public, and—to varying degrees—all film consumers will always have certain limitations imposed on them due to the vagaries of the marketplace (a marketplace that, as Christie points out, is highly influenced by canons).40 But even still, academia serves only to restrict its own ability to engage with and understand particular areas of film study when it locates the films that constitute the “quality” pictures of that area within a particularly restrictive context. In the case of Ashby, the question then is whether his exclusion from or marginalization within the academic understanding of New Hollywood is detrimental to that

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understanding. My answer would be, yes, it is. If one accepts that Ashby’s practice as a filmmaker and the films he directed have something instructive to offer academic film studies, something that expands—or perhaps even counters—the existing New Hollywood narrative, then his exclusion can only serve to limit our understanding of that narrative. This argument (which will be articulated more fully in later chapters) rests on an investigation not only of the “quality” of the films themselves, but also on what we might learn from Ashby’s filmmaking strategies, and what his career and approach to filmmaking might tell us about New Hollywood, both as an era of economic and structural transition within Hollywood and as an era of creative and stylistic trailblazing. If there is anything about Ashby and his career that might expand our understanding of Hollywood, New Hollywood, or American cinema, then his exclusion from the canon is not simply a question of his having missed out on Staiger’s self-justifying mechanism of canonical self-reinforcement. The oversight’s more deleterious effect is that it serves to limit our conception of just what New Hollywood actually was. The impetus behind this book then is not so much a need to re-evaluate the New Hollywood canon in order to merit Ashby’s inclusion, but, rather, to come to an understanding of how conceptions of the New Hollywood canon might change based on a re-evaluation of Ashby and the films he directed. Such an attempt must be precipitated on an understanding of how that canon has been constructed in such a way as to have maintained Ashby’s marginality within it for nigh on thirty years. No criterion has been so influential, so enduring, to the notion of what constitutes a New Hollywood film or filmmaker as the concept of the auteur and the firmly entrenched notion that New Hollywood was an era of auteurs, and particularly an era of single-authorship.

The auteur and New Hollywood François Truffaut’s 1954 Cahiers du Cinéma essay “A Certain Tendency in French Cinema,” may have popularized the concept of auteurism, but the contention that great films are the result of a singular personality had already been at the center of an evolving series of debates, several of which persist to this day. These debates have concerned not only the relevance or applicability of the concept of the auteur—its functionality as the cornerstone of a series of increasingly slippery theoretical models—but also, at their heart, just what exactly the concept of the “auteur” means. What is an auteur? I am not necessarily interested in rehashing all the debates surrounding this question. While those debates do figure into my arguments, they have been rigorously dissected in other texts—both anthologies and monographs—for decades.41 Nor do I  wish to scrutinize whether the concept of the auteur constitutes an attitude, an actual theory, or some altogether different framework for explaining cinema. However, it is important to acknowledge that the definition of “auteur” has undergone significant changes, and to delineate what is meant by the term in reference to its hold over much of the understanding of what New Hollywood means. By the late 1960s, when the strains of what evolved into New Hollywood were first becoming noticeable, Truffaut’s original delineation of the auteur had been the subject

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of heated critical and academic debate and the actual existence of the auteur furiously challenged and defended. One result of these various explications was that the understanding of what the term “auteur” actually meant had undergone various transformations, with relatively little in the way of consensus. In the pages of Cahiers and the British publication Movie, and in the writings of American critic Andrew Sarris, the auteur had found its most stirring defenders, even as the meaning of the concept might shift somewhat depending on who was articulating the defense. For Truffaut, the auteur was a director who put his distinctive mark on material, regardless, at first, of the source of that material. It was an anti-establishment position in response to what Truffaut saw as the state of post-war French cinema, what he labeled the “Tradition of Quality” wherein the director’s job was to “add the pictures” to an existing story.42 For Truffaut and many of the Cahiers writers, the difference between the auteur and the metteur en scène was that the auteur, through his sense of individualism or some less tangible motivating factor, was able to put his stamp on the film. This individual mark could be detected within a film through the means of close analysis of a film’s mise-enscène and its treatment of narrative themes. Films by an individual director could then be compared via this method of analysis, and formal, stylistic, and thematic patterns could be detected and ascribed to the auteur. Such a conception of art in nearly any form, when a work is attributed to a singular artistic creator, is decidedly romantic in nature, but particularly so within a form like filmmaking, which has historically been a joint collaborative and industrial effort. Nevertheless, the Cahiers writers’ insistence on detailed sequence analysis proved a new and exciting way of analyzing film. Film scholar John Caughie has been fiercely critical of what he sees as the regressive romanticism inherent in auteur theory, but he also appreciates the impact it made on film studies. In his introduction to Theories of Authorship, he describes how auteur theory offered a new way of understanding cinema, particularly popular cinema: Film criticism became a process of discovery, a process which, while it remained firmly within the hermeneutics of romantic criticism, forced a more precise attention to what was actually happening with the film than had been customary for a traditional criticism which tended to be satisfied with the surfaces of popular films, assuming that the conditions of their production prevented them from having depths.43

But even here, as he praises how auteur theory led to “a process of discovery,” he is nevertheless wary of its having been grounded in “the hermeneutics of romantic criticism.” Caughie has not been the only scholar so wary, and much of the historical debate about the merits of auteur theory has centered on the implications of its romantic hermeneutics, whether in the pages of serious film journals or in the more popularized (and, historically, overly dramatized) war of words between Andrew Sarris and Pauline Kael in the 1960s and 1970s.44 This inherent romanticism had two effects that would prove long lasting and that continue to affect academic readings of film history, particularly in regards to New

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Hollywood. The first was to downplay the role of collaboration in reading a film—if the director is the “author” of the film, then it is to him alone that we can attribute any distinguishing characteristics of originality, quality, or genius. This stance was articulated with deliberate clarity by Ian Cameron in the pages of Movie (1962) when he wrote that the “assumption which underlies all the writing in Movie is that the director is the author of the film, the person who gives it any distinctive quality it may have.”45 Cameron does try later in the same essay to explain the “occasional” exception to his “assumption”—on occasion a great screenwriter might be considered an author—but he barely considers the possibility that more than one “strong” individual might be involved in the making of the film. It is either a strong director, or a weak director with a strong writer, photographer, composer, or star.46 This stance, typical of much early auteur writing, was an integral component of the romantic hermeneutics that Caughie discusses:  a good film’s quality, though obviously the result of a collaborative, industrial process, must be attributed to a solitary individual and his own individual genius. The second effect of the auteur theory’s romanticism was the encouragement of a particular type of canon building. Just as in any area of film studies, scholars attempt to weigh the good versus the bad and then inscribe them to lists, so did the auteur critics. Even André Bazin, who gave auteur theory a platform, but was also somewhat skeptical of it, could distinguish between, for instance, “[Alfred] Hitchcock, a true auteur, and [John] Huston, who is only a metteur en scène, who has ‘no truly personal style.’ ”47 This will, to distinguish between auteurs and nonauteurs, and to base judgments of quality on that distinction, shares its roots with the source; in “A Certain Tendency” Truffaut wrote that, “Yves Allégret and Delannoy are only caricatures of Clouzot, of Bresson.”48 Andrew Sarris extended this line of approach in his influential essay “Notes on the Auteur Theory in 1962” by making such claims as, “Alfred Hitchcock is artistically superior to Robert Bresson by every criterion of excellence.”49 Here it becomes clear that as much as the auteur concept provided a new means of analyzing films, it was also, from its earliest days, another evaluative strategy of canonization—particularly the canonization of filmmakers. This strategy reached its apotheosis, at least in terms of American cinema, with Sarris’s The American Cinema: Directors and Directions 1929–1968 with its highly exclusive pantheon of American directors. Whether termed a canon or a pantheon or a “best of list,” much of the project of auteur critics in the 1950s and 1960s concerned determining who was in and who was out, and it was almost solely based on the notion of director as single-author auteur, regardless of sporadic statements (like Cameron’s) that a film’s auteur might, on rare occasion, be its writer, cinematographer, or some other member of its crew or cast. This process of canon-building based on a director’s auteur status continues to have a profound effect on discussions of the New Hollywood era, regardless of the degree to which auteur theory itself has been, in great part, rejected by recent academic film scholarship. But before examining just why this might be so, it is worth taking a cursory glance at the evolution of the auteur concept at the dawn of the New Hollywood era, as it made its way from French film magazines in the 1950s, through scholarly

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debate in the 1960s, and into the popular imagination of the American filmmakers and cinema-going public of the 1970s and beyond. As many have pointed out, the “auteur theory” has never really been a selfcontained theory of cinema. While it has incorporated elements of formal analysis, structural theory, and reception theory among many other methodologies, from its earliest incarnation it was so quickly debated and its applications so vigorously contested that any aspirations its proponents may have held towards constructing a full theoretical model were never fully realized. However, from its earliest formulation, the concept’s proponents imbued within it a deep commitment to the idea that film, like other arts before it, was an act of personal expression. After all, Truffaut and the early writers of the Cahiers du Cinema set the concept in motion by describing the way in which an auteur director transforms a writer’s work into something uniquely his own. This latter was especially important in early expressions of auteur theory, as, soon after Truffaut’s first articulation of it, the Cahiers writers began applying it to films outside France, particularly to Hollywood films and to directors such as John Ford and Alfred Hitchcock. These directors, confined as they were by the structures and strictures of the Classical Hollywood system, had limited means by which they could express their individuality. Early on, then, the formulation of a true auteur was of a director who found vent for his personal expression despite—or sometimes even because of—the limitations placed on him by any particular system, studio or otherwise. The Cahiers writers and others soon began to refine this idea, however. As mentioned, Cameron and the Movie critics were dedicated to the notion that the director/ auteur alone gave the film “the only distinctive quality it may have.” This fetishization of the director was founded on romantic notions of artistic genius, sometimes implied to be innate to or inherent within the individual. It is this notion that could lead Jaques Rivette and others to make the familiar and oft-made claim that a bad film by an auteur is always necessarily better or more interesting than a good film by a journeyman or metteur en scène.50 This is the beginning of the conflation in auteur studies of the director and the director’s personality. A significant permutation of the auteur came with Andrew Sarris, who insisted that the concept of the auteur, in allowing viewers and critics to measure this personality, could act as a marker of quality. In other words, a film can be said to be good if it reveals or cements its director as an auteur. This is a significant departure from the notion that close analysis of a film’s mise-en-scène might offer insight that narrative analysis will not. Sarris may not be the best source to turn to for a detailed explanation of what an auteur is—his shifting definitions and often unclear language can make it hard to ascertain an overriding theoretical framework in his writing. He does, however, offer some key proposals that extend from the likes of Truffaut, Cameron, and Rivette: the auteur is a director whose personality will always shine through his film, regardless of the restrictions placed on his filmmaking; the search for that personality should be one of the key elements of film criticism; the discovery of that personality is what marks the director as an auteur and his films as worthy of study. The auteur-structuralists of the late 1960s and early 1970s did try to divorce the auteur from personality. As part of their project, they developed the infamous formulation

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that there was Hitchcock the man, and “Hitchcock” the auteur (or the culturally constructed structural representation of Hitchcock as director). This, however, was a fairly dense, academic model, tied up with structuralist and then post-structuralist literary theory, that just happened to be developing as the director-as-genius model was becoming more widely known among mainstream cineastes. For many of the auteur critics of the late 1960s—and certainly for the more mainstream audience that was becoming more familiar with the concept of the auteur—this distinction was not clear. (In fact, the blurred lines of the distinction would become a key marketing strategy of the 1970s, when publicity for films more frequently called on the director’s name as an indicator of quality.) Despite the efforts of Edward Buscombe, Peter Wollen, and other auteur-structuralists, it was variations on Sarris’s iteration of the auteur concept that dominated the American imagination during the New Hollywood era and that still govern the understanding of that era today. A major reason Sarris’s definition(s) of the auteur became so influential is that they coincided with the rise of New Hollywood and with the many key shifts and events that marked the change from the Classical to the post-Classical Hollywood era. The establishment of film studies as a university subject in the late 1950s and 1960s not only affected the way future scholars would think about and discuss films, but also the way many future filmmakers would conceptualize the process of filmmaking from an artistic standpoint. As Geoff King has written, “The auteurist approach popularized by Sarris became a significant influence on the development of film theory in the 1960s, a period in which the study of film began to grow as a distinct academic discipline.”51 In fact, many of the directors who would come to make the key New Hollywood films (which King labels the Hollywood Renaissance) were film-school educated, and their education accorded precisely with the period in which auteurist approaches were still being promulgated as the exciting new way to understand cinema. King continues: Auteur-based approaches were internalized by many products of film schools. It is hardly surprising that they should seek to pursue forms of filmmaking that included a strong measure of personal expression in matters of both style and content. The success of many Renaissance films, in turn, seemed to validate the claims of auteur theory. Some filmmakers were given increased freedom to shape their own products and pursue their own interests. The 1970s was hailed as the decade in which Hollywood became a “director’s cinema.” It was seen, as the subtitle of one influential book put it, as the period in which “the film generation took over Hollywood.” The director John Milius proclaimed: “Now, the power lies with the filmmakers.”52

This paragraph contains a great deal of vital information that deserves examining. First is the notion that the concept of the auteur was “internalized” by the “products” of film schools, in other words, the future directors. Not all of the New Hollywood directors were educated in film schools, and the era’s filmmakers can be roughly divided into two generations: those who came of age before the rise of film schools, and those who were the film schools’ first graduates. The influence of auteurist ideas on the second

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group is hard to overstate. In addition to film-school training in areas such as film history, production, and form and style, these students also engaged with film theory, and at that point in time, the auteur was a vital concept in the academic film world. It was a concept that expressed not only an understanding of the director’s relationship to the finished film, but also his relationship, via his auteur status, to the production and marketing entities of the film world as well. Moreover, the students were studying not only the auteur theory, but they were also inspired by the films of the French New Wave, many of which were directed by the same men who had first articulated the auteur concept. This is not to say that the influence of Classical Hollywood films was not also significant; on the contrary, many such films and their directors were regularly praised by New Hollywood directors. Bogdanovich, Scorsese, Altman, and many others regularly voiced their admiration for directors such as John Ford, Orson Welles, Nicholas Ray, Howard Hawks, and Alfred Hitchcock, to name but a few. This also makes a great deal of sense: it is no small coincidence that the group of Classical Hollywood directors who were most regularly touted by their New Hollywood descendants happened to overlap with the same group of directors who had been lionized as the original auteurs by the Cahiers du Cinéma writers. The convergence of all these streams of influence served to reinforce the validity of the auteurist claim. In the period of time between Truffaut’s articulations of auteurism and the advent of New Hollywood, those Cahiers critics had become directors:  the formulators of the auteur model had become auteurs themselves, and they were making the kinds of films that the film-schooled directors in the United States wanted to be making. This had a profound influence on the conception of filmmaking in New Hollywood, not only of the directors, but also of producers, film critics, and, to a great extent, the movie-going public—the result being the “internalization” that King describes. A second instructive point that King makes is that, film education in hand, these filmmakers would “seek to pursue forms of filmmaking that included a strong measure of personal expression.” The significance of this formulation in understanding New Hollywood is difficult to overstate. For Truffaut and even, to a lesser extent, for Sarris, the auteur was a director who managed, sometimes unintentionally, to put a personal stamp on his films. His personality would be discernible, yes, but only after peeling back the layers of studio constraint or interference. By the time the “Movie Brats” and their older, but like-minded contemporaries were making films, the inclusion of “a strong measure of personal expression” had become an active pursuit. The mark of a good director, then, was how actively and effectively he was able to incorporate his personal vision into his films. This became possible in Hollywood, at least briefly, because of the third of King’s points. The early New Hollywood films—particularly Bonnie and Clyde (1967), The Graduate (1967), and Easy Rider (1969)—were fantastically successful both financially and critically. This at a time when Hollywood was enmeshed in severe struggles of its own, embroiled in the midst of a recession, and rudderless in the effort to regain its box office prowess. David Cook succinctly outlines the financial muscle that the New Hollywood directors brought to the flagging industry: “When they began to enter the

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industry at the turn of the decade, average weekly attendance was approaching an alltime low (it bottomed out at 15.8 million in 1971). By 1975, admissions had recovered and box-office grosses increased by $150 million.”53 The situation could be explained thus: a loosely connected group of American filmmakers (many of whom were highly educated) were influenced by experimental European (and other) art films. Many of those art films were directed by former critics who had developed a powerful case for the primacy of the director, and this case had been taken up by critics in Britain and the United States. Simultaneously, those American filmmakers were responsible, in large part, for helping Hollywood recover its financial stability. Hollywood then rewarded those filmmakers, for a time, by allowing them a great deal of freedom to make the kind of films they wanted to make, which included allowing them to pursue the notion that filmmaking was about expressing their personal visions.54 Somewhat ironically, by the early-to-mid-1970s, when studios and directors were pushing the auteur line and film critics and audiences were beginning to embrace the concept, academic scholarship was in the midst of building a forceful front against auteurism—or at least against auteurism as it was loosely constituted by the work of Sarris and the Movie critics. To return briefly to auteur-structuralism, film scholars such as Buscombe, Wollen, and Geoffrey Nowell-Smith, among others, began developing a critical line of inquiry that challenged the concept of the single author, not in the practical sense that a film is made by more than one person, but in the theoretical sense that the concept of authorship in general is a romantic fiction. To these critics, film auteurs were no more responsible for the “meaning” of any given film than novelists were for the meaning of literary texts. It was within this line of inquiry that Buscombe and Wollen could make the distinctions between Alfred Hitchcock and “Alfred Hitchcock” or John Ford and “John Ford.” It was a theoretical approach that celebrated “open meanings” of texts, in which viewers contributed just as much to the meaning of a film as the film’s director. As Peter Wollen wrote of films in the 1972 edition of Signs and Meaning in the Cinema: “Although it is produced by an individual, the author, it does not simply represent or express the author’s ideas, but exists in its own right.”55 It can be difficult to articulate succinct definitions of various strands of auteur-structuralism and post-structuralism in film criticism or to demarcate an exact transition from one to the other. It was a highly fertile time for film theory, when critics engaged in probing dialogues not only with each other, but also with themselves (Wollen’s own self-engagement can be witnessed in the changes between the 1969 and 1972 editions of Signs and Meaning in the Cinema and his later trepidation over some of those changes56). However, Wollen’s articulation of a single author as the “producer” of a film (if not its meaning or textuality) is instructive. As part of their push away from romanticized, hierarchical conceptions of the relationship between an artist, a work of art, and an audience, these critics at once “killed” the author by removing determinacy of meaning and placing its outcome as equally in the hands of the audience or discourse as in the hands of the director. At the same time, however, they continued to maintain that “an individual, the author” did, somehow, crouch behind every film utterance—being, if not responsible for its meaning or the content of its ideas, at least responsible for

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lighting the spark that brought it to life. Even in recognizing the formerly regarded author as a textual manifestation of an individual—John Ford as “John Ford”—they nevertheless maintained their focus on a singular, director-based text. Thus these critics at once undermined the romantic concept of the auteur as creator, while at the same time reinforcing its single-individual nature. At heart, then, the auteur generally continued to represent one person, the director, who, whatever his role in creating meaning or even making the film itself, was the singular individual (or “individual”) behind the creation of a film. Hence, even while a great deal of academic discussion of the auteur in the 1970s diverged from the figure’s growing stature in the popular imagination, the two shared a fundamental view that, when discussing a film’s genesis and the intentions behind it, the director was the only person related to the production about whom anything was worth saying. While the single-author concept in its various permutations has held firm as a model for understanding film production, it has also been the subject of sporadic and, more recently, consistent challenges. Some of these I  have mentioned, such as the early 1970s interventions of Richard Corliss and Graham Petrie. Two key texts from the 1980s and 1990s are Robert L. Carringer’s The Making of Citizen Kane and Jack Stillinger’s Multiple Authorship and the Myth of the Solitary Genius. I have already briefly mentioned how both texts constitute part of the ongoing dialogue around the authorship of Citizen Kane, but each also provides additional insight into a multipleauthorship conception of filmmaking and its utterances. Carringer’s text is particularly useful in the way it provides a methodological framework similar to my approach to Ashby. In building his case for multiple-authorship in Citizen Kane, Carringer deploys just exactly the mix of empirical research that I  espouse as necessary for an understanding how multiple-authorship works, both in practice and in its resultant utterances. The text makes extensive use of archival resources, interviews, Orson Welles biographies, and formal analysis as methods of tracing the authorial contributions of scriptwriter Herman J.  Mankiewicz, art designer Perry Ferguson, and cinematographer Gregg Toland. Carringer’s analysis of Toland’s influence on the film also informs the work of scholar Philip Cowan, whose discussion of the cinematographer as author and artist I will discuss in Chapter 5. Somewhat perplexingly, Carringer’s work seems to have veered, over time, towards a less accommodating view of multiple-authorship, with his essay “Collaboration and Concepts of Authorship” claiming that multipleauthorship devalues “text and authors because of the sharing of agency.”57 I will take up both strands of his approach in Chapter 5. Stillinger’s argument is at once more radical and also slighter, at least in terms of film. Much of his work concerns questions of literary authorship, and his application of the “myth” of the solitary genius to poets such as William Wordsworth and Ezra Pound provides a vital reconfiguration of the very notion of literary authorship, dismantling the concept of the single-author within the realm to which it would seem to be, on the surface, most applicable, lyric and epic poetry. Stillinger’s work provides a framework for an understanding of authorship filtered not only through collaboration, but also through editorial practice and publication decision-making. Within this framework, he also considers novels, plays, and films, the authorship of which he describes as “so

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complicated and diffuse as to be, for all practical purposes, unassignable.”58 He recognizes, however, that film authorship does exist, but, in doing so makes a claim that lies at the heart of multiple-authorship approaches to filmmaking: “the idea of the director as sole author will not hold up to scrutiny; it is simply not possible for one person, however brilliant, to provide the entire creative force behind so complex a work as a motion picture.”59 Building on these approaches in his comprehensive analysis of the subject, Film Authorship: Auteurs and Other Myths (2010), C. Paul Sellors goes further than much previous work on authorship. He undertakes the project of devalorizing the directoras-single-author perception of filmmaking. In doing so, he traces (in much greater detail than I have the space to do here) the many various strains of auteur criticism, from its inchoate beginnings in the 1910s and 1920s to the writings of Alexandre Astruc, through the heights of its popularity in both academic and cultural milieus, and finally to its seeming decline as an academic approach to film studies. Sellors sets himself the delicate task of arguing both for the existence of a film author and also that any given “author” is rarely an individual, but rather a collection of individuals, resulting in a scenario of “multiple-authorship.” In one key passage, he delineates how multiple-authorship works, and its potentially shifting nature from one film production (which he refers to as an “utterance”) to the next: A director typically (though not always) will help to shape the utterance, as will a screenwriter, and perhaps a cinematographer, an actor or even a sound recordist. Authorship is not determined by production roles, although some production roles are more conducive to being able to contribute to a film’s utterance. A camera operator who simply lights, frames and shoots as told, and follows the industry’s best practice without question or reflection on the specific film, will not have contributed to the film’s utterance, although her or his contribution may be central to representing the film’s utterance well. A sound recordist who proposes a recording technique because she feels it will add to the film’s meaning (and not just meet stylistic conventions or standard practices) will have participated in the cooperative activity of developing the film’s meaning if other members of the authorial collective accept the sound recordist’s suggestions.60

Sellors’s conception of authorship and how it is divorced from the single-author, auteurist model is markedly different from those offshoots of auteur criticism that arose in the 1970s in an attempt to reconcile a romantic auteur theory and a more critical (albeit playful) structuralism and post-structuralism that posited the death of the author. Furthermore, while Sellors is resolute throughout his monograph in his conception of filmmaking as a practice of multiple-authorship, he does allow (albeit very briefly) for a distinction between types of directors, some of whom might be auteurs: “I define an auteur as an author who produces art through his or her acts of authorship.”61 Because Sellors is not proposing a theory of art, he does not follow this line of inquiry beyond stating that it exists. It is, however, a relevant insight as it allows for a discussion of the contributions of various filmmakers (not only directors) to the

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artistic aspects of films on which they work, while at the same time acknowledging that those films are the products of more than one individual. I will return to Sellors’s and other redefinitions of auteur shortly and throughout this work because these explications of film authorship open up vital avenues of discussion for how we might understand and re-contextualize film canons in a postauteur era. However, while this crucial shift towards an empirical, multiple-authorship conception of filmmaking continues to emerge, it held little interest in the imagination of New Hollywood filmmakers, distributors, or filmgoers. As Chapter 1 has made clear, there is a great deal more to the shifting patterns of Hollywood during this era than the emergence of the single-author formula by means of which film critics and filmmakers engaged in a perpetual lionizing of the director as that single author. The rise of independent production companies, the changing nature of audience tastes, the increased trend for actors and directors to serve as producers, the growing power of talent agencies, and many other trends all converged to allow for the auteur concept to develop a near-paradigmatic hold on not only popular, but also industry and academic understanding of filmmaking. As a result, the single-author formula not only defines how contemporary critics understand New Hollywood, but also provides insight into how the era defined itself, and how that definition took and held hold. David Cook writes: The elevation of the director in the public mind during this period is nicely captured in the titles of two best-selling collections of interviews with filmmakers from 1969 and 1970 respectively:  The Director’s Event and The Film Director as Superstar. For the rest of the decade, auteurism was the dominant mode of aesthetic discourse among American film critics, and its single-author perspective was institutionalized as film study entered the academy during the same period.62

While auteurism now seems, on its surface, to hold less sway over scholarly approaches to film than it did during the New Hollywood era, its grip on how film studies conceptualizes the era is arguably just as strong.63 Thus today’s generally accepted canon of 1970s Hollywood cinema continues to comprise the filmmakers who, during the era, were considered to be and considered themselves to be auteurs.

A counter-narrative: Hal Ashby’s collaborative film practice Early in his 2009 monograph, The Films of Hal Ashby, author Christopher Beach tries to walk a fine line between declaring Ashby an auteur outright and explaining how he is not exactly the kind of auteur typically associated with New Hollywood. Such an argument requires a fair amount of finesse. Beach is acutely aware that the romantic, highly individualistic nature of the auteur runs counter to Ashby’s collaborative, multiple-author approach to filmmaking; nevertheless, he sees it as one of the tasks of his book to argue for something resembling auteur status for Ashby: “I will attempt to make a convincing case for Ashby’s career as that of a significant American director, and to place his accomplishments alongside those of contemporaries such as Altman,

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Coppola, Scorsese, and Cassavetes.”64 In stating this case, Beach does not claim the appellation of “auteur” for Ashby, but by aligning him with the likes of these other directors, Beach is very specifically attempting to place him in the group of directorsas-auteurs.65 Furthermore, while Beach recognizes that, “Ashby may not have been an auteur in the strictest sense,” quoting a definition of auteur from scholar Peter Lehman, he goes on to argue that Ashby was “ ‘a filmmaker of substance who shapes and forms films with careful thought and attention to style, not just as window dressing but as integral to story telling.’ ”66 Beach’s difficulty here is not a misunderstanding of Ashby’s film practice, but, rather the conundrum faced by all New Hollywood scholars who would analyze the underrepresented film director:  New Hollywood has come to be understood as a cinema of auteurs, and so any director worth analyzing in the context of New Hollywood must also be an auteur. In facing this conundrum—in order to justify his discussion of Ashby and his films—Beach feints in the direction of declaring Ashby an auteur and then proceeds to marshal the evidence for this claim. This may not be the most fruitful path to take in attempting to open up a discussion around Ashby and his films. Perhaps sensing this, Beach does not belabor the auteur line of argument throughout most of his text, choosing, rather, to engage in formal analysis of specific stylistic and narrative traits that permeate Ashby’s films. This is a particularly auteurist approach to film criticism, and although Beach sets aside his discussion of the auteur in his early chapters and becomes interested mainly in arguing for Ashby as a director of consistency who reliably made quality films worthy of study, he continues to follow this auteur-based line of inquiry. In a typical auteur study, a critic generally argues along one or both of two strands: the search for and examination of formal and stylistic patterns is the strand most often explicated, with the second being the broader approach of demarcating shared narrative and thematic concerns across a filmmaker’s work. Historically, the strongest cases for auteur status have best been made when both of these strands can be taken up in the discussion of a single director. In making the argument for Ashby as a director of distinction, Beach’s text is primarily concerned exactly with delineating those two threads of auteurist distinction. Taking such an approach with Ashby is problematic not because such patterns cannot be recognized. They can, and the second half of this book will consist of, in part, an interrogation of some of these patterns in Ashby’s films in order better to understand his position as one of the authors of his films. The real problem with trying to affix the auteur label to Ashby has less to do with finding these specific patterns than it does with accepting the core claim of auteur criticism, that, as Cameron put it, the director is “the person who gives [a film] any distinctive quality” that it has. The very premise of auteur writing, that a single author is responsible for a film’s quality, its success or failure, is anathema to the way Ashby thought about films and the way he made films. Beach is aware of this and he notes that Ashby has been marginalized in part due to his reliance on collaboration and “strong” working partners. Beach is correct—it is incredibly easy to find scholars and critics either ignoring Ashby in favor of his collaborators (as, say, Pauline Kael did in her review of Shampoo) or condemning him outright simply for his practice of collaboration. For Beach, these are unfair criticisms—a challenge to be met, which he does in part by arguing, “The very same could be said of many directors

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who attain auteur status.”67 Beach seems to be trying to solve the “problem” of Ashby’s collaborative bent by ascribing it to other filmmakers of the era. This is a productive step towards demythologizing the auteur. Beach’s efforts to unravel this knot could be assisted by Sellors’s redefinition of the auteur director (mentioned above) as one author of many who through his authorship produces art, a redefinition that forcefully acknowledges the role of artistic collaboration in filmmaking. Doing so frees the critic from having to wedge Ashby into the New Hollywood canon by way of assigning him auteur status. Furthermore, it offers the possibility to show that, in a very real sense, Ashby exemplifies the artistic Hollywood film director precisely because of his embrace of collaboration, a line of argument that will be vigorously taken up in Parts 2 and 3 of this book. Beach, however, does not follow this line of inquiry in his text. Regardless, a critique of the argument that Ashby’s embrace of collaboration weakens him as a filmmaker remains necessary for at least two other illuminating reasons. First, such descriptions of Ashby, laden as they are with disdain for collaborative filmmaking, perfectly exemplify the tight grip that auteurist thinking still has on Hollywood critics. If Ashby’s filmmaking approach was collaborative, if he relied on “strong” working partners, he cannot have been an auteur. If he was not an auteur, then he was not a good filmmaker. If he was not a good filmmaker, his films are not worth studying. This reductive approach to understanding filmmaking has hampered Ashby’s legacy (which might be only a minor drawback in film scholarship). What is worse, it has closed the door on potentially meaningful avenues of inquiry into the filmmaking process in Hollywood. It reduces the number of films worthy of analysis to those directed by a pre-approved list of auteurs, men (all men) who were solely responsible for the quality of the films they directed. This leads to a second critique, one which Beach takes up briefly: other auteurs also relied on the help of talented collaborators, be they writers, actors, cinematographers, or otherwise. However, although two paragraphs of his introduction discuss some of the fruitful collaborative relationships in Hollywood—including, for example, Coppola and Vittorio Storaro and Dean Tavoularis on Apocalypse Now (1979)—in the end, his project is not a re-evaluation of the New Hollywood auteur, but an evaluation of Ashby and his films. Beach’s raising but not pursuing the collaborative practice of Ashby and other New Hollywood film directors, points to a glaring difficulty in attempting to understand Ashby’s reception within academic scholarship: Ashby cannot be wholly understood within the context of a New Hollywood dominated, if not determined, by an auteurist sensibility. Beach’s insightful text is a necessary first step towards a possible reconfiguration of Ashby’s status as a director of vibrant, era-defining films, and he does a worthy job outlining some of the key aspects of Ashby’s filmmaking in his analysis of Ashby’s films. However, it fails to make a convincing case for Ashby as auteur. This is quite simply because Ashby was not an auteur. He did not want to be an auteur, did not pretend to be an auteur, and seems not to have believed in the concept as a practical framework for understanding filmmaking, at least within the context of the Hollywood system, Classical or New.68 But if auteur theory per se has come under increasing scrutiny and might be described as somewhat defunct, the question remains as to how the concept of the auteur can continue to maintain such a firm grip on decisions about which

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directors and films are worthy of deeper academic consideration. In current conceptions of New Hollywood, Ashby was not an auteur, which means that his films should not be studied and that they have relatively little to offer students of film, students of Hollywood, or students of the New Hollywood era. In order to evaluate this perception further, it is worth explaining my claim that Ashby was not an auteur (at least not in the single-author sense) and its ramifications for understanding New Hollywood. In an interview with Millimeter magazine in 1980, Ashby talked at some length about the collaborative nature of his creative process. At this time, Ashby was at what can justly be considered the peak of his career—his previous two films, Coming Home and Being There had both been met with critical acclaim, box office success, and Academy Awards, and they were the capstone of a decade in which Ashby was, by many measurable criteria, as successful a director of films in Hollywood as any of his peers. For example, in his review of Being There, Roger Ebert starts by writing: There’s an exhilaration in seeing artists at the very top of their form:  It almost doesn’t matter what the art form is, if they’re pushing their limits and going for broke and it’s working. We can sense their joy of achievement—and even more so if the project in question is a risky, off-the-wall idea that could just as easily have ended disastrously. Hal Ashby’s Being There is a movie that inspires those feelings.69

This paragraph is indicative of Ashby’s position in Hollywood at the time he gave the interview to Millimeter—before the rapid changes that would soon see his career and reputation plummet.70 There was no better time for him to take on the mantle of auteur. Yet throughout the interview, Ashby openly credits his collaborators on Being There—particularly writer Robert C. Jones, production designer Mike Haller, cinematographer Caleb Deschanel, and actor Peter Sellers—for their contributions to the final product. Of Mike Haller, who worked with Ashby on six of his eleven feature films, Ashby says, “When I start preproduction, the person I work closest with is my production designer. He will have more ideas than anyone . . . I work really closely with Mike.”71 As the conversation shifts to the cinematographer, Deschanel, the interviewers ask him, “Instead of telling your DP what you want, you ask him how he sees it?” Ashby’s response to this question could be a summary of his entire working process: “Yeah, I start to feel it out and find out, because otherwise you cut off ideas too fast. The great thing about film is, it really is communal. It is the communal art”72 (emphasis in original). After talking about Sellers’s commitment to the role, Ashby is asked, “How much freedom do you give your editors on the first cut?” This question would seem to strike particularly close to any auteurist bent Ashby might be tempted to ascribe to. He had been an editor for ten years before becoming a director and had become well known for the intricate editing of his films. In fact, by the end of his career, even when things were not going well for him, Ashby was still generally able to get quite precise details about his editing duties written into the contracts for his films. Yet, his answer offers no auteurist pretensions: “I give them complete freedom. I don’t even hang around;

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I just let ‘em go.”73 He then goes on to describe quite specifically the collaborative way he works with his editors through subsequent cuts, slowly getting more involved in the process until, for the last cut, he makes many of the decisions himself, fine-tuning but not dramatically altering what his editors have given him. What this interview indicates so concisely is how, with each step of his filmmaking process, from pre- through post-production, Ashby not only relied on “strong” collaborators, but also embraced them. In Ebert’s review of Being There, a reader will find nothing about any crewmember other than Ashby (as one would expect, the review discusses the cast at great length); it is quite simply “Hal Ashby’s film.”74 But in Ashby’s telling, the film is the product of all of their work. He directed them, to be sure, but it was a collaborative process. This is not surprising when one understands that it was via such a process that Ashby learned the trade. After getting his first assistant editing job on The Naked Hills (1956) and then working (un-credited) on Stanley Kramer’s The Pride and the Passion (1957), Ashby was given an opportunity that would prove hugely influential to his careers as both editor and director:  he was hired to work as an assistant editor on William Wyler’s 1958 film The Big Country. This film was key to Ashby’s development because it was the first time he would work with accomplished editor Robert Swink, forming a relationship that would last for an additional five films—a relationship in which Ashby first developed many of the editing habits and techniques that would last throughout his career as an editor. But it also proved highly influential to his career as a director. As described by Ashby in a short essay from 1970, on his first day as a member of The Big Country crew, Wyler announced to Ashby in front of the crew, “ ‘[i]f you have any ideas . . . any . . . no matter how wild they might seem, get them out. I, or we, might argue with you, and tell you it’s a dumb idea and you are a dumb son of a bitch . . . but that doesn’t matter because the heat of our anger comes only from the desire to make a good film.’ ”75 This was Ashby’s first experience working closely with a big name Hollywood director, and from the outset he was being told that his opinion mattered. Compare this with something Ashby would tell cinematographer Haskell Wexler on the set of Bound for Glory (1976), nearly twenty years later: “All you have to do is tell me that you’re going to try something. I’m not going to jump up and down. If it works, great, and if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”76 This conversation led to the first use of a Steadicam shot in a feature film and directly foreshadows what Ashby would say in the 1980 Millimeter interview about working with Deschanel. While anecdotal in nature, instances such as these repeatedly display Ashby’s career-long belief that his collaborators had more than simply the talents of their respective fields to offer; rather, they had ideas for the making of the film—the authoring of the film—that Ashby insistently chose not to distance himself from. Moreover, it is not only Ashby himself who discussed his collaborative approach. Those who worked with him, almost to a person, at some point have commented on the amount of freedom they were given by Ashby to contribute to the making of the film. Gordon Willis, who shot Ashby’s first film, The Landlord (1970), and would go on to have a productive career shooting films for Francis Ford Coppola (all of The Godfather films) and Woody Allen (including Annie Hall [1977] and Manhattan [1979]) among

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others, described his relationship with Ashby on the set of The Landlord:  “Hal and I  had many discussions about what things should feel like, but I  always did what I thought was appropriate, and he always gave me great support for that.”77 On each of his pictures, Ashby worked with some of the pre-eminent cinematographers of the day—in addition to Deschanel, Wexler, and Willis, he also worked with John Alonzo, László Kovács, and Michael Chapman, whom Ashby promoted to the position of cinematographer on the film The Last Detail (1973). Repeatedly, these men talk about how much freedom Ashby gave them to propose their own ideas and how willing he was to work with them to achieve a kind of combined vision for how the film should look. These are exactly the kinds of contributions to authorship that Sellors describes above. On the other hand, for critics operating within an auteur paradigm—whether they consider themselves auteur theorists or not—this approach to filmmaking is precisely what prevents Ashby from being an auteur. A  most extreme example comes from David Thompson, who describes Ashby as, “a sad casualty who depended on strong collaborators,”78 and who credits those collaborators for any success that Harold and Maude and The Last Detail might have had. Of Shampoo, Thomson gives all the credit for its “boastfully risqué” tone to Warren Beatty and Robert Towne, describing the film as lacking “any directorial personality.” This is not the only time Shampoo has been discussed as though it were something of a non-Ashby Ashby film. In his essay on films of the year 1975 in American Cinema of the 1970s, Glenn Man begins his discussion of Shampoo by describing it as “directed by Hal Ashby with a script by Robert Towne.”79 Man then goes on to praise the film, taking specific notice of the excellent work of the cast and its “wonderful, witty script” (by Towne and Warren Beatty). He describes how the film “moves gracefully, effortlessly, through its complicated plot and twisted relationships,” and even quotes Pauline Kael as having described the film’s balance as “Mozartean.”80 But he does not mention Ashby’s name a second time throughout his discussion. It is as though Ashby had nothing to do with any of the film’s successes. Ashby may have inadvertently brought this derision and neglect upon himself through his penchant for collaboration. While making The Last Detail, Ashby had allowed actor Jack Nicholson to come to the other side of the camera and look through the viewfinder to help him find his marks, the spots within any particular set where an actor is meant to position himself during a given scene so as to be within the proper light and camera lines. Nicholson said at the time, “Hal is the first director to let me go, to let me find my own level . . . it is the difference between college and pro football.”81 The result was not only one of Nicholson’s favorite performances, but it also cemented a friendship between the two that lasted the rest of Ashby’s life. However, when Ashby tried to allow Beatty the same freedom on Shampoo, his next film, the results were markedly different. In some sense, Beatty saw Shampoo, which he was producing as well as starring in, as a practice run for his future as a director. So to Beatty, the invitation to look through the viewfinder was an invitation to take on some of the director’s duties. As a result (in part because of Towne’s and Beatty’s retellings of the story, and in part because of the way Kael praised the film as, mainly, a Beatty picture), the story of Shampoo became that Ashby did not really direct the film, but that he acted as a director-for-hire who would acquiesce to the wishes of Towne and, primarily, Beatty.

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Discussing the process of making Shampoo later, Ashby did describe it as difficult, but he continued to articulate his ideas about filmmaking as a “communal” process.82 But because Shampoo was Ashby’s most financially successful film, and because it saddled him with the reputation of being a “weak” director, critics like Thomson have looked for similar “weaknesses” of direction in his other films. In fact, as Chapter 3 will argue, Shampoo displays many of the thematic and stylistic elements that can be traced through several of Ashby’s films. But it is also a Warren Beatty film and a Robert Towne film and a László Kovács film. In a personal interview, Robert C. Jones, the film’s editor, told me that despite the difficulties on set and despite the film’s reputation, Ashby was clearly the film’s sole director: “I’d go down to the set and Hal would be sitting off to the side and, you know, having a tough time with Warren. I saw that a few times. But I didn’t see anybody else directing.”83 And Ashby himself, describing the situation of making Shampoo, said, “I’m the director of the film; I know I’m the director of the film. I know that when I say, ‘Turn it on, turn it off,’ that that’s when they’re going to turn it on and turn it off.”84 Regardless of this insistence, however, for the variety of reasons that have been outlined throughout these first two chapters, Ashby’s reputation as an ineffectual director stuck, and an ineffectual director falls far outside the definition of a New Hollywood auteur. An important distinction must be made here between the terms “director” and “auteur.” Ashby was never in doubt, on any of his films, that he was the director. That is as clear in his comments about Shampoo as it was in his previously discussed comments about 8 Million Ways to Die. But for Ashby, directing runs counter to the auteur concept. He relied on his cast and crew not because he was a “weak” filmmaker, but because for Ashby that’s what filmmaking meant. His continual efforts to work with the same group of people show how he frequently attempted to surround himself with like-minded cast and crew. He wanted to work with people who wanted to collaborate, and time and again, as the second half of this book will amply demonstrate, those people who worked with Ashby described the relationship as fruitful and often as one of the best professional experiences of their lives. What Ashby did not want, though, was to be an auteur—at least not in the sense of the word as it was used in the 1970s. Jeff Wexler described Ashby as having a very clear vision of his filmmaking practice. However, while he could be stern with crewmembers who objected to his methods, he always welcomed their ideas and opinions, often incorporating them into the film. As Wexler says, “The mere fact of the discussion I think removes Hal from the category of auteur.”85 The “mere fact of this discussion,” however, would also seem to have removed Ashby from consideration as a director of vital films of quality from the New Hollywood era. That is barring a consideration, as Beach proposes, that the same can be said of nearly every director of the era. Coppola, in the 1970s, was highly dependent on such crewmembers as Gordon Willis and Walter Murch, the latter of whom not only mixed sound on all of Coppola’s 1970s films, but whose contributions to the intricate sound design and editing patterns of The Conversation (1974) cannot be overstated.86 The same can be said of Scorsese and his relationships during the decade with the likes of Paul Schrader, Robert De Niro, and Michael Chapman, all of whom were intimately

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involved in the making of two of his great successes, Taxi Driver (1976) and Raging Bull (1980). Furthermore, an argument can be made that the era’s great cinematographers such as Chapman, Kovács, and Vilmos Zsigmond were as integrally responsible in their own right for the look of the era’s films as the directors were.

Conclusion At this point, it is worth revisiting Sellors’s brief foray into defining what an auteur is or could be within his consideration of multiple-authorship. He writes “I define an auteur as an author who produces art through his or her acts of authorship.”87 In this sense of the word, “auteur,” then, implies a practitioner with artistic inclinations who, much like Truffaut’s auteur, has a discernable set of stylistic and narrative concerns. Unlike, however, the concept promulgated by Sarris, Cameron, and many of their contemporaries, and which continues today as the dominant conception of the auteur, Sellors’s understanding is that the auteur is emphatically not the sole author of his or her films, but one of many authors working together to create the finished product. In fact, it might be best just to leave the word “auteur” behind, for all its baggage, and turn more readily to “author.” However, as this chapter has demonstrated, in addition to constituting a cornerstone of modern film studies, the single-author conceptualization of the auteur has been one of the dominant factors in scholarship’s construction of a very distinct, albeit limited, definition of New Hollywood and its key films and filmmakers. Based on the parameters of that definition and the canon that has developed around it, there has been very little room made for Ashby or the films he directed. However, with recent work by Sellors and others, and with the dramatic increase of access to production notes via film archives, it is becoming increasingly possible—even necessary—to reconfigure our understanding of filmmaking practice in New Hollywood. To determine how Ashby might fit within such a reconfiguration—indeed, whether he should be reconsidered at all—it becomes necessary, then, to discern two things. Chapters 3 and 4 will argue that Ashby was an “artistic” filmmaker and that he can, indeed, be described as having a recognizable set of stylistic and narrative concerns—in other words, that he was one of the authors of the films he directed. Furthermore, his films display a unique approach to common New Hollywood themes that marks him as both more typical of the era than is generally recognized, and also distinct from his contemporaries in many ways. Chapter 5 then argues that in addition to displaying Ashby’s own authorial contributions, each of the films he directed can be read as bearing distinct contributions from those with whom he collaborated. Furthermore—and this in many ways is the overall crux of my argument—this aspect of his filmmaking strategy, if anything, exemplifies rather than strays from actual New Hollywood film practices.

Part Two

Tracing Ashby’s Authorship

Introduction The complex set of factors that determined Ashby’s marginality within both the New Hollywood hierarchy and subsequent academic film studies would be impossible to delineate completely; however, it should be clear that his marginalization as an active filmmaker during the 1970s and 1980s and his marginalization as a subject of film studies constitute two different, if overlapping, instances of marginalization with two different sets of consequences. But individual decisions on the part of Ashby himself and many of the producers he worked with, the scripts he filmed, the reception of his films by contemporary audiences, critics, and academics, and the difficulty of determining a place for him in the construction of New Hollywood have all contributed to his ongoing status. Although recent books by Nick Dawson and Christopher Beach indicate an increase in interest in Ashby, as I have demonstrated thus far, for the past thirty years such interest has been virtually nonexistent. Whether Dawson’s and Beach’s contributions have begun to alter Ashby’s status remains to be seen. Perhaps Ashby’s approach to filmmaking and to his narrative subjects will remain too outside the accepted definitions of New Hollywood to allow a reconsideration of him to find purchase. However, I contend that a consideration of Ashby’s outlier status and a reevaluation of his films based on how they were made, their thematic concerns, and their formal properties will more likely expand those definitions in a way that allows for a reconceptualization of New Hollywood that is at once broader and more nuanced. The determination to “re-evaluate” a film director—from any era or tradition—is generally undertaken as part of an auteur study, an attempt to place a director more firmly in the group of previously recognized auteurs. If one argues, as Part 2 will, that Ashby’s films display a sense of style and approach to narrative that are both individual to him and traceable across his body of work, the assumption would be that such an argument is made in service of the single-author approach to understanding filmmaking. However, it is not my aim to argue that Ashby was an auteur in the singleauthor sense of the term. Keeping Sellors’s redefinition of “auteur” in mind—generally,

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a filmmaker with artistic proclivities and intentions—an argument can be made that Ashby was, indeed, an auteur. He was not the only author involved in the making of his films, but he did bring a committed sense of artistry to his filmmaking as well as an evolving, interwoven set of stylistic approaches and narrative concerns. Those elements of his films mark his individuality, but they have also served to set him apart from his peers in a way that has made it difficult for writers to categorize him within New Hollywood scholarship. And yet, as will become apparent, Ashby’s collaborative approach to filmmaking was not singular to him, but was much more widespread an approach during the era than is often understood. Thus, to argue that Ashby was one of several authors of his films is not to diminish Ashby’s role in their making. Rather, it is to show that Ashby was much more aware of and open to the process of filmmaking that was actually predominant in the industry. The slight against Ashby has often been that he was too collaborative; in other words, that his films benefitted not so much from his direction as from the artistic professionalism of those with whom he surrounded himself. I have tried to argue that this is actually a strength of the films Ashby directed, and an example of the multipleauthorship filmmaking that was much more widespread during New Hollywood than has generally been acknowledged. However, simply because Ashby’s films were the products of multiple authors, it does not necessarily mean that Ashby was one of those authors. In order, then, to argue that Ashby and his films deserve reconsideration, it is necessary to show clearly both that he was a collaborative filmmaker whose films were the products of multiple authors and that Ashby himself was one of those authors. This section, then, will set about demonstrating that Ashby was indeed one of the authors of his films, with a consistent approach to theme and narrative and a discernible individual style. Christopher Beach has begun the work of excavating the authorial aspects of Ashby’s films and parts of the following chapters will build on the work he has done, particularly in the areas of Ashby’s relationship to music and cinematography. However, the section will also extend Beach’s analysis in new directions, in some cases challenging Beach’s assertions, and in much of the section adding whole new elements to the discussion of Ashby’s authorial impact. In doing so, I will rely heavily on film analysis, especially drawing on Ashby’s seven films of the 1970s. Chapter 3 interrogates two aspects of Ashby’s approach to narrative that are vital to an understanding of him and his films. The first is what I will call the “marginal protagonist,” the type of hero that marks Ashby’s films as quite different, even if subtly so, from those of his contemporaries. The second is the reoccurrence of politics and political issues as elements of narrative in Ashby’s films. In a decade that was highly politicized, Hollywood films are often criticized for their lack of willingness to investigate the political issues of the day. Ashby may have been the most politically minded mainstream filmmaker of the decade, and an analysis of how that affected his films will prove illuminating. Chapter 4 moves on to discuss three stylistic considerations: editing, cinematography, and music. In all these cases, Ashby worked closely with his crew to achieve a specific look and sound that best complimented or even furthered a particular film’s narrative and themes. It can be difficult to discern whether a particular shot decision

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or editing strategy was made by Ashby or, respectively, his cinematographer or editor.1 However, as certain stylistic elements reoccur throughout Ashby’s filmography, it seems fair at least to say that Ashby had a proclivity for their use in his films. If we cannot say for certain that he devised a particular strategy, we can certainly assume, based on the strategy’s reoccurrence in films shot and edited by different individuals, that Ashby made the final decision about all shooting and editing strategies. By tracing these elements of style across Ashby’s work, and, in particular, analyzing how closely such stylistic elements were wedded to any given film’s narrative and thematic concerns, Chapter 4 will argue that Ashby was more than just a passive observer of his films being made or the lucky beneficiary of strong collaborators. He was, in fact, a highly individual filmmaker with a distinctive and traceable set of authorial concerns that at once mark his films as strikingly similar to the films of his peers while also distinguishing them enough that, to this point, they have eluded categorization within film scholarship.

3

Authorship, Narrative, and Themes

The marginal protagonist Thomas Elsaesser, in the title of his 1975 essay on New Hollywood, uses the term “unmotivated hero,” claiming that “the significant feature of this new cinema is that it makes an issue of the motives—or lack of them—in its heroes”1 (as mentioned earlier, this is the essay that includes Ashby’s The Last Detail in its introduction, but does not bring the film up again). Nearly thirty years later, Christian Keathley describes the heroes of New Hollywood film as “manipulated, exploited, and left paralyzed by the realization of their powerlessness in the face of a corrupt system,” and claims that the films are permeated by “feelings of disaffection, alienation, and demoralization.”2 These are not uncommon or isolated claims, and much has been made of the sense of despondency and even hostility that pervades the films of 1970s Hollywood. My intention is not to claim that these definitions are off the mark. One need only consider the best-known and most successful films of the era—Easy Rider (1969), The Godfather (1972), Nashville (1975), Chinatown (1975), or Taxi Driver (1976), to mention but a few—to note the bleakness emanating from them. Clearly, many New Hollywood films were concerned with the loss of faith and the sense of “powerlessness in the face of a corrupt system” that descended on large swaths of American society during and in the wake of the Vietnam War, the Watergate scandal, and other crises of confidence in the polity that plagued the late 1960s and early 1970s. What has been problematic in the understanding of Ashby’s films, however, has been the notion, by extension, that any film of the 1970s must exhibit such despondency— not only exhibit it, but also emphasize it—in order to be considered one of the “great” films of the era and, thus, a part of the New Hollywood canon. Ashby’s films certainly do not avoid such matters, concerned as they are at various times with suicide, failed relationships, parental neglect, government indifference (or worse), and crippling fears of failure. However, they approach these matters from a different angle than the films accepted as most representative of New Hollywood. To understand this different approach, and to begin to comprehend why a closer look at it might serve to deepen and expand our conception of the era, it is important, first, to look at Ashby’s protagonists.3 Like many New Hollywood central characters, those in Ashby’s films do not “fit

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in”; either they are uncomfortable within the confines of mainstream society or, for one reason or another, they have been discarded by it. However, unlike many of their filmic contemporaries, Ashby’s heroes do not seek to reject society altogether, nor do they seek to tear it apart, destroy it from within, or even simply keep on coasting along despite society’s indifference to them. Ashby protagonists are active, trying to find a place in society where they do fit in, a place that is usually located neither fully within accepted society nor completely outside of it, hence “marginal.” Whereas many New Hollywood protagonists choose to drop out of society completely (in such films as Bonnie and Clyde, Easy Rider, and Five Easy Pieces) or to remain within society while playing destructive or anti-establishment roles (Taxi Driver, The French Connection, or many of the characters in MASH), Ashby takes a different route that situates his protagonists both within and outside of society. In fact, it may be partly this characteristic of his protagonists that sets Ashby’s films apart from the dominant construct of New Hollywood. A quick rundown of Ashby’s protagonists will help illustrate the pervasiveness of marginal heroes within his films. In The Landlord, Elgar Enders (Beau Bridges) is a wealthy young New  Yorker from Long Island who purchases and moves into a tenement brownstone in Brooklyn. He is uncomfortable with his family’s wealth and casual racism (although unable or unwilling to slough off either of them entirely), but is also distrusted by his black tenants. Throughout the film, Elgar has a difficult time finding his place in a world where his bourgeois roots no longer appeal to him but where, at the same time, the people who he turns to will not accept him. Harold and Maude (1971) concerns Harold Chasen (Bud Cort), another wealthy young man who is unhappy at home and who consciously rejects the trappings of society offered by the military, religious, and medical establishments, while finding solace in the friendship and, later, romantic love of seventy-nine-year-old Maude (Ruth Gordon), who herself lives in the marginalized space of a repurposed railway car on the outskirts of town. The Last Detail not only depicts three “navy lifers,” members of what was at the time the vastly unpopular American military,4 but much of the film takes place within marginal or peripheral locations. The plot concerns Buddusky (Jack Nicholson) and Mulhall (Otis Young), two sailors who are tasked with escorting Meadows (Randy Quaid) from a naval base in Norfolk, Virginia, to the military stockade in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Meadows has been sentenced to eight years in prison for attempting to steal forty dollars from a charity bucket. Once they leave Norfolk, Meadows is in their custody and no longer, technically, at liberty; but until they reach Portsmouth (a journey of just over 500 miles, which takes about three-and-a-half days), Meadows is also not fully a prisoner. Shampoo (1975) involves, perhaps, Ashby’s least marginalized character in George Roundy (Warren Beatty), a Beverly Hills hairdresser who, under the pretense of being homosexual, is able to sleep with many of his customers without their husbands or lovers suspecting him. However, in setting the film on the eve of Richard Nixon’s 1968 election to the US presidency, while depicting characters who have, at best, superficial concerns with American politics (during what might arguably be considered one of the most “political” years of the latter half of the last

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century), the film depicts characters whose lives are intimately affected by the world around them but who choose, for a variety of reasons, to ignore or not to participate in that reality. Bound for Glory (1976), Ashby’s Woody Guthrie biopic, concentrates entirely on three years of the singer’s life before he became famous or even well known. The Guthrie (David Carradine) of Bound for Glory is only slowly awakening to the labor and other struggles taking place in Depression-era America and the film is, in many ways, about his transition from a small-town sign painter to a socially conscious folk singer. Coming Home (1978) is mainly about Vietnam veterans, paraplegics in many cases, who reside in an understaffed, poorly funded veterans’ hospital, nearly forgotten about by the government that they fought for. It also concerns Sally Hyde (Jane Fonda) and her slow feminist awakening, which is coupled with her inability to choose between two different men, both troubled veterans looking for ways to reacclimatize to a society that does not know what to do with them. Peter Sellers’s character Chance, from Being There (1979), might be Ashby’s most marginal character of all, for Chance lives in a world that he is never fully a part of. It is never made explicit whether Chance’s simple-mindedness is the result of a mental disability or due to the many years of his life that he remained sheltered in the house of his birth, never leaving except to tend the garden, his only interaction with the outside world coming via television. Even as Chance leaves the house and enters mainstream society, albeit a very narrow stratum of it, he remains outside of that society because of his inability (or very possibly his unwillingness) to engage with it completely. Even Ashby’s lesser-known films of the 1980s concern marginality as a social condition:  Second-Hand Hearts (1981) is about two outsiders who embark on a cross-country journey to find happiness. The life-long gamblers of Lookin’ to Get Out (1982) must flee their native New York and spend most of the film encamped (under false names) in an expensive room in Las Vegas’s MGM Grand Hotel. And in Ashby’s final film, 8 Million Ways to Die (1986), Matt Scudder (Jeff Bridges) is an alcoholic ex-cop who has been left by his wife and finds comfort (and trouble) in the company of prostitutes and drug dealers. Even the ways in which Scudder attempts to confront his alcoholism imply an inability to fit in, moving, as he does, back and forth from sober to drunk, attending then rejecting meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous. Of all of his feature films, only Ashby’s penultimate effort, The Slugger’s Wife (1985), can be said not to concern characters who move in realms of marginality, depicting, as it does, the lives of a famous baseball player and an up-and-coming pop singer.5 A closer examination of two of the films—Harold and Maude and The Last Detail—will more keenly elucidate the key importance that the marginal protagonist plays in Ashby’s body of work.

Harold and Maude: Marginality and the social misfit Harold and Maude was written by Colin Higgins as his Master’s thesis at UCLA, with Higgins originally intending to direct it as well. Paramount’s Peter Bart became

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enamored of the script and convinced Robert Evans to make the film. Evans and Bart knew the film—with its many depictions of suicide and its extreme May–December romance—was a risky proposition, which was in part why they chose Ashby to direct it, figuring they could blame any potential failure on his flakiness and supposed unpredictability.6 Supportive as he always was of young talent, Ashby at first resisted, thinking that Higgins should be given the chance to direct. However, Ashby was immediately attracted to the script, and when Evans made it clear to him that if he did not direct the picture, somebody else (but never Higgins) would, Ashby compromised by making Higgins a producer so that he might gain some experience on a film set. As Dawson explains, Ashby was excited to work on the film because of its “philosophies of nonconformism and free-spiritedness.”7 Harold Chasen is a wealthy young man who lives alone with his mother (Vivian Pickles) in a huge mansion on a grand estate outside of San Francisco. He does not work and seems not to attend university. He has two pastimes: orchestrating elaborate false suicides in front of his mother and attending the funerals of strangers. Harold is a man uncomfortable with life—he is pale and withdrawn and socially awkward, and he continually tries to shirk the various social occasions that his mother arranges for the two of them together as well as for his own benefit (at least as she perceives it). The funerals that he attends are Catholic ceremonies, which though highly ritualistic, are also calm and predictable affairs. Until he meets Maude, it is in these settings that Harold feels most comfortable. Harold’s faked suicides (see Figures 3.1–3.8) also seem to have an element of marginality. Whether he really wants to die but lacks the nerve, or whether it is solely for attention that Harold acts out his suicidal fantasies is never made completely clear. He does recount to Maude an episode from high school when his chemistry lab blew up and, fearing punishment, he fled home and snuck upstairs to his room. The authorities, on not finding his body, report Harold’s death to his mother, whom Harold watches weep, the only time he witnesses her express deep emotion about him. Thus a superficial reading would be that Harold acts out these performances as a plea for attention. However, his mother has become so accustomed to his stunts that she rarely reacts at all—often telling him with deadpan panache to clean up after himself or to “Try and look a little more vivacious.” Regardless of his direct motivation, however, the suicides represent another marginal experiential space for Harold. In addition to being somewhat dangerous, they also constitute a space where, to the unfamiliar, Harold is neither alive (the suicides are incredibly realistic, and anybody unfamiliar with their feigned nature could not be blamed for believing Harold to be truly dead), nor dead (they are all, regardless of danger, fake). This is particularly true of the film’s opening sequence. The first action the viewer encounters is Harold, alone and wordless, putting on a Cat Stevens record, standing on a chair in an elegant, old-fashioned room, and hanging himself. It is a shocking opening moment and one that catches the viewer off guard until, moments later, Harold is revealed to be still alive (if somewhat disappointed that his mother has not fallen for his gag). Once the viewer is in on the joke, the successive acts of suicide no longer work as deceptively as the hanging that opens the film, and they are increasingly played for

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Figure 3.1 Harold hangs himself in the film’s opening sequence.

Figure 3.2 Harold sliced and bloodied in his mother’s bathtub.

humor rather than for any kind of pathos or surprise. That is, until Harold’s last performance. During the film’s final sequence, there is a series of achronological intercuts between different incidents: Harold with Maude on the way to the hospital after he learns that she has intentionally overdosed on sleeping pills and will soon die; Harold alone in the hospital, waiting for and then receiving news of Maude’s death; and Harold driving alone in his Jaguar/hearse. Accompanied by the melancholy Cat Stevens song

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Figure 3.3 Harold drowned in the swimming pool as his mother swims past.

Figure 3.4 Harold about to shoot himself in the head.

“Trouble,” these three sequences are tightly edited for heightened dramatic tension. The achronological, parallel editing style is one that Ashby will return to at other times in his career. In this instance, it has the effect of conveying to a viewer Harold’s own sense of mental and emotional discombobulation. None of the sequences is given the primacy of “now”—in other words, the editing does not indicate that any of the sequences is a flashback or a flash forward in time from an internal, anchored reference

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Figure 3.5 Harold performing self-immolation, through the window.

Figure 3.6 Harold chopping off his hand with a meat cleaver.

point, the effect of which is that everything seems to be happening at once. While this is physically impossible, the editing is able to convey such an impression, particularly in the way it is aided by the Cat Stevens song playing uninterrupted over each cut between all the segments. Maude’s suicide is especially troubling, both to Harold and the viewer, because throughout the film, she has been cast as a free spirit and the metaphorical light capable

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Figure 3.7 Harold performing an act of ritual seppuku.

Figure 3.8 Harold driving his car over a cliff.

of leading Harold out of his darkness. In many ways, Maude, more than Harold, is the film’s heroic figure, and watching Harold fall in love with her and begin to embrace life like her creates an emotional investment in the character. When we learn that she is about to die by an act of real suicide, not only does it clearly dramatize Harold’s previous “suicides” as inauthentic, shallow even, it is also a moment acted and edited for great sympathy—both for the dying Maude and for Harold, whose metamorphosis

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due to their relationship we have been witness to. So when the Cat Stevens song stops abruptly, the intercutting ends, and all that is left is the loud revving of Harold’s engine as he drives with furious speed towards a high cliff, it is easy for the viewer to believe that this time Harold is serious about taking his own life. As his car flies over the edge, flips over, and crashes upside down onto the rocks below, the uncertainty of the opening sequence returns—one might reasonably believe, given the circumstances, that Harold has plummeted to his death. Only when the camera slowly tilts up from the destroyed car to the top of the cliff, where Harold stands looking down at the wreckage, does the situation become clear. Thus momentarily, as during the opening sequence, the viewer is cast into the space of not knowing whether Harold is now dead or alive. Like many of his contemporaneous protagonists, Harold is searching for meaning in a life that seems meaningless. However, where he differs from them is that he does not reject society completely, nor does he run away from it. He is able to reject some of its more structured trappings (family, the military, psychiatry, and, aside from the funerals, church) without becoming a complete outsider. It is Maude who helps him carve out a space for himself that is both within and outside of mainstream society. Maude is seventy-nine years old and, like Harold, attends funerals, which is where they first meet. Maude is a marginalized character in several ways. When she introduces herself to Harold, one of the first things she says to him is, “I’ll be eighty next week. Good time to move on, don’t you think.” Although neither Harold nor the viewer realizes it at this point, Maude has already planned to take her own life on her eightieth birthday. Thus, throughout the film, she exists in an in-between place. This allows her certain freedoms that she may not have had access to previously. How much more the free spirit she may be during her final week is difficult to ascertain because Maude is depicted as having long been a nonconformist in general. As we slowly find out certain details of her personal history, it becomes clear that the philosophy she dispenses to Harold comes from many hard lessons learnt during her life. However, it seems to be her knowledge of her ensuing death that allows Maude to pursue Harold sexually, which she clearly does from the beginning. Before introducing herself, she winks at him. Later, she pushes him to “stroke, palm, caress, explore” the abstract feminine wooden sculpture in her trailer. She dresses up and teaches him to dance. And on the day before her birthday, they make love—an act that is roundly condemned by the film’s representatives of society (Harold’s mother; his psychiatrist; a priest; and his uncle Victor, a US Army general). It is also represented as an affront to the audience as, on the morning after, Harold stares dramatically at the camera while he blows bubbles, almost daring the audience to judge him8 (see Figure 3.9). Maude may have acted similarly before she decided to end her life, but it also seems clear that with that day not far off, she has decided to make one last emotional and sexual connection in life. Maude’s societal marginality is reinforced by the location of her home—a small rail car on the outskirts of town with little in the way of neighbors. Finally, her marginality is emphasized one last time during the film’s final intercut sequences, wherein Maude has already taken an overdose of sleeping pills and is going to die. It is from this space that Maude, in response to Harold’s telling her he loves her, says, “Oh Harold, that’s wonderful. Go and love some more.” It would seemingly be this piece of wisdom that

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Figure 3.9 Harold blowing bubbles after sleeping with Maude.

allows Harold (unseen by the viewer) to abandon his speeding car before it plunges over the cliff. As a character, Harold does share traits with Elsaesser’s “unmotivated hero”—he is dissatisfied with his lot in life, unhappy with the trappings of his particular societal niche, and unwilling to pursue normalization via accepted institutions. However, Harold differs from other New Hollywood heroes in that he remains willing (albeit sometimes unbeknownst to him) to explore new areas of life—on the margins and the fringes—that might allow him to find a place of his own. It is only via Maude—herself an outsider who has not completely rejected society—that he begins to understand what such a place might look like. The film’s final image captures Harold’s situation clearly. He stands perched atop a cliff, having chosen life over death. He is alone, on the edge of the world, but he carries with him the banjo that Maude gave him as a gift. Just before the credits role, Harold turns his back to the camera and walks away, struggling slowly to pick out the one tune that Maude had taught him. He fumbles and it sounds awkward. He is not there yet, but he seems satisfied to try to get there. Such final images of marginality pervade Ashby’s films—almost all of his films include a final image of the protagonist with his back to the camera, embracing the world but still alone in it—exemplifying how Ashby’s authorial approach to narrative and style are married in his depiction of the plights of marginal protagonists.

The Last Detail: Institutionalized marginality Ashby’s follow-up to Harold and Maude was The Last Detail, a film decidedly different in tone, look, and outcome than its predecessor. Unlike the privileged Harold Chasen

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or the ever-sunny Maude, the three navy sailors of Ashby’s third film are working-class men for whom the military represents the best option for a career. Two of them— “Bad Ass” Buddusky (Jack Nicholson) and “Mule” Mulhall (Otis Young)—are “lifers,” a common term for one who makes a professional career of the military. They are petty officers assigned to escort the third sailor, Larry Meadows (Randy Quaid), from Norfolk Naval Base in Virginia to the stockade at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. Meadows has been sentenced to serve eight years in prison for stealing forty dollars from a charity bucket. At the start of the film, none of the men knows each other and they will spend the following four days on a series of trains and buses, sharing hotel rooms as the two petty officers try both to execute their duty and to help Meadows come to grips with the fate awaiting him in New Hampshire. Marginality figures into The Last Detail in several ways, first in the situation of Meadows. The film has been marketed as a Jack Nicholson vehicle since its release, and to be sure Nicholson’s commitment to the film through every phase of its production was in large part responsible for any commercial success that it had or continues to have. In addition to starring in the film, Nicholson was instrumental in getting Ashby hired to direct it and in keeping Ashby on after his arrest for marijuana possession in Toronto during preproduction.9 He also won an acting award at Cannes in 1973 for his performance, which compelled Columbia to release Ashby’s cut of the film over their initial objections about its preponderance of obscenities. However, while Nicholson as Buddusky might be the star, the narrative itself centers on the journey of Larry Meadows. It is, after all, his arrest and conviction that set the plot in motion, and Meadows’s journey to New Hampshire takes on several marginal components. Meadows is nineteen years old and has yet to experience many of the key transformative moments that make one a “man” in Western culture—he has yet to get drunk, yet to fight, yet to have sex. Buddusky and Mulhall come to see it as their responsibility to introduce Meadows to these experiences before they reach New Hampshire. Thus, in one sense, the journey is a “rite of passage” for Meadows. Additionally, Meadows’s actual position in regards to his status as a criminal is marginal as well. He leaves Virginia in the custody of Buddusky and Mulhall, and arrives in New Hampshire that way, but during the interim, the two of them seldom treat Meadows as a prisoner. This is announced before the first bus leaves the station when Buddusky removes Meadows’s handcuffs, stating: “The Navy feels that on certain kinds of vehicular transport, a prisoner shall have the use of both his hands to protect himself in case of an accident.” Henceforth, although Meadows’s behavior occasionally forces Buddusky and Mulhall to revert to their roles as police escorts, for most of the journey he is treated as a peer, or at least as something like a kid brother or new recruit. So although Meadows has been arrested and dishonorably discharged, until he reaches the stockade, he is not fully a prisoner. This positioning allows Meadows an amount of freedom he has never known before. Much like Harold opens up to new experiences under Maude’s guidance, so Meadows opens himself to new experiences on his journey up the East Coast. In addition to getting drunk (on the first night of the journey, in Washington DC) and making love to a woman (a prostitute in Boston, on the journey’s final night), he engages in a

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gang fight with US marines, takes up transcendental meditation in New York (which he continues practicing throughout the course of the journey/film), goes ice skating for the first time, and also learns, to a small extent, how to stick up for himself in the face of bullying. This is not to argue that Meadows deserves his fate, or that being sent to prison for eight years is anything like a blessing in disguise. However, the journey allows him, as such positioning often does, an amount of liberty that he may never have experienced under different circumstances. Buddusky and Mulhall are equally marginal characters. At the start of the film, they are stationed in Norfolk awaiting orders for their next assignments. According to the Navy, they are in transit, in a position between their previous assignment and their next one, which is what makes them available for this particular detail. Additionally, they are marginal figures in that for the course of the journey, they are put into positions of authority (they are made temporary Shore Patrol—equivalent to Navy police), giving them a transitory sense of power that is nonexistent in their regular duties. As petty officers, they are noncommissioned officers, so higher in rank than Meadows, but below all other Navy officers. So even though both are resistant to accepting the detail at the beginning of the film, they too experience a certain amount of freedom that, had they remained on base during the week, they would not have encountered. Furthermore, Mulhall’s marginality gains a degree of complexity in that he is an African American. In 1973, when the film was set, the United States was still a long way from being an integrated society.10 The US Military, however, having been desegregated by President Truman in 1948, was in a more advanced stage of integration than US society as a whole. Buddusky’s reaction when a DC bartender refuses to serve Mulhall (Buddusky pulls his gun on him) shows how quick he is to defend Mulhall, who, to Buddusky, is just a fellow sailor. In a sequence in New York City, the three sailors are invited to a party when a fellow transcendentalist overhears Meadows chanting. At the party, while Buddusky tries to pick up women, Mulhall falls into a conversation with two young politically minded liberals who try to engage him on the politics of the era by asking him about black officers and Nixon. The woman asks him how he feels about having served in Vietnam, and over the course of the conversation Mulhall becomes increasingly exasperated. His point of view is that, in spite of its drawbacks, the Navy is the “best thing” that ever happened to him. He answers the woman’s question about Vietnam not by explicitly expressing his feelings, but first with a demonstrative sigh, then saying, “Man says go . . . gotta do what the Man says. Livin’ in this Man’s world, ain’t we?” She seems at once bemused and appalled. She smiles, shakes her head, and says, “Oh wow.” At this, Mulhall snorts, looks away, and shakes his head. He has become frustrated by her inability to understand the beneficial situation he has made for himself. Mulhall’s marginality in this situation results from his understanding that living in a still racist society, the traditionally conservative military might actually be a more “liberal” place for him, a more accepting place, than society outside the military, a notion that confounds the young activists. Mulhall best expresses his awareness of his situation—its precarious combination of liberty and confinement—in an argument with Buddusky on the train from Pennsylvania (where they have stopped in a failed attempt to see Meadows’s mother)

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to New  York. In addition to Mulhall’s clear statement of purpose, the sequence is reinforced by the editing, which, in the way it disembodies Mulhall and Buddusky, formally enhances the nature of the protagonists’ situation, exemplifying the ways in which Ashby-directed films often marry form and narrative content. Mulhall is angry because Meadows is starting to get depressed. He blames Buddusky for having encouraged too many shenanigans, and he feels that they are losing control of the detail. He takes out his frustration on Buddusky in a long rant: I consider myself in jeopardy with you, man, understand, in jeopardy? This ain’t no farewell party, and he ain’t retiring. Understand? He’s a prisoner and we’re taking him to the jailhouse, and you have a tendency to forget that. You’re a menace, man. You ain’t no simple shit bad ass, you’re a motherfucking menace. And from now on MAA11 can go piss up a rope, you ain’t no honcho. And I don’t wanna hear no more of this horseshit psychology jive, no more turning this boy’s head around to prove what a fucking big man you are. You’re a lifer like me. The Navy’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I don’t want you to fuck me up. You understand?

In expressing his fear of what might happen to him if the detail degenerates more fully into chaos, Mulhall is showing a clear awareness of his position as somebody who is both lucky to be in the Navy, but also always in danger of being rejected by it. In Towne’s original screenplay, this monologue takes place as Buddusky and Mulhall walk from the toilets back to their seat on the train.12 In the film, however, it is edited via a series of dissolves so that we do not always see Mulhall speaking. The sequence first dissolves to a shot of Mulhall outside the toilet yelling at Buddusky, then to an exterior shot of the snowy landscape as the train rolls past, then to another shot of Mulhall, then to a shot of Buddusky listening (still outside the toilet), then to a shot of Meadows seated. Then, as Mulhall finishes his rant with a question, “Buddusky, do you agree?” there is a cut from a shot of Meadows to one of Buddusky and Mulhall seated across from him. Throughout the rant, Mulhall’s voice becomes slowly disembodied, floating above the dream-like nature of the dissolves, which endow the monologue with a sense of passing time. The sequence becomes somewhat jarring when, as the conversation ends, the two of them are no longer standing outside the toilet but have now returned to their seats. The editing seems to place Mulhall’s disembodied voice itself into a type of otherworldly space, where it is neither physically of Mulhall nor located near him. Additionally, it problematizes the geographic and physical embodiment of the two men as they are both at the toilet and not at the toilet during the monologue. In this central sequence, the film’s form reinforces one of its dominant narrative themes. The fleeting marginality of the film’s narrative begins to fade in the face of restored order as the film comes to its melancholy conclusion. Buddusky and Mulhall drop Meadows off at the stockade (without having a chance to say goodbye) and then go their separate ways. Their hope is not to meet up again, but only that by the time they return to Norfolk their orders will have come in. It is almost as if they recognize that their moment of temporary escape is over and now that they are back in the “real world,” they want to forget about their brief moment of freedom.

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In light of such an analysis, it becomes clear why Elsaesser cannot explore The Last Detail any further than to include it among the films he categorizes as featuring an “unmotivated hero.” While the film exhibits much of the melancholy tone of its contemporaries (and in this way is perhaps Ashby’s bleakest film), the heroes are not at all unmotivated. They set out with one clear goal in mind—to get Meadows to prison in New Hampshire—and they develop other goals along the way. Aside from getting Meadows to see his mother, they accomplish all of their goals. What they find, however, and what differentiates them from Harold, is that they cannot fully engage with these freeing moments and must, to their seeming regret, continue to live among and play by the rules of their dominant society. However, while the two films end on different notes—with Harold embracing the freedom that comes with his marginality while the sailors are forced to relinquish any freedom they have experienced on the journey and move back into the world they came from—both films are given over to explorations of how protagonists from very different strata of society become eager to embrace physical and emotional spaces that are partially outside those sanctioned by the mainstream. It is a theme that resonates throughout Ashby’s body of work, and one that he often allows to intermingle with his other thematic concerns, including his determination to address political questions in his films.

Hal Ashby’s political narratives How Ashby’s protagonists respond to their ascribed marginality—how long they choose to or are able (or forced) to remain within a peripheral position and how closely to heart they take what they experience there—changes from film to film. But what is true for all of them is that they live in a political world. As a filmmaker, Ashby makes his viewers consciously and repeatedly aware of the intertwining of the personal and the political in his films. Social themes and political issues that repeat over and over within the films include racism, anti-establishment mores, peace and war, feminism, media saturation, labor strife, and American presidential politics. A  distinction has long been made between films about politics and films that are political. Filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard, in a long interview with Penelope Gilliatt for the New Yorker in 1976, discussed the distinction: “A ‘film on politics’ is a film in which the fiction and its ideas aren’t put into question by the political element. A ‘political film’ raises doubts.”13 As Godard explains, the distinction seems to be that films “on politics” are often didactic and therefore do not constitute political acts in and of themselves, whereas truly political films, by nature of their upheaval or radical approach to form and structure, constitute a class of political acts. By refusing to put ideas “into question,” films on politics do not expect or demand or motivate political changes from their audience, while political films, in principal, do. The films that Ashby directed, like those of nearly all his contemporaries, fit comfortably within the Hollywood narrative tradition. They tell coherent stories. They have discernable beginnings, middles, and endings (however ambiguous) and feature

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protagonists who encounter obstacles and try to overcome them (however unsuccessfully). They also make use, for the most part, of Hollywood continuity editing and other normative techniques. Some of the New Hollywood filmmakers (Ashby included) apply postmodernist tools to their filmmaking (using jump cuts, confusing the 180-degree rule, and breaching the fourth wall among them), but they tend to apply these techniques sparingly, in service to rather straightforward narratives. Thus, with a few rare exceptions, it would be difficult to argue that Ashby’s films fit the definition of the “political” outlined by Godard and other radicals. It may be impossible for any Hollywood film to be truly political in Godard’s sense, representing, as it does, the dominant ideology of twentieth-century US capitalism.14 However, more than any other of his contemporaries, Ashby was consistent in exploring on films how politics overlap with the personal and how personal dilemmas and decisions are contingent upon political realities. This was at a time when the United States was in the later stages of what is generally considered one of its most politically active periods. While many of the era’s films are cast in subtle political light—their protagonists are affected by or respond to particular political situations without necessarily identifying them15—only Ashby’s films repeatedly and insistently depict his characters as living in what Mulhall might have called, “this Man’s world.” This distinguishes Ashby from his contemporaries in a way that has made him, once more, perplexingly difficult to categorize. However, examining the political aspects of some of the films Ashby directed—both in the scripts he was attracted to and in the way he worked with colleagues to shoot, frame, and in other ways depict political elements—demonstrates another authorial thread running through his body of work.

Richard Nixon: Subtle antagonist Regardless of how history may or may not redefine Richard Nixon’s presidency, he was most definitely a bane of 1970s liberal America, both within and outside of the establishment. Ashby was acutely aware of this, and Richard Nixon’s face (and to a lesser extent, his voice) is one of the constant and easily recognizable aspects of the mise-enscène in Ashby films during the 1970s. Nixon appears in one form or another in every Ashby film of the decade except Bound for Glory, a biography of Woody Guthrie set in the years 1936–1939. As a result, Nixon plays a role akin to that of Orwell’s Big Brother (see Figures 3.10–3.15). He is continually smiling down upon Ashby’s protagonists, as if reassuring them that he is always watching, aware of their transgressions, and willing to take action against them. Nixon appears on television in Elgar’s apartment in The Landlord (juxtaposed with the images of the Kennedys, Martin Luther King, Jr., Sidney Poitier, and Malcolm X that appear on his tenants’ walls), on the wall in Uncle Victor’s office in Harold and Maude, as the topic of conversation in The Last Detail, on television and radio throughout Shampoo (which is set on the night of and morning after Nixon’s election in 1968), and on television and the radio in Coming Home (similarly set in 1968). Richard Nixon does not appear in Being There, the one Ashby film from the 1970s that was both filmed and set after Nixon’s resignation from the presidency.

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Figure 3.10 The Landlord: Nixon on TV as Elgar dances past.

Figure 3.11 Harold and Maude: Nixon on the wall in Uncle Victor’s office.

However, the film includes as a major character a fictional US president (Jack Warden, who also played the role of the Nixon-supporting Lester in Shampoo). The first image of the president in the film comes when Chance sees him on TV, celebrating a recent trade deal with China, thus echoing one of President Nixon’s most notable achievements. Additionally, the president is seen throughout the film ordering background checks on Chance and working closely with the FBI and CIA to delve into his private

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Figure 3.12 The Last Detail: Mulhall reacts with exasperation as two liberals pester him about Nixon.

Figure 3.13 Shampoo: A framed poster of Nixon on election night, 1968.

life, a likely reference to one of Nixon’s less noble legacies. In all of these instances, Nixon is almost like a specter, still haunting the nation several years after his ignominious departure from office. This foregrounding of Nixon in one or two films might be construed as merely a coincidence. But for Ashby to place his image so conspicuously in so many films cannot be accidental, particularly when the films’ respective screenplays rarely describe such adornments (Shampoo is the exception, concerned in large part, as it is, with a group of Nixon supporters organizing an election-night party). In his private life,

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Figure 3.14 Shampoo: Lester and George watch Nixon’s victory speech.

Figure 3.15 Being There: Chance watches the president celebrate a Chinese trade deal.

Ashby was exceedingly politically active. His archives contain a great amount of political correspondence—letters to senators and representatives on particular issues, pledges of support for César Chávez (with whom he also marched), pleas against reinstating the death penalty in California, and more. On learning of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s death, Ashby chartered a flight to his funeral along with Norman Jewison, Haskell Wexler, Quincy Jones, Sidney Poitier, Lena Horn, Marlon Brando, James Baldwin and Chávez.16 By 1972, Ashby would be actively supporting George McGovern’s unsuccessful campaign to defeat Nixon for the presidency. Ashby and his closest friends

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in the industry were distraught at Nixon’s election and re-election. For them Nixon represented the antithesis of what they saw as good and just in American society. In an undated memo,17 typed in capital letters, Ashby wrote to Nixon: PRESIDENT NIXON, STOP THE BOMBING IMMEDIATELY! END THE WAR—SET THE DATE FOR TOTAL WITHDRAWAL OF AMERICAN FORCES FROM INDOCHINA NOW! HAL ASHBY ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY FOR PEACE & JUSTICE18

This short memo is very different from most of Ashby’s political correspondence. He wrote long, articulate letters to a variety of elected officials on a wide range of issues, often including reference to specific Congressional bills.19 This memo, on the other hand, expresses in its succinctness the veracity of rage that many on the left felt when they found out about the illegal bombings in Cambodia. Ashby clearly had more than a passing interest in the politics of his day, including the role that Richard Nixon’s presidency was playing in affecting the lives of so many Americans. Thus, to place him so prominently in the films, Ashby comments directly, albeit subtly, on the pervasive nature of Nixon’s presidency and what he and many of his contemporaries saw as its insidiousness in American life.

Shampoo and political apathy in America Regarding his approach to the protagonists of The Last Detail, Ashby once said, “There’s no way I could ever relate to what they’re doing with their lives. But I would never take cheap shots at them. I felt sorry for them and tried to get to know them through their plights.”20 This attempt on the part of Ashby and his colleagues to understand and sympathize with their protagonists was unsuccessful in the eyes of John and Judith Hess, who wrote in a contemporary review of the film, “The film’s effect is to exacerbate class conflict by showing bourgeois society the face of what it most fears: what the working class might do without the institutional restraints which capitalism places on their lives.”21 The Hesses’ reading, which is rooted in Marxist film analysis, is at odds with Ashby’s stated intent in its efforts to delineate the film’s motivation in depicting the frustration of these three sailors’ lives. While Ashby was concerned with politics in his personal and professional life, his approach to narrative would seem to indicate an awareness that simple polemics do not make intriguing films, which, I would argue, distances his films somewhat from Godard’s dismissive description of films on politics. This attitude can be traced as far back as his days working as an editor for Norman Jewison on films such as The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming (1966) and In the Heat of the Night (1967), both of which attempt nuanced portrayals of highly fraught political issues (the Cold War and American racism). Mulhall’s exasperation with the two liberals arguably does not stem from the film’s notion that their

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questions are “tiresome,” as the Hesses contend, but rather from the film’s sympathy with Mulhall’s experience. As a black American in the military, Mulhall is aware that his position is precarious enough that criticism of the government and the president is not wise. If anything, the film is aware of the continued state of inequality in the United States at the time, and its depiction of that state is intended to frustrate viewers, not coddle them. Similarly, the political ramifications of Ashby’s next film, Shampoo, have received varied interpretations.22 Peter Lev describes the film’s premise as an articulation of how “the countercultural attitudes of the 1960s do not necessarily lead anywhere.”23 But the film is not primarily about countercultural attitudes. Aside from George’s rampant sexual activity, which could be seen as a product of that era’s perceived “free love” spirit, there is very little in the way of countercultural attitude on display in the film. The long climax sequence occurs at a large party somewhere in Los Angeles that might be described as countercultural: party goers smoke marijuana, take nude hot tubs, wear “hippie” clothes and hairstyles, and listen to typical music of the era such as The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and Jefferson Airplane. However, there are no discussions of politics (even though Nixon is in the process of being elected president) or any type of ideological considerations. In fact, the party itself looks more fashionably 1960s than politically 1960s. The same scene could have been set among the discos of the 1970s or the raves of the 1990s with few changes other than attire, hairstyles, and music. The countercultural ideals of the 1960s ultimately may not have become implemented within mainstream US society, but the film is not at all about the failure of those attitudes because the film simply is not about those attitudes at all (or if so, only by omission). Shampoo is, however, a film about politics. It is about many other things as well (relationships, gender roles, commitment, friendship), but politics pervade all those other elements of the film. Politics are everywhere in the film, and not only presidential politics, but also gender politics, war and peace, and the sinister nature of the relationship between the American corporate and political worlds. Most of the film’s characters, however, are oblivious to the political world in which they live. Although most of the narrative takes place on Election Day, we do not see any of the characters vote, nor hear any of them talk about voting. There is, in fact, no political talk at all by any of the major characters except for Lester (Jack Warden), the wealthy capitalist who has murky political ties and may also have connections to organized crime. However, even with his ties to the Republican Party, when Lester is berating George and complaining about President Lyndon Johnson, he says to George, “Maybe Nixon’ll be better. What’s the difference? They’re all a bunch of jerks,” as if to say that the presidential politics around which much of the film’s plot has revolved have little of real value to offer the country or the world. Lester’s attitude indicates the film’s stance towards a different kind of American apathy, that which allows corporate greed (as represented by Lester) to run rampant in the name of a doctrine of capitalism. The film only hints at this analysis, particularly in a sequence in a bank, when George applies for a loan, and which epitomizes the extent to which American lives are dominated by the financial world. However, having Lester, the film’s dominant capitalist,

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weigh in on the ineffectual nature of American electoral politics is a clear indication that choosing not to vote is not the film’s only political concern. The relationship between capital and politics is an analysis that Ashby’s next film, Bound for Glory, will take up more explicitly. It is precisely Lester’s attitude, however, his sense (and others’) that politics do not matter, that the film is actually criticizing. Glenn Man writes, “George’s final feelings of abandonment and disillusionment prefigure the mood of viewers who watched Shampoo with retrospective appreciation of its satire of the Agnew/Nixon promises.”24 The key to this observation is that George’s final feelings of abandonment are the result of his own action, or more precisely, his inaction, his inability to make up his mind about anything, his unwillingness to make any sort of romantic commitment, his fear of living a committed life. In this sense, George’s disillusionment is even more closely linked to the viewers that Mann describes than he argues. The film implies that it was not the failure of countercultural values that brought about Nixon’s election, but a broader societal failure, a failure to be aware of and engage with society’s political realities, unless, as in the case of Lester, those realities might in some way confer individual benefits. For besides the film’s depiction of the characters’ political apathy, it also portrays their active dismissal of political reality. In one short scene, Lester is driving to meet Jackie (Julie Christie) while listening to stock reports on his car radio. As the news changes to a report of Vietnam peace talks, it takes Lester mere seconds to change the station, flipping around the dial until he finds more financial reports. Lester is the only character in the film who seems remotely concerned with the election at hand (he is one of the organizers of the election night party that the main characters attend before moving on to the hippie party), yet his only hope is that Nixon will create better business conditions for him and his associates. The rest of the characters seem not to care at all. If they were meant to represent true countercultural values, as Lev contends, there is no way that George, Jackie, or Jill (Goldie Hawn) would spend election night at a party of Nixon supporters attended by old, wealthy businessmen. But because of their obliviousness and lack of concern, they happily attend and rub shoulders with a collection of men and women whom most in the counterculture would likely have despised. And yet, as with the protagonists of The Last Detail, Ashby refuses to judge them or “take cheap shots” at them. The film’s poignancy comes not from any political statement that it might be making, but from its attempt to sympathize with them and their plights. In this sense, the film is more political than polemical. It is acutely aware of the way politics are woven into the fabric of American life and culture, and it understands the consequences that come from refusing to engage with politics in any active way. However, in refusing to judge its characters, it also makes clear that, despite their complicity in the election of Richard Nixon, they remain flawed but sympathetic human characters with whom an audience can relate because they are still searching for and trying to understand the ways in which they might live better lives. Read this way, the film’s politics become much subtler and much more complicated than Lev’s and most other assessments of the film have contended. Hence, Shampoo is more than simply a film about politics; rather, it displays at once a condemnation of political apathy and a

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recognition that such apathy may be unavoidable for some people, particularly in the face of an aggressive form of capitalism that thrives on that apathy. Such a nuanced understanding of political realities is rare for Hollywood films.

Political awakening in Bound for Glory One of the informative aspects of Ashby’s next film—Woody Guthrie biopic, Bound for Glory—is that Ashby continues his trend of depicting his protagonist as flawed and, in many ways, unheroic. The Woody Guthrie of Bound for Glory is not the famous troubadour who wrote “This Land is Your Land.” That Woody Guthrie comes later and the film only gives us brief glimpses of him. Bound for Glory, eschewing standard biopic conventions, shows very little of Guthrie’s rise to national prominence or the impact it had on him once he achieved it. It avoids psychoanalyzing its subject, refusing any attempt to “explain” Guthrie based on his past or his childhood experiences. It also leaves out any obvious moment of epiphany when Guthrie realizes just what his calling in life is. Certainly, he learns lessons and develops as a character, but as played by David Carradine, he is more of a work in progress—whose progress we never see fulfilled—than a fully developed depiction of the American icon he would become. Consequently, we see him struggle with his own stubbornness and pride, we see his marital infidelity and other acts of casual disrespect towards women, and we see how his unwillingness to compromise often comes at the expense of his family’s welfare during the precarious days of the Great Depression. Bound for Glory is arguably Ashby’s most overtly political film, and depicting Guthrie as a flawed protagonist who made mistakes and bad decisions helps the film avoid becoming a polemical treatise on a “saint” of the American left. As much as it celebrates Guthrie’s development as a musician and songwriter, its primary narrative arc concerns his development as a pro-labor radical. Guthrie plays music from the first moments of the film, and he slowly develops his songwriting talents. But this goes hand in hand with his political awakening, which does not begin fully until he leaves his family in Texas and arrives in California, a land that promises milk and honey, but which is already turning away migrant workers from the afflicted regions of the Dust Bowl. That Guthrie is depicted as a flawed man who continues to make mistakes and let pride damage his personal relationships allows his slow political awakening to come across as hard earned and believable rather than polemical or dogmatic. As Guthrie makes his way to California, he knows that times are tough for everybody—his days in Texas saw him often out of work and unable to provide, which is what drives him to California in the first place. But only when he sees how those struggling farmers and workers are being exploited by owners and managers does he become aware of just how outrageous the situation is. A key scene in the film, in which its formal apparatus closely reinforces its patiently unfolding narrative arc, is also one of the film’s technical milestones. Bound for Glory was the first Hollywood feature film to shoot with Garret Brown’s Steadicam.25 While the Steadicam is used in several instances in the film, one shot in particular showcases

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the new technology while also depicting a central moment in Guthrie’s growing awareness of labor exploitation (see Figures 3.16–3.23). A dissolve cut from an evening bar fight to a high crane shot above a migrant labor camp early in the morning is accompanied by a sound edit that seamlessly blends the disorderly shouts and table crashes of the brawl to the boisterous early morning of the camp. The camera simultaneously lowers and pans left, coming up behind Guthrie at his tent tying his shoes. In the background a boss can be heard yelling, “We’re paying four cents a bushel, four cents,” as loud shouts of anger rise from the workers. The camera then leaves the crane and follows Guthrie as he weaves through the crowd to investigate the commotion, meandering between tents and around water barrels, and playfully patting a young girl’s head. As he emerges from a line of tents, he comes upon a huge crowd of workers walking in his direction, away from the shouting boss. Guthrie continues on, making his way through the crowd. The boss’s shouts end and trucks begin pulling away as a growing stream of workers files past Guthrie back towards the center of the camp (and towards and past the camera), and he pats an older woman on the shoulder. He finally reaches the corral fence, away from which the trucks are driving, where he meets his friend Luther (Randy Quaid), who angrily tells him that the bosses have taken only thirty people and that there is no more work: “That’s all they ever take.” At this point, the two men turn around and start walking back towards camp, trailing the workers that Guthrie has just waded through, and now the camera leads Guthrie rather than follows him. As he and Luther begin to catch up with the crowd, he suggests that Luther try another camp, but Luther tells him, “It’s no use. They’re all alike. This is the fourth one we’ve been to.” As both Luther and the camera continue to pull away from him, Guthrie stops in his tracks, looks around, and takes in just how many people—men, women, and their families—are in the same situation as Luther. The camera continues to pull away as dust clouds surround Guthrie, who is only now beginning to realize how dire are the straits of all those working people.

Figure 3.16 Dissolve cut begins the Steadicam sequence.

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Figure 3.17 The crane lowers to find Guthrie tying his shoes.

Figure 3.18 Guthrie makes his way through the camp.

The entire sequence lasts just under two-and-a-half minutes and appears over an hour into the film. Soon after Guthrie is witness to this example of unfair labor treatment, he meets Ozark Blue26 (Ronnie Cox), a folk singer who earns his living on the radio, but who comes out to the migrant camp to help inspire and organize the workers. Blue’s hostile attitude towards the big farmers and disgust with the way they treat the migrants reinforces Guthrie’s developing awareness about the plight of the workers. It is from this point on that both Guthrie and the film’s narrative become increasingly politicized. He appears at union rallies, teaches folk songs to children, and, even

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Figure 3.19 Guthrie pats a young girl’s head.

Figure 3.20 Guthrie makes his way through the crowd.

after moving his family from Texas to California, continues to spend most of his time away from home organizing workers. His dedication to workers’ rights eventually costs him his well-paying radio job. The radio station wants him to stop playing songs that overtly support unions or mention the plight of the migrant farmers. In an attempt to stifle him, the station manager asks for a list of songs that Guthrie will play before he goes on the air. Near the end of the film, Guthrie refuses to submit a list for preapproval and loses the job. He has not yet become the well-known composer of “This Land is Your Land,” and the film ends before he finds anything more than scant local fame.27

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Figure 3.21 Meeting Lester at the corral.

Figure 3.22 Guthrie walking back towards the campsite with Lester.

But by depicting Guthrie’s refusal to submit to censorship and his decision to respond by heading back out on the road, it ends on a note of political defiance. The ideals and values that Guthrie has developed during his time with the downtrodden are too valuable to him to be compromised and he gladly sacrifices nearly everything in his life in defense of those ideals. For Ashby, it was essential that the film avoid falling into the typical biopic trap of glowing hagiography if it were to maintain anything resembling a spirit of authenticity. He also said many times that, of all his protagonists, he felt he could relate

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Figure 3.23 Guthrie stops, swallowed up by the dust and the crowd.

most closely with Guthrie. In one interview he explained that a scene of Guthrie sleeping by the side of the road during his journey to California was directly drawn from a personal experience in his own life, during his own youthful journey to the West Coast.28 In another he said, “If I feel close to any of my screen characters, it’s Woody Guthrie in Bound for Glory. We’re alike and I put all my own remembrances in that film.”29 As a man who had supported Civil Rights, opposed Nixon, and considered César Chávez a friend, he also put his politics into the film. He had done so previously and would continue to do so throughout the decade and beyond. He could accomplish this subtly in films such as The Last Detail and Shampoo that concerned characters with whom he could not relate. And his approach remained subtle in a film such as Bound for Glory, about a man with whom Ashby felt close political and biographical kinship. The result is a clear indication of how important it was for Ashby to acknowledge and confront in his films the political realities that he saw in the world around him. After Bound for Glory, Ashby would go on to make Coming Home, one of mainstream Hollywood’s first overt treatments of the Vietnam War and a film that took a relentlessly harsh view of the idea of war in general, but more specifically was very critical of the way the US government and US society treated its veterans after they returned home from war. His final film of the decade, Being There, is a subtle political allegory that casts a critical eye at issues as wide-ranging as the corrosive nature of television, the unhealthy influence that the financial industry has in American politics, and media manipulation. Thus, from one film to the next, Ashby develops a clear political critique of faceless power—governmental, corporate, military, and otherwise—and the way it manipulates and, in some cases, destroys the individual. In some of the films, the protagonists come to such a realization themselves, which is why they yearn to find new ways to position themselves in relation to society. In

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others, the protagonists fail to learn about, remain unaware of, or remain powerless to do anything about such political realities. In all these cases though, while Ashby’s films might not be radically “political” in the formal sense that Godard articulated, they are clearly more than simply polemical in their outlook and in their attempts to build a sustained critique of American conservatism and corporatism and the insidious ways in which they corrupt individual lives. Thus while his films certainly were not formally challenging in the ways that Godard and others would expect from political films, they continued to marry form and political narrative in key ways that do challenge viewers to rethink, and perhaps even respond to, the insidious machinations that the powered elite use to manipulate our everyday lives.

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Authorship, Form, and Style

Editing That Ashby spent ten years as an editor before he directed his first film is well known and often serves as a secondary topic in discussions about his career. However, what attention is paid him mostly concerns his career as a director, and his time as an editor often forms the basis for two tropes in Ashby discussions:  first that editing was the training ground for his career as a director; and second, a tragedy of his later career was that his last four films were all meddled with during some stage in the editing process. This second trope itself serves two purposes: revealing Ashby’s poor treatment at the hands of the industry, and proving that his abilities as a filmmaker were fading. About the debacle that became 8 Million Ways to Die (1986), Ashby’s final film, Jeff Bridges said, “I did the picture to work with Hal. To have it pulled away at the stage where all his expertise lies—which is in the editing—made no sense to me whatsoever.”1 During the legal tussle over Ashby’s rights during postproduction, after the film had been taken away from him,2 his lawyers describe the situation in the conclusion to a thirty-nine-page arbitration brief to the Director’s Guild of America: “The story of a motion picture financing entity that really wants to be a production company [PSO], whose officers and employees arrogantly believe that they know better than a director (and editor) of Mr. Ashby’s demonstrated skill how to edit a motion picture.”3 During a three-day deposition, Ashby himself said of the situation, “I got into directing after being an editor. I have always been known as a very, very good editor. I was an Academy-Award winning editor . . . when the picture was pulled away from me, I wasn’t doing anything wrong and I believe that that damages me.”4 These examples show how in a popular, a legal, and a personal sense the close relationship between Ashby as director and Ashby as editor are part of his public persona. Little discussed, however, is how closely the two processes were linked for Ashby. Aside from the obvious differences between the production and post-production processes, there seems to have been little separation for Ashby between the directing and editing stages of filmmaking. The two acts were part of a dialogue for Ashby, through

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which he was able to “find” the film. His close friend and long-time collaborator, Haskell Wexler, described this relationship thus: Hal disciplined himself to let the film talk to him, and sometimes it would tell him little stories that were not in the script. Some people think of the editor as just putting the scenes together to make the film play better or faster, basically doing a jigsaw puzzle. But a true editor, which Hal was, may see that what we thought of as the ending of the film should really come at the beginning.5

Ashby became an editor because he wanted to be a director and editing seemed to him the surest path to achieving that goal. Hence, as he was learning to “let the film talk to him,” he was also learning how to direct, particularly during his five-film relationship with Norman Jewison. And while Ashby’s name never appears as editor on any of the films he directed, he was intimately involved with the process. His preferred method was to have his editor cut the film between one and three times, with Ashby advising along the way. Once the film began getting close to Ashby’s vision of it, he would take over more of the cutting duties himself, so the final cut would be a mix of his and his editor’s ideas for the film. For Ashby, only then was the process of filmmaking completed.6 On watching Ashby’s films, however, it might be difficult to recognize a distinct or consistent editing style. This is certainly one of the reasons why attempts to place him within an auteurist framework have proven so difficult. While some of his films display particular editorial similarities to each other—for instance, the precise crosscutting of the final sequences of Harold and Maude and Coming Home—generally, each of the films is edited differently; each has its own pace and rhythm; each uses different editorial strategies to complement its narrative. These differences are the result of two key but distinct elements of Ashby’s approach to filmmaking. First, as a collaborative filmmaker, Ashby took a hands-off approach to the early cuts of his editors. As he worked with different editors throughout his career, each of them was allowed to bring their own ideas to the cutting process. Robert C. Jones, who edited The Last Detail, Shampoo, and Bound for Glory, in addition to doing the final cut on Lookin’ to Get Out (1982), said of the process, “He’d be upstairs. He would leave me alone as I was doing it, and he’d come down and screen stuff that I’d done and give me notes, then he’d go back up again.”7 And while Ashby largely left Jones to his own devices during the early stages of the editing process, the relationship was so collaborative in nature, that when I  asked Jones who decided to include the many dissolve cuts in The Last Detail, he replied, “I think I did, I don’t know, but I got hung up on the beauty of them. I think it was mine. I don’t know . . . Hal liked it, so we did it.”8 Jones speaks here both to the intimacy of his relationship with Ashby and also to Ashby’s proclivity to take his editor’s ideas and run with them. Ashby and Jones would use extensive dissolves again in Bound for Glory, but to much different effect. In The Last Detail, the dissolves work to slow down what is meant to be a quick journey. Early in the film, Buddusky and Mulhall are anxious to get Meadows to New Hampshire as quickly as possible, and in fact the journey only

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lasts a bit more than three days. The dissolves decelerate the pace of the journey, creating a space wherein the characters are allowed to explore their situation and express their personalities in ways that they cannot in typical Navy life. In Bound for Glory, on the other hand, the dissolves operate more traditionally in emphasizing the passage of time. As a result, because of the relationship between the dissolves and the narratives of the two films, the technique actually serves two opposite functions—the slowing down and speeding up of time. The narrative of The Last Detail covers three days, but the filmmakers want to emphasize how much actually happened during those three days, whereas the narrative of Bound for Glory lasts three years, so the filmmakers use dissolves to succinctly convey dramatic passages of time. In each case, the editing strategy is an inherent aspect of the film’s narrative development. Ashby does not feature the dissolve so prominently in any of his other films. In addition to his willingness to allow his editors to make such key decisions, Ashby’s varied approach to editing was also influenced by his belief that editing should serve the story, rather than function as an indicator of authorial style. This is part of what he meant when he talked about “finding” the film in the editing process, or, as Wexler put it, letting the film “talk” to him. Additionally, Ashby generally cut film while he was listening to the music that he planned to include on the soundtrack, be it Ray Charles for Jewison’s In the Heat of the Night (1967), Cat Stevens for Harold and Maude, or the nearly unbroken soundtrack of 1960s pop songs in Coming Home. He also allowed this process to affect his cutting, often fashioning edits to the rhythm of the music he was listening to. As his long-time sound engineer, Jeff Wexler wrote me: I think Hal may have been the first to really use music in this manner, and I think I know how it evolved. Hal hated to watch MOS picture9 (even when he was just the editor) and so, as an editor, when everyone had already seen dailies and the film was back in his hands in the cutting room, he would put up music he had behind the MOS footage. When his choices were right on and inspirational, he would put even more music, often just songs, along with the picture. This was done usually way before there was any official music person or composer on the movie, so Hal was left to his own choices. As I mentioned to you before, one of the things I did for Hal on Harold and Maude was to bring in my Cat Stevens’ records and play songs AT DAILIES screening along with the MOS footage (emphasis in original).10

The result of this combination of finding the film in the editing and letting music guide him is a body of editorial work—both as editor and as director—that has clear and obvious distinctions on a film-by-film basis. There are the dissolves already mentioned, and also the disjunctive montage of The Landlord, the tight cuts between comedy and melodrama in Shampoo, the precisely timed, musically driven cuts of Coming Home, and the sometimes awkward cuts to non-naturalistic moments in Being There, which seem to reinforce Chance’s awkwardness in the world.11 In each of these cases, the editing serves to develop the narrative. In this sense, it bears resemblance to traditional Hollywood continuity editing, although with

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occasional flourishes that are distinctly Ashby (for instance, the jarring cross-cuts between paraplegic veterans and healthy, jogging recruits during the opening credits of Coming Home). Such differences in approach to editing, more than anything about his aesthetic approach to filmmaking, make it difficult to mark Ashby as a stylist and thus as an auteur in the style-driven sense of the term. This creates a certain amount of cognitive dissonance. Ashby’s reputation is based in large part on his skill as an editor, while his formal approach eschews reliance on a particular editorial style or vision. This dissonance, however, might tell us something about Ashby’s approach to filmmaking, one that was concerned primarily with exploring particular themes while also servicing the narrative rather than conveying the themes or narrative by means of a particular “Ashby” style.

Cinematography To say that there are no traceable editing techniques that bridge Ashby’s films would be taking the argument too far. For instance, he is both adept and quite imaginative in the use of crosscutting between multiple scenes, and the influence of music and rhythm can be discerned as a subtle element of the editing of most of his films. But, for the most part, each film’s editing is a result of Ashby’s collaborative approach. The same can be said of the cinematography of the films. Ashby’s eleven feature films were shot by a group of the era’s pre-eminent cinematographers. The Landlord was shot by Gordon Willis (The Godfather I and II, Annie Hall, Manhattan). Harold and Maude was shot by John A. Alonzo (Chinatown, Scarface). Michael Chapman (Taxi Driver, Raging Bull) was the cinematographer on The Last Detail. Shampoo was shot by Lászlo Kovács (Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces, Paper Moon). Bound for Glory, Coming Home, Second-Hand Hearts, and Lookin’ to Get Out were all shot by Ashby’s close friend Haskell Wexler (Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, In the Heat of the Night, Matewan). Being There and The Slugger’s Wife were films shot by Caleb Deschanel (The Black Stallion, The Right Stuff) early in his career. Ashby’s last film, 8 Million Ways to Die, was shot by Stephen H. Burum (Rumble Fish, The Untouchables, Carlito’s Way). As I discussed in Chapter 2, Ashby allowed his cinematographers a great deal of leeway when it came to devising shots, choosing film stock and cameras, and bringing their interpretation of scene setups to the filmmaking process. Thus, as each of his films displays a different editorial style, they also each feature a different cinematographic look and tone. In fact, some of these cinematographers began refining their own styles while working on Ashby films before they became known for those styles on bigger or better-known films. Gordon Willis—who became known as the Prince of Darkness for his work on The Godfather films—developed his approach to shooting dark interiors and contrasting them with light, open spaces on The Landlord. Michael Chapman’s first film as cinematographer was The Last Detail, on which he began devising the naturalistic, almost documentarylike approach that he would hone through his work with Martin Scorsese. And on Shampoo, László Kovács continued to refine his flair for capturing lush, vibrant colors, as seen in his work with Bob Rafelson and Peter Bogdanovich, among others.

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However, as with his approach to editing, when working with his cinematographers, Ashby’s was still the guiding hand in shaping the final look of the film.12 Also similar to his approach to editing was Ashby’s determination to allow the narrative to act as a guide to the photographic strategy employed in the film. It is difficult to determine how much of a hand Ashby had in the cinematography choices during production— whether he made particular decisions, offered advice, or just happened to be attracted to working with cinematographers who shared many of his preferences. In any case, there are elements of the cinematography—shot length, framing, camera movement— that Ashby’s films continually employ. For instance, they regularly contrast two types of shots: still shots of highly composed scenes with elaborate mise-en-scène in which the camera does not move13 and elegantly choreographed tracking shots. Ashby’s films also make use of rooms and doorways to frame characters in ways that comment on— highlight or undermine—their current position within the narrative. In Shampoo, for example, when Warren Beatty’s George is with one of his many girlfriends, he is often shown towering above them, framed by doorways through which it hardly seems he can fit. When he crouches he still fills up the room. This framing conveys George’s larger-than-life presence in the lives of these women, as well as his seemingly unbridled sex drive. However, when George encounters powerful men, the rooms are often larger and airier so that George’s power seems diminished, such as when he goes to the bank to apply for a loan or when he first meets Lester (see Figures 4.1 and 4.2). Perhaps the most persistent strategy that Ashby’s films employ, and one that is fundamentally tied to his understanding of the relationship between filmmaker, film, and viewer, is the use of long shots to depict moments of emotional intensity. In nearly all of his films, the filmmakers stage at least one long shot (sometimes an extreme long shot) while characters experience a moment of profound happiness, deep sadness, frustration, or dissatisfaction. Such shot selections create moments of tension.

Figure 4.1 George, cramped in a small kitchen, talks down to Jill.

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Figure 4.2 George in the immense bank, hoping for the loan he will not receive. The banker “talks down” to him.

Characters in Ashby films are vividly rendered, and one of his primary motivations, as he often stated, was to depict characters to whom the audience could relate. Yet, during moments when viewers might expect to be brought closer to the protagonist, they are instead held at bay. In a sense this is counterintuitive. Hollywood has long relied on the close-up to depict characters undergoing profound emotional experiences. The effect of these long shots in Ashby’s films is that viewers are first invited into an intimate world of protagonists’ weaknesses and fears and, physically, their nakedness, and then the long shots create a forced distance for viewers by blocking us from gaining too close proximity to the characters in their most private moments. The result is the creation of another kind of marginal or peripheral space, but in this case one designed for the viewer. For in these instances, we are allowed to witness emotional expression, but not too closely. We are invited into the world of the protagonists, invited to see them warts and all, but in these specific moments, it is almost as if Ashby asks us to respect the privacy of the characters and so to take a step back from them. For example, in Shampoo, George’s most clearly stated early desire is to acquire a bank loan so that he can open his own shop and finally gain some independence. The loan interview is humiliating for him. As mentioned it is shot to emphasize George as a small man lost in the big world of finance. He looks uncomfortable in his tie and jacket. Most disconcertingly, he exhibits a complete lack of understanding of financial terminology or the process by which one acquires a loan. His application is rejected, and near the end of the sequence the banker who has conducted the interview refuses either to speak to or look at George. George attempts a shallow victory by calling the manager an “asshole” as he leaves, but the encounter for him is one of complete and utter failure. There is a cut to a long shot of the back door of the bank as George exits. The camera remains still, far away from George, who erupts in bitter frustration. He

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rips up the loan application form, tears off his jacket and throws it into a trash can, fumbles at trying to undo his tie, then finally picks up the trash can and throws it to the ground. Until this point, and for much of the rest of the film, George comes across as calm and rational (if somewhat shallow). He seems variously to be in complete control of his emotions or to have little in the way of any deep emotions that need restraint. One effect of the long shot outside the bank is to complicate George in the viewers’ eyes. He is a character that is difficult to sympathize with, but a certain amount of sympathy towards him is necessary if the final sequences are going to resonate with the audience in any meaningful way. Ashby and Kovács could have chosen the typical route of a medium shot or close-up, or of quick cuts throughout the sequence to heighten its dramatic intensity. The long shot indicates a level of respect for George, or at least respect for George’s privacy. This then calls on the viewer, if not to sympathize with George, at least to reconsider our already established attitude towards him (see Figures 4.3–4.7). A similar moment of emotional distance conveyed via a long shot comes midway through Coming Home. Sally (Jane Fonda) has been in Hong Kong visiting her husband Bob (Bruce Dern) who has a stint of rest and recuperation leave from the war in Vietnam. While she is away, Bill (Robert Carradine), the brother of her good friend Vi (Penelope Milford), kills himself in a Veteran’s Administration (VA) hospital by injecting air into his veins. Bill is a minor but pivotal character in the film: it is because of his psychological problems that Vi works at the VA hospital, and it is through Vi that Sally begins to volunteer there as well. This leads to Sally meeting Luke (Jon Voight), who is close friends with Bill. It is Bill’s death that will drive Luke to his public protest at the Marine recruiting center, which sets the film on its second-half narrative trajectory.14 Sally’s return from Hong Kong and her finding Vi on the beach is the first shot of Vi after her brother’s death, and the moment is again depicted by way of a long shot, this

Figure 4.3 Shampoo: George outside the bank after being refused a loan.

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Figure 4.4 Coming Home: Sally spots Val soon after Billy’s death.

Figure 4.5 The Last Detail: Buddusky and Mulhall wrestle Meadows to the ground in the snowy park.

time down a long concrete gangway as Sally calls down to her. The effect is once more intended to endow the moment with dramatic weight. Rather than a close-up of Vi’s tear-stained face, or a medium shot of her dramatically falling into Sally’s arms, Ashby and Wexler choose a long shot of Vi slowly turning away from gazing out at the ocean and lethargically looking up at Sally. The image, again a static shot, but much briefer than the example from Shampoo, economically conveys the depth of Vi’s grief, while at the same time allowing her a modicum of privacy within which to experience it.

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Figure 4.6 Harold and Maude: Harold and Maude in a field full of daisies.

Figure 4.7 Being There: Chance walks out onto a pond during Benjamin Rand’s funeral.

Ashby’s films also employ the long shot for moments of intense drama. For example, near the end of The Last Detail, the three men are in Boston, only an hour away from the prison, and cooking hotdogs outside for their last meal together. Making a final attempt at escape, Meadows takes off running through a snowy, frigid park. Buddusky and Mulhall give chase and they finally catch him in a ravine covered in snowy leaves, at which point Buddusky proceeds to beat him quite viciously. The extreme long shot

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of the three small men surrounded by the vast snowy expanse emphasizes the bleakness of their situation. It also marks the dramatic tonal shift towards melancholy that the film takes in its final moments: after all the fun they have had together on this trip, the last time we see them before Meadows is turned into the prison is during this scene of physical violence. Two examples that convey a more meditative sense of emotional drama come in Harold and Maude and Being There. In the former, Harold has been spending as much time as possible with Maude, soaking up her ideas and philosophy about living a life of intention. In a key sequence in which he first begins to open up to her, Maude asks Harold what kind of flower he would like to be. Before he confesses that if he is like any flower, it is a daisy, because they are all the same, there is a cut to what might be the most extreme long shot in an Ashby film: Harold and Maude in the upper left corner of the frame, barely discernable, surrounded by a field of daisies. The moment captures Harold’s feelings of sadness and aloneness, but it becomes more hopeful as we shift to a close up of daisies and Maude explains to him how different they all really are, each unique in its own way. An example that is neither melancholic nor completely optimistic comes in what might be the most iconic shot of Ashby’s career, the closing sequence of Being There. Chance’s benefactor, Benjamin Rand (Melvyn Douglas), has recently died and is being eulogized at his funeral by the US president (Jack Warden). At the eulogy’s conclusion, the president begins to read aphorisms and other quotations from Rand’s personal diary. Chance wanders away from the funeral and onto the grounds of Rand’s vast estate, and the eulogy continues in voiceover. A gardener, Chance stoops over to attend to small plants poking up through the snow. He stops to look at the branches of a tree. Then, coming to a pond, he pauses briefly before walking out onto it. Coming towards the middle, he seems only slightly baffled by his current situation and bends over again, this time to dip his umbrella into the water in order to plumb its depths. He then stands up and continues walking out onto the pond as the president reads out the line, “life . . . is a state of mind.” This final shot, like many of the long shots in Ashby films, is nearly static with only a minute, slow pan to the right, again allowing us to observe, but not get too close to the character during this moment of extreme intimacy and grace. In all of these instances, regardless of the tone or sentiment of the moment, the camera forces the viewer to take a step back from the on-screen action. The distance created complicates the viewer’s relationship to the characters by inviting the viewer to witness the intimacy, but only from afar. This is an example of another way in which Ashby’s formal understanding of and approach to the filmmaking process mirrors and reinforces his narrative strategies and his awareness of the role of his protagonists. Whether the composition of these shots was the choice solely of his cinematographers or of Ashby in collaboration with them is difficult to say. However, that he incorporated such moments into so many of his films—regardless of which cinematographer he was working with—marks it as an aspect of Ashby’s own stylistic understanding of filmmaking and his aesthetic approach to depicting emotional moments on film. And as director, whether he played a role in the composition of these shots or not, he certainly approved them and was very aware of the precise ways in which they might

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direct the narrative, which represents a clear instance of Ashby’s authorial decisionmaking in the directing of his films.15

Ashby and music16 While there are many other traces of Ashby’s style that could be discussed, a final aspect of his authorship that I would like to consider is the way that he utilizes music in his films and particularly his use of “trans-diegetic” music. Ashby had a great appreciation of music and listened to it regularly while editing, and he paid careful attention to how music was used in his films. Additionally, he would, in the 1980s, make two concert films: Let’s Spend the Night Together (1983), featuring The Rolling Stones, and Solo Trans (1984) for Neil Young.17 Much like his approach to editing and cinematography, Ashby’s use of music varies from one film to the next. His general preference was to use scored music only minimally and rely, like many of his contemporaries, on song-based soundtracks. Three of his films from the 1970s—The Landlord, Harold and Maude, and Coming Home—avoid scored music completely, while Shampoo, which is billed as having “Original Music by Paul Simon,” uses one brief refrain on three occasions in the film, for a total of less than two minutes’ running time.18 Much like Coming Home three years later, instead of a score, Shampoo relies mainly on the pop and rock music of the late 1960s to express its musical character. When an Ashby film is fully scored—as is the case with The Last Detail and Bound for Glory—it still includes at least a few popular tracks (generally diegetic) as part of its musical landscape. Additionally, those scores serve very specific purposes. In The Last Detail, the Johnny Mandel score is derivative of typical military marches by John Philip Sousa and others, and the music serves as an ironic commentary on the characters and narrative. For example, each time the sailors undertake a new leg of their journey, a snare drum rolls and the brass section pipes up as if to echo the US Navy’s unofficial theme song, “Anchors Aweigh.” However, unlike the sailors of World War II embarking for the Pacific, the protagonists of The Last Detail are on their own personal and idiosyncratic journey—one that is less than heroic or glorious—and the music serves as a counterpoint to that journey. Bound for Glory makes much more intricate use of the notion of counterpoint and contrast. Leonard Rosenman’s score mainly takes the form of lush adaptations of Woody Guthrie songs. More than simply adapting Guthrie’s music, however, the score engages in a dialogue about Guthrie’s career with the viewer by commenting on the action and foreshadowing events to come (including events that will take place after the time span of the film). During narrative shifts or moments of emotional intensity in the film, the score fades in gently, perhaps in the form of some simple strings and a maudlin guitar. As the sequence develops, a recognizable tune slowly percolates up into a full-blown variation on a Guthrie song. One example comes nearly half an hour into the film, as Guthrie prepares to slip away from his family in Texas and make his way to California. By any forthright description, Guthrie is abandoning his family in the midst of the Great Depression, with only the slimmest of hopes that California

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might promise work and therefore enough money to bring his wife and young children out to the West Coast. As is typical throughout the film, after the first quiet strains of the score, the guitar begins to pick out a tune that might sound vaguely familiar to the attentive viewer, in this case about forty-five seconds after the music has begun playing. Guthrie says a sad goodbye to a relative on his front porch and runs to meet an oncoming truck as the strings burst into a slow rendition of “So Long, It’s Been Good To Know Yuh.” In one sense, the song is commenting on the action (somewhat callously, it might be said): Guthrie is leaving his family and friends behind in order to embark on a new life. But what is ironic in this case is that the scene is set in 1936, and Guthrie would not write “So Long” until 1940, a year after the latest events depicted in the film. The viewer never sees Guthrie play the song, but only hears the scored version. Thus the score becomes a suggestion of things to come, an example of foreshadowing that might be apparent only to the careful viewer or to the viewer intimately familiar with Guthrie’s life and career outside their presentation in the film. The dialogic nature of the score here also functions subtly to indicate that these events in Guthrie’s life— much like the farm and labor struggles he will soon encounter—become the foundation for the songs that the future Guthrie will write about them. That the music of Bound for Glory alludes to and comments on the narrative is not isolated to this instance in Ashby’s work. It is a regular occurrence. Whether relying on a single artist—such as Cat Stevens in Harold and Maude—or a variety of artists, as with Shampoo and Coming Home, Ashby regularly makes use of what Christopher Beach refers to as the “compilation soundtrack.” Beach describes its use in Ashby’s films as functioning on at least three levels: “narrative commentary, historical placement, and aesthetic enhancement.”19 Beach goes on to explain that “narrative commentary” occurs when the lyrics of a particular song (or in the case of Bound for Glory, a melody that suggests lyrics) make direct reference to one or more aspects of on-screen narrative content. Such references are sometimes straightforward, and sometimes ironic, but the effect is to create more dialogic strands between the soundtrack and the narrative, as well as between soundtrack, narrative, and viewer. One example comes in Harold and Maude when the two titular characters sleep together for the first time. Harold and Maude are sitting on a jetty after a very emotional conversation, watching fireworks over the city. As the fireworks fill the screen, Cat Stevens’s song “I Think I See the Light” begins playing. Then comes a dramatic cut to Harold in bed with no clothes on. He stares directly into the camera, almost defiantly, and casually blows bubbles. As Stevens enthusiastically sings out the refrain, there is a cut to Maude lying in bed beside him asleep, and then a wide shot of both of them. The film’s other main characters (along with many commentators on the film) judge this act as sick and depraved. But the song indicates otherwise, as this is a moment of clarity for Harold, his gaze into the camera almost daring the viewer to judge him. Thus the music and the mise-enscène work in dialogue with viewer expectations to intensify the effect and multiply the possible meanings of this short, wordless sequence. Another strategy that Beach discusses is Ashby’s use of music as “aesthetic enhancement,” by which he generally means Ashby’s manner of editing to the rhythm of the music. In the Harold and Maude sequence, the cut from the fireworks to Harold’s face

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occurs precisely at the moment that Cat Stevens’s voice can be heard singing the first word of the refrain “I think I see the light,” so that the music and the cut are synchronized. Such deterministic cuts are frequent in the films Ashby edited for Jewison, as well as in early Ashby films. However, as he became more adept at using the technique, Ashby began cutting around the beat, just behind or ahead of audience expectations, thus creating additional, subtle moments of surprise. Detecting such subtle moments becomes easier when one is aware of how they stem from Ashby’s authorial decisionmaking. Beach’s final category, “historical placement,” is a function by which selected music is used to ground a film in its historical setting. This function is not at all unique to Ashby films; however, he was quite meticulous about its use, making sure in the case of Coming Home that all of the songs were precisely from 1966 to 1968 so as to pre-date and lead up to the time of the film’s setting.20 In addition to those uses of music that Beach outlines, there is a fourth one that is an integral part of Ashby’s filmmaking strategy: the employment of trans-diegetic music. The term “trans-diegetic” refers to music (or any element, including other types of sound) that either begins as diegetic source music and then becomes part of an extra-diegetic (or nondiegetic)21 soundtrack or score, or, vice versa, when the extradiegetic becomes diegetic. Writing in Offscreen in 2007, Henry M.  Taylor describes it as “sound’s propensities to cross the border of the diegetic to the non-diegetic and remaining unspecific.”22 Although recently there has been growing interest in instances of trans-diegetic music in Hollywood cinema, it remains an underexplored area of film sound. With some notable exceptions, trans-diegetic music generally would have been out of place during the Classical era of Hollywood cinema, when background music was meant to be invisible while diegetic music tended to be clearly sourced. Edward Branigan describes the potential of trans-diegetic music (a term which he does not use) to increase narrative complexity in his discussion of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Wrong Man (1956): “The ‘same’ music functions very differently depending on the context, precisely because several distinct contexts are made to fit it.”23 In other words, transdiegetic music, by acting as a bridge between the diegetic and the extra-diegetic, also acts as a bridge between such concepts as place and time in film; it can even act as a bridge between meanings of particular on-screen occurrences, a possibility that Ashby regularly took advantage of. While “trans-diegetic” is not a wholly settled upon term, it seems best suited for a discussion of Ashby’s application of music that crosses the diegetic/extra-diegetic border. Such music’s potential to contribute to and problematize narrative has also been discussed by Robynn J.  Stilwell. She identifies the transition from diegetic to extradiegetic24 as a transitional space, one that is not only open to a variety of meaning but also ripe with uncertainty. The result is a playful moment in which the trans-diegetic contributes to narrative meaning but not always in ways that are particularly clear.25 The technique is one that occurs in all of Ashby’s feature films, although his use of it varies greatly and his understanding of its narrative potential evolved over time. Sometimes it occurs only minimally, as when, near the beginning of The Landlord, Elgar (Beau Bridges) is running towards his car and a nonspecified, early 1960s rocksong begins to play. Elgar sits down behind the wheel and the song turns out to be a

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jingle for an advertisement playing on his car’s radio. A series of jump cuts follows as Elgar drives home from the Bronx to Long Island, while the advertisement continues playing uninterrupted. In this case, the music is extra-diegetic to begin with (Elgar has not yet reached his car to turn on the radio), briefly becomes diegetic as Elgar starts his car, then becomes at once seemingly both diegetic and extra-diegetic, continuing in an atemporal relationship with the elliptical depiction of Elgar’s drive home. Although brief, this instance exemplifies Stilwell’s descriptions of such moments as uncertain. A similarly short, but even more playful instance occurs at the very beginning of Shampoo. Immediately following the Columbia logo, the viewer is presented with a dark screen and a dramatically quick fade-in of the Beach Boys’ song “Wouldn’t it Be Nice.” For a few seconds, one expects the opening credits to roll, and it would be easy to consider the song as being part of the film’s extra-fictional apparatus—in other words, an utterance that is outside both the diegesis of the film’s world as well as being completely outside the film’s fiction—music that plays before the story even begins. This perception lasts only briefly, however, as, instead of being presented with an opening credit sequence, we are treated to the sounds of the vigorous lovemaking of two characters, who turn out to be George (Warren Beatty) and Felicia (Lee Grant). The screen remains black and the song continues uninterrupted, albeit now sharing acoustic space with the sounds of George and Felicia. The credits begin and a dim light from a shaded window appears in the upper right-hand corner of the frame. At this point the music is part of the extra-fictional credits as well as being, in some fashion, part of the film’s fictional world—but its place in relation to the diegesis is uncertain. This uncertainty is aided by the music’s acousmatic nature, particularly once it blends with the sounds of lovemaking.26 A spectator simply cannot be sure where the music is coming from, in terms either of the film’s diegesis, or, if diegetic, the music’s source. Then, roughly a minute into the film, a telephone rings and George makes a frustrated grunt before switching off the music and answering the phone. With this action, the music has become an obvious part of the film’s diegesis. Despite remaining acousmatic, the music’s existence within the diegesis is made clear by the click of the radio being turned off. This song excerpt takes only a brief moment in the overall film, one that can be quickly and easily forgotten in the wake of the narrative’s many twists and turns. It does, however, exemplify Branigan’s comment about how one piece of music can play more than one role at the same time in a film. In this case, it could be argued that, by withholding information about the music’s source and nature, the use of transdiegetic music acts as a subtle formal foreshadowing of the film’s theme of mistaken identity and the subjective nature of performativity.27 This technique can generally be regarded as a violation of Classical Hollywood principles by which the diegetic and extra-diegetic should remain discreet and distinct.28 There are exceptions, of course. Branigan points to instances of its use as a transition between the pre-film, extra-fictional music of a credit sequence and the diegetic world of a film’s fiction. Max Steiner’s frequent elision of diegetic and extra-diegetic has been commented upon by Stilwell and others. It remains, however, a rare occurrence in Classical Hollywood films, especially in comparison with the films of the 1970s, whose New Hollywood directors would feel little compunction about violating principles of

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Classical-era continuity. The opening sequence of Sidney Lumet’s Dog Day Afternoon (1975) makes use of the technique much like the films of the Classical era: the Elton John song playing over opening-credit shots of New York City is revealed to be the music of a car radio. A more audacious and perhaps better-known example comes in Mel Brooks’s Blazing Saddles (1974) when Clevon Little’s Sherriff Bart is riding across the plains accompanied by a soundtrack that turns out to be Count Basie’s band actually playing as he rides past. However, Ashby’s regular use of the technique makes clear how much he valued its deployment. Taylor describes the trans-diegetic as sound that “remains unspecific,” and Stilwell discusses its sense of “unreality,” but in Ashby’s hands it is something more than that. It becomes a way of challenging spatial and temporal specificity and of bridging the gap between film and audience, endowing one utterance of music with simultaneously different functions. In a sense, trans-diegesis creates a marginal, almost ephemeral space, one where music is both of and not of the filmic world. Some instances of trans-diegetic music in early Ashby films can come across as coy, a deliberately post-modern affectation in keeping with the spirit of early New Hollywood. As he develops the technique, however, it becomes a more ambiguous strategy, its relationship to the viewer more elusive. In the later films, trans-diegetic music pulls the viewer into the world of the film, while also creating a distance from that world. In so doing, the films create a critical space for the viewer to contemplate the ideas about identity, politics, even reality that permeate Ashby’s work. Coming Home, in addition to making frequent use of music for narrative commentary, is also the film in which Ashby most deftly makes use of trans-diegetic music. Music floats through the film, often at different volumes for any given song, and it is often unclear whether a particular song is meant to be diegetic or not. Early in the film, on his last night before leaving for Vietnam, Bob is at home repairing a toaster for Sally. The Beatles’ “Hey Jude,” acousmatic, can only just be made out on the soundtrack, as if it is meant to be playing on a transistor radio somewhere in the kitchen. There is a cut to Sally and Bob in their car at the military base parking lot moments before he is to ship out, and the song is still playing quietly, with no temporal disruption. Then, as they get out of the car, say goodbye, and Bob joins the other officers walking towards the bus, the song swells to a very high volume during the long, famous coda of nah nah nah nahs. This is an ironic moment, as the singing during the coda is joyful and triumphant, which the increase in volume enhances, while at the same time, the volume increase occurs during the very serious moment of men heading to war, a war that most of the film’s 1978 viewers would likely not have described as joyful or triumphant. A song that is generally regarded as hopeful and upbeat is thus rendered uncomfortable, even a bit naïve. Similar acousmatic moments occur frequently in the film so that the viewer is kept off guard as to what any particular song’s source is. This strategy comes to fruition during a three-song, crosscut sequence that takes place soon after Sally returns from visiting Bob in Hong Kong. As mentioned earlier, Sally discovers that Vi’s brother Bill has taken his own life at the VA hospital, and the sequence in question begins immediately after the previously discussed long shot of Vi on the beach. The three songs proceed in temporal order with no cuts, even while the edits move back and forth

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between two scenes and show a clearly asynchronous progression of time. Sally and Vi decide to go out dancing to try to forget about their troubles. There is a cut to Luke in his wheelchair, rolling towards his car, with a box on his lap. It is late afternoon. Precisely timed with this cut to Luke is the opening snare drum beat of Steppenwolf ’s “Born To Be Wild,” which begins playing quietly. The song, extra-diegetic at this point, continues as Luke reaches his car and loads the box into the passenger side. As he slams the door, there is a cut to a nightclub and a noticeable increase in volume. The song is now diegetic, playing in the club that Sally and Vi are visiting—dancers in the club are clearly dancing in time to the music.29 We see Sally and Vi talking at the bar and then there is another cut back to Luke. The music has become extra-diegetic again (as it will remain throughout the Luke portions of the sequence), and night has fallen. Luke has parked his car and is unloading the box, which we can see is full of heavy chains. There is another cut back to the club, and as the song fades out, Sally and Vi make eye contact with two men whom they call over to their spot at the bar. Jimi Hendrix’s “Manic Depression” then begins playing on the club sound system (the song could also be considered an example of narrative commentary, as both Vi and Luke are obviously distraught at Bill’s suicide). As soon as the song begins, Vi and the two men walking towards them begin moving in rhythm with the music. There is another cut to Luke, who is rolling in his wheelchair up to a Marine recruiting office. He has decided to chain himself to the fence gate, forcing it shut as a kind of protest in response to Bill’s suicide. The music is very quiet at this point, almost indiscernible, and then there is another cut back to Sally and Vi, only they are no longer in the club. They are entering a hotel room with the two men from the club (Vi is obviously drunk and being carried by one of them). Time has clearly passed, but the music continues uninterrupted, albeit still very quietly. However, it now seems as if it has shifted in the women’s case from diegetic to extra-diegetic: the music that is playing when they enter the hotel room would seem to have no source, and much like in the earlier mentioned scene with “Hey Jude,” the music has continued over from one location to another, uninterrupted. The instability of the music’s source at this point results in the viewer not being at all sure of where the music is meant to be located in relation to the film’s diegesis. This instability mirrors the instability—both mental and situational—of the main protagonists at this point in the narrative. There is another cut back to Luke, now being harassed by Marines who are indignant at his action. The music can hardly be heard at this point, but is still playing quietly in the background. As the film cuts back to the hotel room, Vi says, “We need some entertainment.” She dances over to the radio, in time with “Manic Depression,” which is still playing (although still seemingly as extra-diegetic sound). She does not turn the radio on, but rather changes the station, implying that “Manic Depression,” the same song that was playing in the club, has been playing on the radio in their hotel room. She briefly rolls through the stations until she settles on Aretha Franklin singing “Save Me,” (and in another example of narrative commentary, Vi even looks at Sally and asks, “Appropriate music?”). Vi then volunteers to show the men a “real” go-go dance. She gets up on a chair, starts dancing provocatively, and then removes her top (she is not wearing a bra). While one of the men is visibly excited by this—exhibiting his approval

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with smiles and catcalls—the other man and Sally are both clearly unnerved. The atmosphere in the room becomes more tense and unsettling when Vi begins stomping up and down fiercely, with a pained expression on her face. Sally goes to her, and Vi suddenly realizes where she is and what she is doing. She covers herself up and storms out of the room. Sally goes to her and hugs her, and Vi breaks down crying and repeating between sobs, “Sally, my brother, my brother.” The two men, in another part of the room, wonder what is happening, and one of them says, “Maybe we should have turned on the TV.” The joke, rather than undercutting the tension, only serves to heighten the scene’s overriding sense of disequilibrium—the two men are just out for a good time, and Vi’s emotional breakdown (in the wake, unbeknownst to them, of her brother’s suicide) comes out of nowhere. Yet, for viewers, the breakdown is less perplexing than the striptease that precedes it, knowing as we do what she is trying to forget. So the joke, which is intended to alleviate tension, actually comes across as crass and unfeeling, which serves to deepen the sense that Vi cannot be helped, cannot at this point be “saved.” As the sequence begins to conclude, the film cuts to Vi and Sally walking through the hotel lobby, presumably a few minutes after leaving the room. The song is over, but in the background a TV news report can now be heard. Sally and Vi stop momentarily. They hear the report, which is about Luke’s actions at the recruiting office. They run over to the TV and Sally says, “It’s Luke.” For nearly thirty seconds of film time, Sally and Vi watch the news report in which Luke is explaining why he chained himself to the fence gate. Thus, the two crosscut sequences, playing out in different temporal and physical space, but linked by the three songs, begin to merge towards a temporal restoration.30 There is then a cut to Sally outside the police station collecting Luke. After nine minutes and forty seconds, the three-song (plus news reporting), crosscut sequence has ended. What follows is a very intimate and explicit love scene between Sally and Luke that does not shy away from Luke’s physical paralysis. The preceding music sequence, then, becomes the impetus for the film’s final act, which concerns Luke and Sally’s deepening relationship and the discovery of that relationship by Sally’s husband Bob after he returns from Vietnam. And so the crosscut sequence serves the purpose of exhibiting three of the film’s key characters at their personal nadirs. It is resolved in a “coming together”—of two narrative strands, of two separate temporal spaces, and also of two characters—which allows the characters to begin to overcome the sense of despair that has been plaguing them, to varying degrees, for much of the film. The trans-diegetic music here serves several purposes. First, in the form of narrative commentary, the music indicates awareness of the emotional state of at least two of the characters, as Luke and Vi are both emotionally distraught and perhaps in need of saving. Second, the music (and the news report) serve to tie together two sets of characters who are far apart in physical distance and who, in their on-screen narratives, are temporally distant as well—Sally and Vi’s evening takes place over a short space in time, while Luke’s venture, which begins during the day and ends late at night, stretches out over a much longer time period, while both series of events play out on screen over the same nine and a half minutes of film time. The music functions

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aesthetically to set the pace of the editing, with cuts from one scene to the other rhythmically matching the music. This precision is mirrored by the frequent dancing in Vi and Sally’s sequences, as if the film itself is dancing in time to the music. The music is also somewhat cathartic, at least for the characters, including Sally. It is immediately after witnessing Vi’s breakdown in person and Luke’s commitment to his cause on television that Sally decides finally to pursue a romantic and sexual relationship with Luke, which becomes the central plot point of the film’s latter half. Additionally, there is an intertextual element to the music here. The use of “Born To Be Wild” is an obvious reference to the film Easy Rider, in which it played a major part, and “Manic Depression” is a nod to that song’s previous appearance in Ashby’s own Shampoo (in which it also plays during a climactic, multi-song moment, although in the case of Shampoo, entirely diegetic). So Ashby is clearly setting his film in a particular time (Easy Rider was shot in 1968, while both Shampoo and Coming Home are set in 1968), and associating it with other “political” films. This mirrors Sally’s decision to be with Luke based on his “political” action against the recruiting center. While this example is one of the most elaborate uses of trans-diegetic music in any Ashby film, its use in other films often serves similar purposes. It is playful, multi-layered music that is both in the film and not in the film, and it creates a similar space for the viewer. We are both absorbed by the film but keenly aware of its filmic nature. Similar, then, to the other stylistic elements that have been discussed, music is incorporated in Ashby’s films in ways that enhance both their narrative and their thematic considerations. It is this continual marriage of narrative and form that most clearly indicates the depth of Ashby’s authorial presence in his films.

Conclusion The elements of Ashby’s filmmaking discussed in these two chapters—both the narrative-based and the stylistic31—constitute some of the major aspects of his body of work that can be detected throughout his career as a filmmaker. One could argue that they make for a consistent approach to filmmaking, or even a consistent philosophy of filmmaking, combining, as they do, thematic concerns with a stylistic approach to exploring those concerns through formal considerations. Tracing these consistencies across Ashby’s body of films may not provide the foundation for an argument that there is such a thing as an “Ashby style” or even a typical “Ashby film”—perhaps they are too subtle, too fleeting, or even too scattered. Their existence, however, does mark Ashby as one of the authors of his films. Furthermore, they present a compelling opportunity to reassess certain long-standing conceptions of the New Hollywood era. Here we have a body of films that appealed to many of the same viewers who were watching the films of Scorsese, Altman, Friedkin, and others, and which continue to have a measurable influence on some celebrated Hollywood filmmakers today.32 Yet their narrative and thematic concerns only occasionally overlap with those held by the directors of the era who are widely accepted as canonical. If Ashby’s narrative themes

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differ enough from those that preoccupied the canonical directors, if his approach to making films differs vastly from the single-author conception of the New Hollywood auteur, and if in spite of these differences his films prove worthy of further study on any number of grounds—or are even representative of the era—then it stands to reason that the notion of what constitutes a New Hollywood film or filmmaker is due for re-evaluation. However, the question of auteur status and its hold over the era remains. It is one thing to apply the definition of auteur provided by Sellors to Ashby. Sellors’s particular definition, though, is not the predominant one and is certainly not the definition of auteur that most people apply to the filmmakers of 1970s Hollywood. Furthermore, Sellors’s notion of the auteur depends on a theory of art, which this book, grounded more in film practice and formal analysis, has not articulated. However, recognizing a consistency of style and narrative throughout a body of work is consistent with Sellors’s theories, and, in fact, makes practical application of them. Chapters  3 and 4 have clearly demonstrated that there are stylistic and narrative threads that can be traced through Ashby’s films and that those threads show a thoughtful approach to filmmaking in which both narrative and style highlight and reinforce aspects of each other. However, because of his close reliance on collaboration throughout every facet of the filmmaking process, even those narrative and formal characteristics that can be most readily associated with Ashby are modified from film to film depending on with whom he is collaborating. The following section examines more closely Ashby’s collaborative relationships in four key areas: the writing of his films; the cinematography of his films; the relationship between Ashby and his actors; and the editing of his films. This will serve to demonstrate how those elements of filmmaking that were important to Ashby persist throughout his work even while they are being pushed and stretched in different directions by the input of his casts and crews. While each Ashby film is authored in part by Ashby, each is also a film authored by his closest collaborators. This will become apparent through close examination of what Ashby thought about the filmmaking process, how he communicated those thoughts to his colleagues, and how he and his colleagues developed a working practice that extended to each of the films he directed. Furthermore, by revealing the stamp of some of these collaborators on Ashby’s films, and discerning those same stamps on the films of other directors they worked with, I begin to open up a discussion about how New Hollywood cinema, as closely tied to the concept of the auteur as it is, was also a cinema very much determined by and reliant on collaboration and multiple-authorship.

Part Three

Multiple-Authorship

Introduction That film is a collaborative medium is a common truism, but one that is rarely analyzed in any kind of academic depth. Film studies overflows with books about directors and directing—the notion that a film is the sole product of its director is so embedded in film scholarship that on mentioning a film in writing, the standard practice is to place its director’s name in parentheses. Alan Lovell and Gianluca Sergi put it bluntly: “While writers often acknowledge the collective nature of filmmaking, their acknowledgement is usually a token one. Typically, the collective nature of filmmaking is declared to be obvious but, in the discussion that follows, the obvious is ignored and the focus is on the director.”1 To be sure, there have been studies of particular screenwriters and cinematographers, and there are numerous book-length treatments of editing, set design, and sound. But the number of these pales in comparison to the time and attention spent on directors, the indication being that the “truism” that filmmaking is a collaborative endeavor has been paid such scant attention that, taking Lovell and Sergi a step further, one might question who actually believes it to be true. For if film is a collaborative medium, then its products—the films themselves—must be products of the collaborative process, which would necessarily indicate that there is no single author of a film. And yet, the concept of the single-author auteur persists. In such an environment, Chapters  3 and 4 could be read as an attempt to redefine Ashby as a New Hollywood auteur. They perform tasks commonly associated with auteurist interventions, such as outlining a personal vision, analyzing stylistic approaches that span a career, and arguing for a level of artistic talent and focus that has gone mostly unnoticed. The driving thrust of those chapters, however, is not an argument for Ashby as auteur in the sense that he was the single author of his films. Rather, the chapters argue that Ashby, as a director with a consistent artistic vision and an approach to narrative and style that can be discerned across his body of work, was one of the authors of his films. As the director of his films and one of the key members of the editing team, Ashby was very directly responsible for many of the narrative,

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formal, and tonal elements of his body of work. However, on each of his films, other authors also contributed, and their various approaches to form and style are just as discernable as Ashby’s own contributions and, perhaps more importantly, just as integral to the organic wholeness of each completed film. A Hollywood film production is a huge endeavor and the cast and crew required to make a film can easily number in the many hundreds. Because of the multivariate nature of the numerous roles on a film set, the majority of these people could not be put forward as authors of the film. Sellors differentiates between the “production collective” (everybody involved in the making of a film) and the “authorial collective” (those people involved in the production who are able to affect, influence, or make authorial decisions). He notes, “In commercial filmmaking the production collective will be much larger than the authorial collective.”2 Who makes up the authorial collective is likely to change from film to film depending on many factors. However, a key factor resides in an individual’s participation in a “filmic intention that the authorial collective utters collectively.”3 In Carringer’s earlier work, he similarly describes the potential for authorial contribution: “anyone who makes a distinguishable contribution to a film,” but more specifically, the “specialists who are in charge of a film’s architectonics.”4 However, Sellors is adamant that this process need not imply complete agreement over every contribution to the utterance, and that even from disagreement or dissention collective intention can come forth.5 This is a key component of Sellors’s argument, and one that is fundamental to an understanding of the mode of authorship I propose in this work. Multiple-authorship as I see it does not require one specific goal, with a group of authors working solely towards that goal. Each potential author is able to bring her own set of goals and artistic principles to the production of the utterance, and it is through the collective nature of the production that those goals and principles congregate into one collective set of intentions. This conception of authorship bypasses the formulations of scholars such as Paisley Livingston who contextualizes authorship within realms of control and argues that “the word ‘author’ is aptly applied to a person who has played the role of the dominant coordinating collaborator in the creation of the work.”6 Carringer’s later work seems to tack towards a similar approach, as when he describes analyzing collaboration as having two phases: the first is “the temporary suspension of single author primacy”; the second occurs when “the primary author is reinscribed within what is now established as an institutional context of authorship,”7 an approach Carringer describes as “judicious.”8 This may be another way of saying “easier,” which is an approach that has helped to maintain the single-author status for so long, without accounting for the actual practicalities of film production. Certainly questions of control cannot be ignored completely. Philip Cowan performs an instructive intervention in the standard, binary construction of control/no control in his essay, “Underexposed:  The neglected art of the cinematographer,” in which he outlines at least four potential relationships between a director and cinematographer. For Cowan, control exists along a spectrum that he dramatizes by describing two sets of director classifications. The first is the spectrum from “fixed” to “open,” with fixed being the “director who has his/her own visual scheme, which he/she will not change.”9 The “open” director, on the other hand, is “willing to collaborate, discuss

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and develop ideas with the cinematographer.”10 The second spectrum runs the gamut from “visionary” to “blind” (which for Cowan is simply a director with “little or no visual sense”).11 Cowan looks at the various types of interplay that can result from the interactions between cinematographers and directors whose style can be plotted somewhere along these two axes. In doing so, his assessment of the potential for a director to assume complete authorial control comes to a conclusion conducive to a multiple-authorship reading that overlaps with some of Sellors’s assertions about both intentionality and artistry: The general misconception, fueled by auteur theorists, is that a director makes all the decisions about camera placement—angle, height, distance—and the cinematographer’s role is to control the technical aspects of the director’s plan. This may be the case with some cinematographers, content for the “fixed” director to make all the creative decisions, but the great cinematographers of the past, and present, have had a view on which camera viewpoint, framing, and lighting best serves the film. These directors of photography are artists.12

Cowan’s argument allows for elements of control to come into play, while also maintaining that even within the most stringent of circumstances artistic cinematographers are able to bring an element of authorship to the filmmaking production. If this is true of cinematography, it is likely true of other areas of production, such as writing, editing, performance, and more. By allowing for an authorship that is able to incorporate multiple strands of intentionality on the part of different authors, we can then trace those strands across different works with different crews—which is why Carringer’s earlier description of those contributions as “distinguishable” is so useful. For example, we can interrogate the work of a cinematographer such as Gordon Willis for the hallmarks of his stylistic intentions, regardless of the director he is working with, and then make determinations about whether and how those hallmarks have contributed to a specific film’s authorship. As every film production, commercial or otherwise, is different in terms of scope, number of participants, and the interactions that take place between participants, there is not a set formula for determining which individuals may or may not make up part of the authorial collective. However, in their investigation into how Hollywood film production works, Lovell and Sergi argue that there are generally ten individual roles with the potential to contribute to the authorial collective: producers, screenwriters, directors, production designers, cinematographers, editors, visual effects artists, sound designers, composers, and actors, particularly stars.13 This list closely resembles Carringer’s earlier delineation of potential contributors (minus producers and performers).14 The relationships among these various roles (and the crews that come with them) will necessarily vary from film to film. However, given the right circumstances, any one of these individuals is likely to make some artistic, authorial contribution to the film and so to be one of its authors. Traditionally, though, determining marks of authorship in a film has involved a type of formal analysis that assumes directorial

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control of everything within the utterance. For example, despite the number of people involved in composing and executing the Copacabana tracking shot in Goodfellas (1990), within general film discourse, it is referred to as Scorsese’s shot.15 Evaluating multiple-authorship, on the other hand, dramatically benefits from a combination of archival and production research as well as a formal analysis that considers the likelihood that specific elements of the utterance may in fact stem from the intentions and artistic inclinations of contributors aside from or in addition to the director. Applying such an approach after having demonstrated the scope of Ashby’s authorial contributions to his films in some detail, the following case study will analyze the particular ways in which his films were shaped by the authorial intentions of others working collaboratively with him. This chapter focuses mainly on the film Being There (1979), on which Ashby worked with both former collaborators and new cast and crew. The case study demonstrates how as the film’s director he created a collaborative environment for those accustomed to his working method as well as those new to it. In particular, it focuses on the contributions of the writers, the cinematographer, the editors, and the actors (mainly Peter Sellers). The case study also includes a fair amount of complimentary analysis, examples of authorial contributions from practitioners in these four areas during the making of other Ashby films. These digressions demonstrate that Being There was not unique. It is also worth pointing to the recognizable authorial contributions that some of Ashby’s collaborators made on other films they have worked on, including some helmed by directors often considered pre-eminent New Hollywood auteurs. In doing so, I suggest that, as important as collaboration and multiple-authorship were for Ashby’s career, they were also much greater determinants during the New Hollywood era and in the construction of its films than is generally acknowledged.

5

Being There: A Case Study

Production background Being There (1979) was a coproduction of Lorimar, Northstar International, and Universal Artists. Northstar International was a film production company formed by Ashby and Andy Braunsberg in January 1978. After the success of Coming Home (1978),1 Ashby found himself on the verge of gaining more independence than ever before both to direct and produce the kinds of films he wanted in Hollywood with little interference from studios or production companies. Northstar International was his attempt to capitalize on that position. Through Northstar, Ashby signed a three-film deal with Lorimar, a small production company generally known, at that point, for producing television programs, but which had designs on film production.2 The exact details of Lorimar’s contract with Ashby and Northstar and the precise interpretation of those details would become the subject of vociferous debate and legal challenge throughout much of the early 1980s, resulting in two of the three films, Second-Hand Hearts (1981) and Lookin’ to Get Out (1982), being plagued by distrust and allegations of misconduct from both parties. As discussed in Chapter 1, Lorimar would also threaten to sue Columbia pictures to prevent them from hiring Ashby to direct Tootsie (1982) before he turned in a final cut of Lookin’ to Get Out, which led to Columbia firing Ashby from the film. These difficulties took place against a Hollywood backdrop that saw the ultimate demise of New Hollywood and the ascendency of the increasingly profit-driven blockbuster era. Thus, what had looked to Ashby like a position of strength in early 1979, eventually led to a four-year stretch in which his reputation in Hollywood suffered immensely and he lost anything resembling the kind of filmmaking independence he had once felt was within his grasp. Being There, then, is generally considered the final effort in Ashby’s 1970s run of successful films. It was certainly the last of any of his films to be financially successful and the last to be nominated for, let alone win, any major awards. It is a little known fact that it was actually shot after Second-Hand Hearts. As part of his deal with Lorimar, Ashby was given permission to shoot two films back to back so that he could then edit them simultaneously. Ashby regularly put in long strings of sixteen- and eighteen-hour days, especially during post-production. By the late 1970s, he had come to believe that

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if he were able to work on the editing of two films simultaneously, it would help keep his mind fresh and cut down on the amount of stress and creative burnout that he had often experienced during post-production in the past. So he shot Second-Hand Hearts from July to September 1978 and then moved on almost immediately to shooting Being There in January and February 1979. Ashby then proceeded to work on the editing of both films, but for a variety of reasons, including the ease with which production had progressed on the two films and the resulting film quality, the editorial teams that Ashby put together for each film, and studio distribution plans, Being There was released nearly eighteen months before Second-Hand Hearts, with the former arriving in December 1979 and the latter in May 1981. While Ashby would continue to embrace collaboration as a vital component of filmmaking, Being There’s release and success would mark the final period of Ashby’s life in which he might have had aspirations of being a Hollywood director of the “upper rank” and gaining the independence that went along with such a distinction. Nearly every aspect of the making of Being There—from its long gestation to its relatively smooth production—argues for an understanding of filmmaking founded on multiple-authorship. The film is based on a short novel of the same title by Jerzy Kosinski, published in 1971. According to a variety of reports, soon after publication, “the émigré novelist received a brief and cryptic telegram: ‘Available my garden or outside it. C. Gardiner.’ ”3 C. Gardiner stood for Chance the Gardener/Chauncey Gardiner, the protagonist of Being There, but the telegram had actually been sent by Peter Sellers, who, on reading the book, believed that the character had been created by Kosinski “to express the life and soul of Peter Sellers.”4 Around the same time—shortly before or after reading Being There—Sellers had seen Ashby’s Harold and Maude (1971) and had apparently been quite struck by it. He decided to contact Ashby about working together, specifically on a film version of Being There: “I thought, ‘Well, the guy to do this is Hal Ashby.’ I sent him the book with a note saying, ‘Need to see you, read this.’ He saw everything it had to say.”5 At this point in their respective careers, however, neither Sellers nor Ashby were influential enough figures in Hollywood to engender the production of a film of their choice. Ashby was still establishing his career as a director, while Sellers was in the midst of a career slump that would last virtually until the release of Being There. Referring to their early efforts to make the film, Ashby made clear in a 1980 interview that, “Kosinski wasn’t willing to let it go . . . Peter and I were never at a place where anybody would give us the money to make a real offer.”6 In 1978, the producer Andy Braunsberg had been speaking with his friend Kosinski about the possibility of making a film of Being There, and Kosinski advised him to make enquiries. Supposedly unaware of Ashby’s past connection with the project, Braunsberg approached him through their mutual friend, Jack Nicholson.7 Ashby said he would love to direct the film, but only with Sellers playing Chance. According to several accounts, aside from Ashby nobody was happy with the idea of Sellers staring in the film. Kosinski and Braunsberg both had Ryan O’Neil in mind. In Kosinski’s novel, Chance is a virile young man, which is part of what makes the character so attractive and charming to women and intimidating to some men: his physical appearance makes it easier for them to overlook his vapid, childish nature. In 1978 Sellers

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was no longer the box-office draw he had once been (Pink Panther films aside) and showed up to the first informal casting discussion, according to Braunsberg, with a “triple chin,” heavily overweight and out of shape, and far from the image of youth and vitality projected by Chance in the novel.8 But Ashby was adamant. At this point in his career, following the success of Coming Home, Ashby had a greater deal of clout than he’d had in 1973; he could control the casting of his films, and in having given his word to Sellers five years earlier that they would make the film together, he wanted to live up to that commitment. Once Sellers agreed to a preparatory facelift, Lorimar agreed to produce the film.9 Being There was filmed in Washington DC, and North Carolina in January and February 1979 and released in December 1979. In addition to Peter Sellers, it starred Shirley MacLaine, Jack Warden, and Melvyn Douglas. It was shot by cinematographer Caleb Deschanel. The screenplay was credited to Kosinski with much of the writing done by an uncredited Robert C. Jones. It was edited by Don Zimmerman, who had long been a member of Ashby’s editorial staff, and who had acted as head editor for the first time on Coming Home. Each of these individuals was responsible, in part, for the creation of the film Being There, each contributing in some way to the film’s authorship.

Writing Kosinski’s 1971 novel concerns Chance, a gardener who lives in a grand house in the city (New York in the book, Washington DC, in the film) where he works for and is supported by the “Old Man,” who remains unnamed in all iterations of the narrative. Chance has never left the house and the story of Being There takes place over the first few days after his initial departure. The Old Man dies and Chance, not being mentioned in his will or any other legal papers, is forced to leave the house. Chance, however, is a simple-minded man (why is never made clear), and he does not understand why he must leave or how to take care of himself when he does. On his first day out, Chance has a random encounter with Eve Rand, the young wife of ultra-rich industrialist Benjamin Rand, who is slowly dying in his palatial estate. Through a series of coincidences, Chance ends up living with the Rands throughout Mr. Rand’s last days and becoming a close friend to Eve. The book’s irony and satire come in the way that everybody around Chance treats him. Because he wears the expensive suits and bears the upper-crust accent of the Old Man, Chance is mistaken for a rich businessman himself, and his simple, homey expressions about gardening and television (which are the only things he knows about) are taken as deep, meaningful metaphors about business and the American economy. Such is Chance’s rapid ascent that in the course of only a few days, the president of the United States and many of the world’s business leaders become fascinated with him and, as the book comes to an end, begin grooming him for high political office. At the time of the book’s publication it was a critical and popular success, and Kosinski supposedly wrote a screenplay adaptation of the book sometime in 1971,

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apparently hoping it would be turned into a film. Once the Northstar-Lorimar deal was made and Ashby and Sellers were both on board, Kosinski was hired to adapt the novel. He seems to have done some redrafting while Ashby was shooting Second-Hand Hearts, but how different the script he delivered to Ashby was from his 1971 draft is unclear. In any case, Ashby was not overly impressed with the script:  “Jerzy’s script was, for my taste, too heavy-handed . . . it looked to me like Jerzy was a little afraid of the character Chance he had drawn in the book.”10 Kosinski’s screenplay, a copy of which is included in the Hal Ashby papers at the Herrick Library in Los Angeles, adds a great deal of story, dialogue, and character description to what was a very slim work of fiction (between 112 and 160 pages, depending on the edition). The screenplay has a much wider scope, expanding on the novel’s intimately detailed microcosm to include a much broader range of characters, locations, and issues. In addition to the story of Chance and his encounter with the Rands, it includes many instances of social unrest and protest around the country. The narrative also cuts on many occasions to shady backroom scenes wherein the members of the Financial Institute (who only make brief appearances in the novel and film) plot their continued dominance of global economics and power. The script is full of fast-paced intercutting (much as are the final two chapters of the book), allowing little time for scenes to linger or unfold with the sense of patient development that infuses so many sequences in the final film. Kosinski’s screenplay also takes on a more overtly political dimension, making explicit some themes and plot points that had remained understated in the novel. For example, in the original story, the Old Man has no dialogue. As in the film, he dies at the very beginning of the narrative and there are no scenes of him speaking with Chance. The novel includes a short sequence, when Chance is walking up to the Old Man’s death bed, in which Chance remembers some of the things the Old Man had told him in the past, particularly about his pretty young mother and that he would never be told who his father was. Contrary to this, Kosinski’s screenplay gives the Old Man a death-bed monologue in which he explains Chance’s background to him: I loved her so much, so much . . . (he strains) But, as she was black—we could never marry. The world didn’t want our love. We ran away and hid from the world here, in this house. Then—when you were born . . . (he strains). And when you were born, we named you Chance—the child of our love—because it is by chance that you came to the world . . . (he strains). And when she died, you, my boy, were too young to remember your mother. And I too old to ever forget her, too weary to go back to the world that hated her so . . . (he strains) Just before your mother died I swore on the memory of our love to care for you as long as I live. (pauses) To shelter you, from that world full of hate.11

This is one of many instances in which additional dialogue or exposition serves to overtly politicize the text (making Chance the biracial child of “forbidden” interracial love) or to make explicit Chance’s background in ways that position his character as less ambiguous, thereby blunting the mystery that makes his ascendance through American financial and political society so intriguing.

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Another aspect of Kosinski’s screenplay that Ashby might not have been happy with was its seeming resistance to the idea of Peter Sellers as Chance. Even though Sellers had been cast in the role of Chance by the time Kosinski delivered his screenplay to Ashby, Kosinski continued to press for his original vision of a young, virile rendering of the character, describing Chance thus: He is tall, at least five feet eleven inches, approximately thirty-five to forty years old, fair, and masculine. CHANCE is a charismatic figure and his charisma is obvious to anyone. His pure looks are of those few blessed by good health, balanced and peaceful disposition and trust in what comes next in life.12

Why Kosinski would have continued to press this line of characterization after Sellers had been cast in the role is not at all clear. Perhaps he was resentful that Sellers had been cast against his wishes. Kosinski seems to have been very close to the novel and its protagonist, which is quite understandable considering that Chance had been his creation. Even after the film was released (having been substantially rewritten by another writer), Kosinski continued to insist on not only his right to be recognized as screenwriter, but on the “fact” that he had written the final screenplay. Hence, his attempt to force his vision of Chance into a version of the story that was already changing could have been related to his complicated relationship with the authorship of Chance. Regardless, however, of why he might have ignored the casting of Sellers in his rewrite of the screenplay, when combined with his overly explicit attempts to explain much of the story, it does become clear why Ashby would have been frustrated with Kosinski’s script. Ashby’s response was to turn to his friend and regular collaborator Robert C. Jones. Jones had edited The Last Detail, Shampoo, and Bound for Glory. He had done uncredited script work on Bound for Glory and won an Academy Award as one of the writers of Coming Home. (Ashby also employed him to write adaptations of Saul Bellow’s Henderson the Rain King and Richard Brautigan’s The Hawkline Monster, both of which would go unproduced.) Jones made substantial changes to Kosinski’s script, many of which had to do with returning the narrative to the defter, more ambiguous tone of the novel. First, he pared back nearly all the material that Kosinski had added to his draft of the screenplay, but which did not extend directly from the book. Thus the scenes of civil unrest, the homeless protests, the shady financiers, and the Old Man’s deathbed speech were all cut. Jones maintains much of Kosinski’s humor (for instance, the comment that Chance makes to the Russian ambassador about their chairs “almost touching” and the ambassador’s misreading of it as a joke). He also adds slight comic touches of his own, for example the running gag of having Chance believe that the elevator in Rand’s mansion is a “funny little room.” Jones takes the overt attempts at racial awareness that Kosinski had included in his screenplay but that had not been in the original novel and weaves them as a more delicate thread throughout the film. In the book, Louise is the Old Man’s black maid who had returned to Jamaica many years before the narrative takes place. In Kosinski’s script, she becomes Chance’s mother. In Jones’s script, Louise is the maid at the time of the Old Man’s death. Like Chance, she is

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forced to leave the house, and though the two never meet again, the film occasionally cuts to Louise watching Chance on television and commenting on the insanity of the “white man’s world.” While honing the screenplay to more closely resemble the tone of the novel, Jones also made two significant changes that dramatically affected the final film. First, he relocated the setting from Manhattan to Washington DC. In the novel, the capital plays a background role, as the interactions with the US president all occur during his trip to New York. By moving the action to the nation’s capital, Jones’s screenplay allows for many of the visual metaphors relating to politics and power that Ashby and Deschanel incorporate in the film’s mise-en-scène. More significantly, perhaps, is how Jones restructures the ending of the film. Kosinski ended both the novel and his draft of the screenplay by jumping quickly back and forth between several points of action. While there is some variation between the two texts, the main set pieces include a secluded meeting of the members of the Financial Institute planning to elevate Chance to the position of US president, and Chance himself walking in a garden and smiling. The main difference between Kosinski’s two endings is that in the book it is not clear whether Rand has died, whereas his script includes Rand’s death-bed sequence. The first step in the Financial Institute’s plan to elevate Chance is to make him a pallbearer at Rand’s funeral, which is not depicted. While both of Kosinski’s texts feature discussions about Rand’s funeral, Jones’s second major change was to depict the funeral and set the film’s final sequence there. The funeral takes place on the grounds of Rand’s mansion during winter, and the American president (Jack Warden) delivers the eulogy. Jones further condenses Kosinski’s endings in regards to the shady financiers and their plans for Chance: his script sets their discussion about a future political role for Chance at the funeral while they act as pallbearers. In the film itself, Ashby would follow Jones’s blueprint up to the point when, in the middle of the president’s speech, Chance leaves the funeral and walks into a small wooded area on Rand’s estate, where he examines various trees and plants, seemingly looking after their health in winter. Ashby seems to have been satisfied with Jones’s draft. He described his decision to have Jones rewrite Kosinski’s script: I gave Robert Jones the book, and I gave him Jerzy’s screenplay, and I asked him to write the script. A few weeks later he gave me a screenplay and I knew I was into the film then . . . Then I sat down with Robert for three or four weeks and we worked really hard on it, eight or nine hours a day. We never worked with Jerzy on the script; when we sent it to him, he loved it.13

Indeed, the Ashby papers include a copy of the script with penciled-in notes and crossouts in Ashby’s hand. It is difficult to say whether the notes pertain to decisions that Ashby himself made about the film, whether they were indications of decisions that Jones made and Ashby recorded, or some combination of both. Some of the revisions are quite small. In the screenplay, just before Rand dies, he says to Chance, “I understand Eve . . . tell her . . . tell her I’m madly in love with her.” On Ashby’s copy of

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the script, this is crossed out and rewritten as, “Tell Eve . . .,” which is how it occurs in the film, contributing to the last act’s elegiac tone, which proceeds through Jones’s funeral ending.14 However, other than some minor changes in dialogue or reordering of events, the film follows Jones’s script quite closely. Although Jones wrote the screenplay for Being There, he received little credit for it. The final screenplay credit attributes the film only to Kosinski. However, early in post-production it seemed like Jones would receive a writing credit. In an April 17, 1979 letter from Lorimar to the Writers’ Guild of America, Lorimar executive Andrew Molasky clarifies that Kosinski will receive two credits: “Screenplay by” (with Jones) and “Inspired by the Novel by Jerzy Kosinski.” A notice in Ashby’s papers, also from April 1979, lists the credits of the film and includes “Screenplay by Jerzy Kosinski / Robert C.  Jones.” Then, from May 13, there is an unaddressed Telex from Kosinski which states:  “Have read final script and hereby protest tentative credit on ‘Being There’ and consider credit should be ‘Screen Play [sic] by Jerzy Kosinski’ ‘Inspired by the Novel by Jerzy Kosinski.’ ” All available documentation from that point on includes only Kosinski’s name as writer. After the film came out, Sellers was quite adamant about the script having been written by Jones, not Kosinski.15 According to Jones, the studio had planned to give them both credit, but then Kosinski took the case to arbitration and won: “Losing that credit affected my career as a writer, that was the genre I was most comfortable in.”16 Losing the credit did not only affect Jones’s career, but also removed him from critical discussions of the film. As recently as 2004, Mary Lazar published an essay comparing the script of Being There with the novel in which she gives full credit to Kosinski and makes no mention of Jones.17 Lazar’s misattribution marks a clear example of why film studies—particularly issues related to authorship— will continue to benefit from more empirical research into film production. In the case of Being There, by the end of pre-production, it is clear that authorship is already spread across at least three distinct texts by two separate writers: Kosinski’s original novel and screenplay and Jones’s draft of the screenplay, which is clearly based on Kosinski’s original work, but which departs from it several key ways. Moreover, Ashby made at least two concrete changes to the film that are not in the screenplay, the second of which would lead to a certain amount of controversy over what is, arguably, one of the most iconic shots to come out of 1970s Hollywood cinema. The first change comes at the very beginning of the film. Kosinski’s script opens with Chance in the garden. Later, as in the book, Chance finds out that the Old Man is dying and, unlike in the book, hears his deathbed speech. As mentioned, Jones pared this back by eliminating the Old Man’s speech, but he kept a brief sequence that covers a day in which Chance gardens and then hears a report of the Old Man’s deteriorating illness from Louise, before waking up the next day to find that the Old Man has died (after a morning of more gardening). In Ashby’s copy of the script, there are numerous pencil slashes throughout this opening section. And, indeed, the film starts on Jones’s second day, with Chance awakening, doing some gardening, and then hearing of the Old Man’s death. By eliminating all the discussion of the Old Man’s illness, the film begins with a heightened feeling of ambiguity. The early shots of Chance, finely attired and attending to his meticulous garden, could easily lead a viewer to believe that Chance is exactly

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the type of worldly gentleman that other characters will soon mistake him for. When the death of the Old Man is announced, it is unclear just who exactly he is and what his relationship is to Chance. Thus, when Chance is forced by lawyers to leave the house, there is a level of narrative uncertainty that the viewer must work to unravel. We must learn to read Chance just like the characters who meet him in the film (aided somewhat by Louise’s editorial comments about Chance’s idiocy that are sprinkled throughout the early parts of the film). This early ambiguous nature of Chance in the eyes of the viewer becomes vital to the note that Ashby will strike at the end of the film. It is worth noting that this is not the first film from which Ashby removes an opening scene of exposition and dialogue in order to cut straight to a sequence of disorientating action. Shampoo was originally meant to open with a sequence in which Jill and Jackie have lunch together in a restaurant and discuss their respective relationships with George. Opening the film in such a manner—with George’s current and former lovers discussing his level of commitment and fidelity in a relationship—would be an immediate indicator as to George’s philandering nature, before the audience even meets him. On an undated copy of the script in Ashby’s papers, there are pencil slashes through dialogue and several handwritten notes indicating a desire to shorten or remove the sequence. In another copy of the script, with changes that are dated April 9, 1974, the script has been revised so that the opening dialogue is removed and the film begins the way it would in the finished cut, with George and Felicia making love in a darkened room. As with Being There, it is difficult to know whether the penciled-in changes were Ashby’s own suggestions or notes he took during screenplay conferences with Beatty and Robert Towne. It is well known that Beatty and Towne had competing versions of the script—both of which originated during the time of their work together on Bonnie and Clyde (1967)—and that in the spring of 1974, the two of them and Ashby met at the Beverly Wilshire hotel for a ten-day stint of intensive collaborative rewriting. Towne and Beatty were close friends whose relationship was often threatened by bursts of extreme, mutual dislike, and during the writing conferences for Shampoo, each used Ashby as a shield against the other. Exactly what any of them contributed to the finished screenplay is unclear: Towne and Beatty are both credited as writers (and were both nominated for Academy Awards). In the intervening years, the tale of Shampoo’s production has become one of Beatty and Town dominating Ashby, both having aspirations to direct and both seeing Shampoo as something of a practice run. However, Beatty has also declared the story conferences with Towne and Ashby, “the most creative ten days of my life,” and told Peter Biskind that the “script never would have been finished were it not for Ashby’s placid demeanor.”18 Beatty’s comment here is typical of the way many of Ashby’s collaborators praise him. Beatty is kind about Ashby, and praises his “placid demeanor” in crediting his contribution to Shampoo. While a “placid demeanor” is not a measurable artistic contribution, it is a way for Beatty to praise Ashby for allowing Beatty (and Towne) to write an Academy-Award-nominated script in a manner that actually robs Ashby of any meaningful contribution to the writing of Shampoo. What can be detected, however, in the cases of both Shampoo and Being There, is that regardless of how much Ashby may have contributed to the specifics of the screenplay, discernable patterns are noticeable in the

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way he filmed and edited those screenplays towards a final film product. Furthermore, and again regardless of his specific written contributions, Ashby felt comfortable in the collaborative environment and was able to foster a production atmosphere in which the writers involved felt able to do their best work in contributing to the project. There is a major exception, however, to the notion that Ashby did not contribute directly to the writing of his film narratives: on Being There, Ashby most certainly devised the final sequence. Jones had already changed Kosinski’s ending considerably by centralizing the action at Rand’s funeral, moving the financial elite away from the empty auditorium and having them discuss Chance’s future while they act as pallbearers to Rand. Building on Kosinski, Jones’s script has Chance get up during the president’s eulogy and wander around the garden and then into the woods that surround it. Much like Kosinski’s ending, Jones’s depicts Chance attending to the trees and plants that are suffering minor ill health due to the winter snow. As the funeral is ending, Eve Rand and Dr. Allenby (Richard Dysart) drive around the estate looking for Chance. They spot him, and Eve gets out of the car and runs towards Chance, almost falling in the snow. When she finally reaches him, she tells him she’s been looking for him. “Yes, I’ve been looking for you, too, Eve,” says Chance. They hug and the film ends as Eve leads Chance back to the limousine, while “in the distance” the president can still be heard delivering his eulogy. This is the last written ending of the film, and the one that can be found in the completed scripts in Ashby’s papers and in the various copies of the script to be found online.19 Ashby liked Jones’s ending, and he filmed it.20 However, before production wrapped, Ashby devised a different final sequence for the film, one in which his protagonist Chance would walk across a pond on the Rand grounds—literally walking on water. When asked about this ending, Ashby first praised Jones’s scripted version:  “I had another ending, which I  shot. It worked very well.”21 But he became determined to shoot his walking-on-water ending. Details of how he developed the idea change with the telling, but in all available versions, the story always includes Ashby coming to a realization that “The way it’s going with these characters and what’s happening with them, I could have this guy walking on water at the end of the film . . . I think I  will have him walking on water at the end of the film.”22 Lorimar’s representative on set tried to dissuade Ashby from shooting such an ending, but he proceeded to do so anyway. As in Jones’s screenplay, Chance gets up and leaves the funeral. In the film, Eve and Dr. Allenby look around for him from their chairs, but do not leave the funeral to look for him. Chance wanders into the woods and inspects the bent and broken trees. Then he walks out onto a small pond as the president’s voice can be heard declaiming one last epigram from Rand’s diary: “Life is a state of mind.” A piece of creative acting on Sellers’s part also adds to the final shot. According to Dawson, “when the scene was shot, Sellers left his umbrella by the tree for the first two takes but for the third took it with him as he walked out across the water. In a moment of inspiration, he stopped, dipped the umbrella in the water, and then started walking once again.”23 It is this final choice of Sellers that removes any uncertainty about what is happening during the moment—the audience cannot be in doubt about Chance’s action, cannot consider that he is, perhaps, walking in a shallow pond or across some type of sand bar. He is, indeed, walking on water (see Figure 5.1).24

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Figure 5.1 Chance gauges the depth of the pond with his umbrella in the closing moments of Being There.

The Lorimar representative on-set was not the only one who did not approve of Ashby’s decision to end the film in such an unorthodox manner. Shirley MacLaine reportedly did not like it at all, and Jones still contends that his ending worked better: “They were on location, I was in L.A. so I was not involved. If I was, I would have argued for the one written, much more organic to the film. Walking on water is great and cinematic, but it pulled me out of the story.”25 Regardless, however, of what one thinks about the final ending, its effectiveness or silliness, it is a striking result of multiple-authorship. Chance and Rand are the creation of Kosinski, who also imbued Chance with the nature of a protagonist who is so underdetermined in terms of characterization that he can be read in multiple ways. Jones focused the ending by heightening the elegiac tone of the film throughout and then setting the dénouement at a funeral. Ashby “wrote” the final sequence in which Chance walks on water, and Sellers added the final touch by dipping his umbrella into the pond. Even though Ashby has been made a marginal New Hollywood figure, in large part due to his perceived failings as an auteur, Being There is still largely considered an Ashby film. However, much like its ending, the film itself must clearly be viewed through the lens of collaboration—a film, literally, of multiple authors.

Cinematography Being There was shot by cinematographer Caleb Deschanel. It was the first film on which he worked with Ashby and his third feature film as cinematographer or director of photography.26 Deschanel would go on to shoot two more films with Ashby—Let’s

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Spend the Night Together (1983); The Slugger’s Wife (1985)—and has also shot films as various as The Right Stuff (1983), The Natural (1984), The Passion of the Christ (2004), and National Treasure (2004), among many others. While rising through the ranks to the position of cinematographer, Deschanel worked in the camera department on such 1970s films as THX 1138 (1971), A Woman Under the Influence (1974), and Apocalypse Now (1979). According to Jeff Wexler, his father, Haskell Wexler, “was asked to shoot just about every Hal Ashby movie,” as was the case with Being There.27 While Haskell Wexler and Ashby had a fruitful collaborative relationship extending back to Ashby’s days as an editor,28 for various reasons, he was unable to shoot every Ashby film, and so Ashby often turned to young cinematographers with only a few films to their credit. As with many of the editors with whom he would work, this was part of Ashby’s ongoing effort to help new talent break into the industry. Ashby had known Deschanel since 1970, when they met on the set of The Landlord: “He was a student at USC, and he came back to meet Gordy Willis. I  always kept track of Caleb.”29 While Deschanel had already shot two features by the time Ashby asked him to work on Being There, neither of them had yet been released. Thus, on a film that Ashby had been considering making for half a decade, he was willing to put a great deal of faith into the hands of a young cinematographer who had little in the way of a proven track record. Ashby, however, remained insistent on giving his cinematographer the freedom to bring his own shooting approach to the production, while at the same time pushing and encouraging him to elevate his filmmaking practice. Deschanel would recall that, “Working with somebody like Hal, you feel this incredible obligation and desire to do your best work.”30 While recollections of having worked on an Ashby film, from cast and crew, generally lean towards the highly favorable, it is perhaps this comment from Deschanel that best gets to the root of why Ashby’s collaborative approach was so appealing to so many in Hollywood: the notion seems to arise again and again that Ashby drew out of them both the “desire” and the feeling of “obligation” to work hard—to be inventive and imaginative in all aspects of production. As he had with previous cinematographers, Ashby allowed Deschanel a great deal of input in the shooting of Being There. In describing the relationship, Ashby commented: “I ask the cinematographer what he’s thinking about. Instead of going in and saying, ‘Let’s do this, I want this . . .’ I say, ‘What do you think?’ ”31 And he was happy with the work Deschanel did, remarking in another interview, “He’s really incredible. I can’t find the words to tell you what I think of him.”32 The freedom of this collaborative relationship, combined with Deschanel’s desire “to do his best work,” results in Being There representing an intertwining of the two men’s styles and filmic visions. The film includes many recognizable elements from previous Ashby films, including long shots during moments of emotional intensity and the juxtaposition of tableaux shots with highly choreographed tracking shots. The film’s visual style also exhibits Ashby’s compositional strategy of exploring emotional complexity via the deployment of counterpoised open and confined spaces. Many of these elements are on display during the sequence when Chance is forced to leave the Old Man’s house and make his way through the slums of Washington DC

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towards its political district. The sequence begins with a long shot of Chance at the back of the garden, surveying his life’s work one last time. It then cuts to a silhouette shot of Chance in a narrow hallway seen through a semi-opaque glass door, as he is about to step out onto the streets for the first time in his life. This is followed by a cut to another long shot of Chance on the front steps, which develops into a long choreographed tracking shot following him as he crosses and then walks down the street, experiencing, for the first time, life outside the house. This moment comes as a surprise not only to Chance, but also to the viewer. During the film’s prologue, we, like Chance, never leave the house with its opulent furnishings, extravagant automobiles, and many televisions, so it is a shock to see that the house is set in a neighborhood full of rundown buildings, abandoned storefronts, and vacant lots where men huddle around trashcan fires. The sequence then cuts to several brief encounters that Chance has with denizens of the neighborhood, including a tough street gang and a DC police officer, before ending with him walking along a median strip with the Capitol building in the distance. The entire sequence is set to Eumir Deodato’s jazz-funk version of Richard Strauss’s Also Sprach Zarathustra, which both provides key moments for rhythmic editing33 and serves as an ironic commentary on Chance’s embarking on a new life.34 While any given element of this sequence can be recognized as sharing qualities with previous Ashby films, there are also signs of Deschanel’s distinct contribution. Natural light is used throughout in such a fashion that we see the day progress from morning to early evening simply through changes in the color and slant of the light. This narrative-based approach to cinematography was employed by Deschanel throughout The Black Stallion (1979).35 Deschanel employs the progression of natural light particularly during the sequences set on the deserted island, but also during the stallion’s first timed run, which begins in the dark of pre-dawn, progresses through the gray of twilight, and ends in the bright light of early morning. Deschanel’s early work also favored the use of silhouette shots at important moments of narrative transition (see Figures 5.2–5.6). In The Black Stallion, much of the film’s first half takes place on a deserted island, where Alec (Kelly Reno), a young boy stranded after a shipwreck, slowly earns the trust of a wild Arabian stallion, a fellow passenger on the same stormtossed vessel. One of the key moments in the film comes when Alec finally convinces the stallion, “the Black,” to eat from his hand. The sequence is shot entirely in silhouette, backlit by the sun as it sets over the ocean. A later important sequence occurs once Alec and the Black have been rescued and returned to civilization. Alec is befriended by former jockey Henry Dailey (Mickey Rooney), who reluctantly agrees to help Alec train the Black, and their friendship develops as they work with the horse on Dailey’s farm. When the time comes to take the Black to a racetrack, they do so in the dead of morning, with Dailey insisting that Alec promise to keep their plans a secret. As they get out of the car, Deschanel again shoots in silhouette, this time in the pre-dawn moonlight. As with Alec and the Black during the feeding sequence, the silhouette here reinforces the close relationship between Alec and Dailey. Deschanel also used silhouette shots to convey other moments of emotional development. A striking example comes early in The Right Stuff (1983). The film’s opening,

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shot in black and white and displayed in Hollywood aspect ratio, mixes newsreel footage and faux footage including the film’s cast and depicts American pilots’ early, failed efforts at breaking the sound barrier. When one of the planes crashes, its explosion marks a dramatic shift to full-color widescreen. The pilot’s funeral is then depicted fully in silhouette, conveying the weight of his sacrifice as the film transitions from a background story of futility and death into the dramatic narrative of those pilots who survived and would become the first astronauts.

Figure 5.2 The Black Stallion: Alec befriends “the Black.”

Figure 5.3 The Black Stallion: Alec and Henry take the Black on its first timed run.

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Figure 5.4 The Right Stuff: Jets fly over a pilot’s funeral.

Figure 5.5 Being There: Lawyers’ arrival at the Old Man’s house, which will lead to Chance’s eviction.

For Being There, Deschanel used silhouette shots to convey a sense of loneliness. During the film’s long prologue, Chance lives in the house of the Old Man, content to work as a gardener and not bothered that he has never once left the grounds. After the Old Man dies, Chance goes on living in the house, even after the maid Louise leaves. Then the lawyers arrive. The first shot of the lawyers, through a semi-opaque pane of glass in a front door, is done in silhouette. The lawyers then enter and, at first

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Figure 5.6 Being There: In a visual echo of the lawyers’ arrival, Chance leaves the Old Man’s house for good.

confounded by Chance’s continued presence in the house, eventually convince him that he must leave. The final shot of Chance in the house is also in silhouette, shot through the same semi-opaque door pane, which mirrors the lawyers’ entry. The two shots, then, serve as a mini-framing device encapsulating a moment of tremendous change in Chance’s life, a transition to a time in which he seemingly no longer has any friends or associates or a place to live. As Chance leaves the house, the departure sequence discussed above begins. The result is one example of the many instances in the film that exhibit an interplay between Ashby’s and Deschanel’s visual styles, styles that work together effectively to propel the narrative and convey some of the film’s prevalent visual metaphors. Deschanel was not the only cinematographer on whom Ashby took a chance and who would then go on to have a successful career in Hollywood. When Ashby hired Gordon Willis to shoot The Landlord in 1970, like Deschanel, he had only two films to his name, both of which were at that point unreleased.36 However, working with Ashby, he began to develop many of the cinematographic techniques that he would deploy later in his career, working with directors such as Francis Ford Coppola and Woody Allen. One of Ashby’s primary visions for The Landlord was that the contrast between the Brooklyn tenement and the Long Island mansion be reflected not only through set design or the predominance mainly of black characters in Brooklyn and whites in Long Island; he also wanted the lighting to be an indicator of the darkness of poverty and the almost blinding brilliance of wealth. To that end, he and Willis devised a compositional strategy that involved shooting many of the Brooklyn sequences in dark rooms with very little light, while the Long Island scenes were shot out-of-doors or in large, airy, well-lit rooms. It was while shooting The Landlord that Willis would

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begin experimenting with using overhead lighting and underexposure (among other approaches) to keep shots dark, techniques that would later earn him the sobriquet “Prince of Darkness” for his work on such films as The Godfather (1972), The Godfather Part II (1974), and Manhattan (1979). At this point in their respective careers, neither Ashby nor Willis had the clout to force the issue when it came to the darkened Brooklyn scenes, and producers at the Mirisch Company were distressed on first seeing the dailies set in Brooklyn, particularly distressed that the actor’s eyes were difficult to make out. Eventually, after seeing some of the Long Island footage, the Mirisches relented and the darkened shots stayed in. Willis, however, would encounter similar resistance while working with Coppola. Speaking in the 1992 documentary Visions of Light:  The Art of Cinematography, Willis described the experience:  “I got a lot of criticism because they said, ‘Well, you can’t see Brando’s eyes.’ There were times, in some of his scenes, where I deliberately did not want to see his eyes.” The two films being separated by only two years (and, for Willis, three films, including another relatively dark film, Alan Pakula’s Klute [1971]), there would seem to be a direct connection between the shooting style that Ashby and Willis worked to achieve in one film and the approach that Willis would take on The Godfather and future films he would shoot. This prefigures the manner in which Deschanel’s approach to filming Being There would continue to inform his shooting style on later films. It also shows how the collaborative process allows for the contributions of multiple authors to the making of a film. The approach to darkness in this case became an element of Willis’s style as a cinematographer, and that element is a key component of the films he shot with a variety of directors throughout the decade. A further example comes in the work of Michael Chapman, whose first film as cinematographer was The Last Detail. Chapman would go on to shoot such films as Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976) and Raging Bull (1980), both of which include elements of the docudrama style that Chapman developed while working with Ashby. This is not at all to say that the look of such iconic New Hollywood films as The Godfather or Taxi Driver was influenced by or a direct result of Ashby’s films. However, in the way that both Willis and Chapman describe their experiences working with Ashby, it becomes clear that the shooting styles that they would develop in their careers saw their earliest expression in the work they did with Ashby. In such relationships lies the vitality of collaboration and its resultant multiple-authorship. Ashby’s willingness to allow young crewmembers such a great amount of input in the production of his films directly affected those films’ look and style. Furthermore, their collaboration with Ashby seems to have provided them with many of the stylistic impulses, as well as the confidence to experiment, that they would return to throughout their careers. In this sense, the type of multiple-authorship that resulted from Ashby’s collaborative approach to filmmaking clearly had a more profound impact on the look and feel of 1970s Hollywood cinema than one can detect by way of single-author, auteurist readings. It thus becomes possible to re-imagine New Hollywood as an era of multiple authors—directors, writers, cinematographers, editors, set designers, and more—collaborating in endeavors to create works of artistic merit. Although such a conception of the era (or any era of

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film history) may seem instinctually obvious, it has proved elusive within most New Hollywood scholarship. Let’s return to the final shot of Being There, this time from the point of view of the cinematography. Deschanel’s hand in the sequence can be detected as clearly as Kosinski’s, Jones’s, or Ashby’s. The shot begins with Chance in the center of the frame. He is bent over, gently caressing a young evergreen tree. He stands up, picks up his umbrella and begins to walk to the right. The camera pans to the right with him, moving slightly slower than Chance, so that as he walks he gradually moves into the right of the frame. He stops with his back to the camera. In front of him is the pond, about five steps away, and beyond that, on a hill in the distance, is the hulking Rand mansion. From this point on, the camera remains static as Chance walks towards and then onto the pond. The angle of Chance’s walk is such that while it looks like he is walking straight away from the camera’s point of view, he is actually gradually veering to the left, closer to the center of the frame. The shot, and the film, end as Chance reaches some bare branches growing up out of the pond and pauses to examine them. But just before he does so, as he is walking away from the camera, towards the center of the pond, towards the mansion, and towards his future, the shot dramatically recalls an earlier one in the film, when Chance is walking down a median strip that leads to the Capitol building (see Figures 5.7 and 5.8). The two shots are not replicas of each other—the Capitol building shot is highangled, from an overpass above the median, and positions Chance slightly more to the center of the frame—but the resemblance is quite close. That both also occur soon after the death of an important figure in Chance’s life and directly after Chance gives his attention to some ailing trees in winter reinforces the link. Much as with the framing

Figure 5.7 Chance walks towards the US Capitol building on his first night after having left the Old Man’s house.

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Figure 5.8 Chance walking on water towards the Rand mansion.

device of the semi-opaque door silhouettes, these two shots share not only a visual link, but a narrative one as well. On each occasion, Chance is moving into the unknown. In the earlier shot, night is falling on Chance’s first day outside the Old Man’s house and he has no idea where he will stay, what he will do, or what will happen to him in life. Yet he displays a remarkable sense of calm. In the final shot, Rand has died and the oligarchs are conspiring to have Chance run for president (a plan of which he appears to be completely unaware). While hints have been given that Chance will be allowed to stay at the mansion, and although it seems that the path has been cleared for him to enter into a relationship with Eve, Dr. Allenby’s newfound knowledge of Chance’s true identity might preclude these events. Thus Chance is once again walking away from the protection of a recently deceased rich old man and into his future, just as calm the second time as he was the first. Deschanel creates a visual link between the two moments, and based on Ashby’s remarks about how much freedom he gave Deschanel to make shot decisions for the film, it seems likely that this is direct evidence of Deschanel’s imprint on the film—as were the darkened scenes that Willis shot for The Landlord or the naturalistic light that Chapman chose for The Last Detail.37 Deschanel’s work on Being There, like that of Robert C. Jones, must therefore be understood within the framework of collaboration. There are several instances in the film wherein framing decisions and camera placement and movement are recognizably representative of Ashby’s decision-making in the ways they echo images and framing from earlier Ashby films. Shot selection also works in accord with narrative in a manner that indicates Ashby’s hand in their construction. However, Deschanel’s contributions are just as discernable. Thus, as willing as Ashby had been as a first-time filmmaker on The Landlord to put a great deal of trust in his cinematographer, he proved just as willing to do so while working at the apex of his career in Hollywood.

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Ashby’s dedication to collaboration and his fundamental belief in the benefits of multiple-authorship is part of what makes it so difficult to categorize his films, and perhaps to canonize them. He so clearly chose not to be the single author that each of his films takes on the personality of his collaborators. However, at the same time, the director’s personality remains as well. Thus each of Ashby’s films becomes, in a sense, an example of filmmaking that allows for and encourages a multiplicity of authors working in dialogue with each other.

Acting Examining the contribution that actors—not only stars—make to a film’s authorship has long bedeviled film critics and scholars alike. Acting is very difficult to measure. Production roles such as writing, cinematography, or editing leave distinctive marks on a film that can be quantified in a number of ways. Auteurists and other scholars may be inclined to credit the director for all the decision-making that goes into those elements of a production, but even still, we can discuss narrative development, describe a camera movement, and notice the difference between a dissolve and a match cut. Furthermore, while styles and industry practice have changed in noticeable, sometimes drastic ways over the decades, so that the elements of these various components of filmmaking are deployed in strikingly different ways than they used to be, the elements themselves are the same: a match cut in 1918, a match cut in 1950, and a match cut in 2015 all resemble each other. Performance is different for a variety of reasons. First of all, acting styles and audience reactions to them have changed over the years. The overt theatricality of Silent-era stars can make an audience not used to it laugh even during moments of heightened sadness or terror. The clipped delivery of the 1930s, the melodramatic swooning of the 1950s, even the intense naturalism of the early method actors can all appear highly affected, even silly, to modern viewers. As a result, it can often be difficult to measure a “good” performance from the past and compare it with the present, whereas one would have no difficulty recognizing, for example, the quality of a Ben Hecht script or the ingenious cinematography in Karl Freund’s best work. The ability to measure those aspects of a film strengthens arguments for their practitioners’ contributions to the film’s authorship. The rise of auteurism has also contributed to the difficulty scholars can have analyzing acting. With its emphasis on film style and narrative, auteurism leaves little room for discussing acting, especially considering auteurists often consider actors part of the mise-en-scène. And there have been no shortage of auteur directors willing to downplay the contributions that actors and their craft make to the auteurs’ films. Hitchcock, Antonioni, and a host of other revered directors have all made statements that, if not denigrating to actors, at least relegate them to being little more than part of the scenery. Recent scholarship has attempted to correct this in ways that allow for a more fully realized approach to acting as authorship. In 2008, film scholar Cynthia Baron and

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theater scholar Sharon Marie Carnicke jointly published the monograph Reframing Screen Performance in which they recognize the overlapping, shifting contexts in which film acting resides. In doing so, and while recognizing that individual performance relies on a variety of contingencies, from actor-director relationships to generic expectations, Baron and Carnicke construct an immensely nuanced argument that “acting is constituted by interrelated actions that create emotional and intellectual responses in audiences.”38 Building on these ideas and others, film scholar R. Colin Tait performs an invaluable analysis of Robert De Niro’s authorial contribution to two of his key collaborations with Martin Scorsese: Mean Streets (1973) and Taxi Driver (1976). Tait’s analysis goes beyond just performance to an examination of De Niro’s input into such elements as script development and dialogue. However, he also discusses De Niro’s overall process—his approach to character before and during the actual acting. Describing De Niro’s approach to performance in Taxi Driver, Tait likens the actor to “a talented jazz soloist” in the way he is able to embrace the themes and concepts of the script and filming, but to embellish them by his own thoughtful approach to performance.39 Works like those of Baron and Carnicke as well as Tait exhibit the ways that performance must be considered an element of authorship. For a director such as Ashby who was so open to the collaborative process behind the camera, it makes sense that he would also welcome the contributions of his casts to the development of his films. During his career and since his death, the term “actor’s director” has been readily applied to Ashby. A somewhat slippery appellation, “actor’s director” has been used at least since the time of D.  W. Griffith in situations where, via some confluence of personality traits, filmmaking method, and dedication to character, a director allows actors some modicum of freedom to explore and find their characters. While the term itself may offer little of substance in explaining a director’s approach to acting, Ashby himself certainly took it seriously. In February 1986, Ashby filed an arbitration suit with the DGA against PSO, the producers of 8 Million Ways to Die, when they fired him from the film soon after the end of principle photography.40 Before the parties finally met for arbitration, there was a series of letters sent, briefs filed, and accusations made in the press. On February 19, Ashby’s lawyers filed a thirty-nine-page brief with the DGA in which they advance in specific and intricate detail their client’s case against PSO. One argument they make is that the production’s ability to procure such actors as Jeff Bridges and Rosanna Arquette was due, in part, to Ashby’s reputation as a director who worked well with actors: Mr. Ashby is known as an “actor’s director.” Ashby is known in the industry for his unique creative approach to the filming of a movie, and his willingness to incorporate suggestions and ideas from cast members and other creative personnel. Mr. Ashby’s films are unique in the depth of character development and in their reflection upon how people behave and treat each other while living and working against established odds.41

What is worthy of note is not so much that Ashby or his lawyers would make the general claim that he was an “actor’s director,” but that they would do so within the

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strict and narrowly defined legalisms of an arbitration brief. Ashby’s being an “actor’s director” was not, in this case, merely a claim for reputation, a marketing gimmick, or a contract negotiating strategy. Rather, it was a central component of a legal strategy by which Ashby and his lawyers meant to salvage for Ashby some semblance of control over (or even input into) the final cut of what would prove to be his last film. While this tactic would, like the entire process of that arbitration, inevitably prove fruitless,42 its centrality to the strategy of arbitration offers unambiguous insight into Ashby’s conceptualization of what it meant to be a Hollywood film director. It does not, however, require a legal brief that was filed near the end of his career to clarify or somehow legitimize the proposition that Ashby was a director who worked well with actors, with whom they enjoyed working, and for whom they often produced celebrated and sometimes career-defining performances. His seven 1970s films drew ten Academy Award nominations in the four acting categories, winning four,43 as well as numerous nominations and wins in other critical and international competitions. As mentioned earlier, Jack Nicholson has claimed on at least one occasion that his best performance came in The Last Detail, while Jon Voight (Coming Home, Lookin’ to Get Out) has stated that anybody who wants to understand his career will have to analyze the work he did with Ashby. Dustin Hoffman spent much of the late 1970s through the 1980s trying to put together any project that would allow him to work with Ashby,44 and even actors such as Jane Fonda and Shirley MacLaine, who did not always understand Ashby’s working process, came to appreciate the performances they were able to give under his direction. Moreover, Ashby worked as well with Classical Hollywood veterans (Melvyn Douglas Being There) and traditional stage actors (Ruth Gordon Harold and Maude) as he did with the many method and post-method actors of the 1970s and 1980s. In fact, many of these actors sought Ashby out, especially after his first two films, precisely because of his burgeoning reputation as a director who not only worked well with actors, but who also drew quality performances from them. In fact, it is likely that Ashby’s career benefited from his reputation as an “actor’s director” in that his reputation was enhanced among some of the decade’s actors who were also becoming highly empowered producers. On at least two occasions—with Warren Beatty and Shampoo and Jane Fonda and Coming Home—Ashby’s reputation contributed to his being hired by those two “creative” producers.45 Another relevant factor was that Ashby was comfortable taking on films that featured quirky lead characters, protagonists who existed outside the mainstream of society and who were comfortable there.46 This is precisely what had attracted Peter Sellers to Ashby very early in what would be a multi-year process of getting Being There made. Sellers saw Harold and Maude at roughly the same time he read Kosinski’s Being There and recognized an attitude and appreciation for the off-beat that led to his contacting Ashby about directing the film, a film that would feature a role unlike any in Sellers’s career. Being There’s Chance cannot, strictly, be described as a comedic role. Chance, in his peculiar way, is more akin to a straight man around whom the comedic happens. Much of this comedy stems from the nearly film-length mistaken-identity gag that Chance, the dim-witted gardener, is actually Chauncey Gardiner, the elegant and inhumanly

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wise, if somewhat eccentric, economic guru. The comedy heightens because Chance is unaware of this mistake.47 Thus it is Chance’s situation that is comedic rather than Chance himself. His actions and speech are comedic only in the ironic sense that the audience is aware that each of his utterances is as simple as they appear, while the characters around him mistake them for something deeper and more profound. So, while Being There is at times a ferociously dark comedy, and Chance’s behavior makes for much humor, Sellers treats the role as a dramatic one. Playing straight drama is something Sellers had rarely done in his career, generally going for comedy or coupling dramatic and comedic elements. His first stab at drama came in the 1960 film Never Let Go in which he plays a psychotic crime boss, a role he took in order to display his dramatic acting ability.48 Perhaps confusing audiences, who had become used to Sellers as one of cinema’s funniest men, the film performed poorly at the box office and received scathing reviews. Writing in the New York Times in 1963, Bosley Crowther describes Sellers’s performance as a “grotesque appearance as a serious and scenery-chewing criminal in this little British melodrama,” in which Sellers “grinds his way through the rubble of a drearily routine plot.”49 The poor reception of this performance would lead Sellers to eschew dramatic roles for many years.50 Sellers’s performance in Never Let Go is routinely described as over-the-top “scenery-chewing,” so it might have been Ashby’s deft handling of drama and dark comedy in Harold and Maude that led Sellers to seek him out. In any case, once production on Being There got underway, Ashby and Sellers developed a close and trusting working relationship in which Ashby allowed Sellers to explore and refine the character, while protecting his lead actor’s eccentric working methods. Ashby biographer Nick Dawson describes their relationship: Chance was a much more difficult character to play than his well-worn Inspector Clouseau, but once Sellers found him, he retreated inside the persona, which in fact resonated profoundly with his own sense of self. From take to take, he would tease out more and more aspects of Chance as he burrowed ever deeper into his alter ego’s psyche . . . Ashby did his best to nurture Seller’s talent and create an environment in which he could give his best. He was in awe of Sellers and let the actor’s placid, unhurried rhythm set the film’s pace. Ashby and Sellers worked closely together, sometimes walking off, deep in discussion, leaving the crew unsure of when exactly they would start shooting the scene.51

Ashby’s approach to directing Sellers was vital to his success in the role. By early 1979, when production on Being There began, Sellers’s reputation as being difficult on-set and his decade-long lack of success outside the Pink Panther films had led to his being anathema to many in Hollywood.52 It has been mentioned already how reluctant Lorimar executives and producer Andrew Braunsberg (a mutual friend of Sellers and Ashby) were to cast Sellers in the role. Ashby’s ability to diffuse that pressure during filming allowed Sellers the confidence to play a role so unlike any in his career. Much has been made of Sellers’s diction in the role of Chance, his clear, clipped enunciation. Dawson, Lewis, and Sikov all discuss Sellers’s process of practicing for

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hours with a tape recorder until he found just the right combination of mid-Atlantic flatness and a touch of the early twentieth-century American upper class. The accent he developed becomes a fundamental component of the character’s appeal and believability.53 For Chance’s character to work, the viewer must believe that he is American, that he is somewhat simple, that he has led an isolated existence in which he was raised by an extremely wealthy man, and that, because of that wealthy upbringing, he could be plausibly mistaken for an upper-class captain of industry himself. Much of why this works is down to Sellers’s choice of accent for Chance. Accents, however, had always been the forte of Sellers, since his days on the radio and throughout his earlier film career. It is other nuances of the character that best display how different Chance is from any other Sellers character and that demonstrate what Sellers and Ashby’s working relationship was able to bring to the screen. One example comes late in the film, when Benjamin Rand dies, an event that precipitates the film’s climax and dénouement at Rand’s funeral, but one that also raises many questions about Chance’s future that will remain unanswered. Throughout the film, Chance has shown little in the way of personal emotion: he does not laugh or cry and only smiles out of politeness, and he rarely gets excited by anything other than the presence of a television (and then only mildly so). Furthermore, he cannot be sexually aroused, and he does not seem to have any discernable emotional reaction to being forced to leave the only home he has ever known. In fact, when Chance visits the Old Man’s deathbed in a scene that will directly lead to his expulsion from the house, he appears only slightly disturbed by the corpse in front of him, and then only until he finds the Old Man’s television remote control, which allows him to watch TV (perhaps displacing any emotional reaction he might be experiencing). At Rand’s deathbed, however, the scene is dramatically, if only subtly, different. Chance stands at Rand’s dying side, holding his hand, along with Dr. Allenby. After Rand dies, Chance places Rand’s hand on his chest and Dr. Allenby says, “He’s gone Chauncey.” For the briefest of moments, there is a shot over the shoulder of Dr. Allenby in which Chance looks up with moist, reddened eyes and says, “I know. I’ve seen it before” (see Figure 5.9). This moment represents Chance’s one display of uncontrolled emotion in the entire film, and it deepens and complicates both his character and the entire narrative. To this point (with little more than ten minutes of film time left), Chance has been something like an adorable simpleton, lovable in his manner of saying the right thing at the right time completely by accident. But he has been a character with little depth, hardly acting or reacting, amenable to the whims of those with whom he comes in contact. With the near crying that comes at Rand’s deathbed, the dramatic irony of the viewer’s acceptance of Chance as simpleton is challenged. To this point, we have been led to believe that Chance is both unaware of and inexplicably unaffected by events in the world around him. The reddened eyes challenge that perception by showing not only that Chance does feel, does react to his environment, but even, perhaps, that he is aware of what is happening around him and is emotionally invested in it. If this is the case, then Chance’s behavior throughout the film must be seen, at least to some degree, as a ruse perpetrated at the expense of not only the people he meets, but the viewers too, who for so long have considered ourselves in on the joke.

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Figure 5.9 Chance’s eyes redden at Benjamin Rand’s deathbed.

It would seem that it was the opportunity to explore just such moments that attracted Sellers and other actors to working with Ashby in the first place. His ability to direct actors to such moments of clarity and insight regarding their characters is a quality that I have referred to on several occasions by quoting many of the actors who worked with him. A clearer insight comes from an intriguing set of transcripts taken from the set of Coming Home. The script of Coming Home went through several iterations from its earliest treatment by Nancy Dowd in 1972, through a massive structural reworking by Waldo Salt in the mid-1970s, to continued rewrites by Robert C. Jones as filming was taking place. Much of the writing process included improvisation-based rehearsals with the principle cast. As Ashby described it in an interview, “What we did during rehearsal, a couple of weeks before we were going to shoot, was set up a tape recorder and have them improvise the scene from beginning to end for about four hours. Then I had that transcribed, and Bobby Jones, the writer, and myself constructed the scene from that material.”54 Some of these transcripts survive in the Ashby papers at the Herrick Library, though they indicate that the process involved much more than simple rehearsals or improvisations.55 Throughout the sessions, Ashby at once prompts his actors (particularly Jane Fonda, Jon Voight, and Bruce Dern) to explore their characters, while also allowing them to vent their confusion about this particular process of filmmaking and their levels of discomfort with not always fully understanding their characters’ motivations. As they go through the process, they become more involved with their characters, more aware of their reasons for following specific courses of action. One sequence in particular provides a striking moment of insight into Ashby’s process of guiding his actors while simultaneously allowing them to follow their instincts until they find the tone they are looking for. Late in the film, a climactic

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scene takes place when, for the first and only time, the three principal characters confront each other at one location—Sally and Bob’s home. Bob has returned from Vietnam a shell of his former self and has only recently discovered, somewhat inadvertently, that Sally and Luke were having an affair while he was gone. It is a difficult scene, with Dern playing Bob nearly over the top as the psychopathic returned veteran. Additionally, it feels somewhat inorganic—there is very little reason for Luke to arrive when he does except that the plot requires it. On top of that, the characters are at their rawest emotional points in the narrative, so the melodrama that has been held at bay for much of the film threatens to overwhelm it during one of its key climactic moments. Ashby was aware of this,56 and Jones has since expressed that if he could revisit the script, this would be the one scene he would rework.57 Yet, regardless of the sequence’s final emotional or narrative success (or lack thereof), the rehearsals for the scene provide an instructive example of how Ashby was able to help his actors find relevance in a sequence that might be more important to the overall film—in this case the film’s ending—than to that particular scene (much like Chance’s teary eyes). The rehearsals, as transcribed, involved the three actors improvising the scene, then breaking to discuss it with each other and Ashby, and then rehearsing again, followed by more discussion. The ending of the film in Waldo Salt’s version of the script saw Bob orchestrating a Hollywood-style, post-traumatic breakdown on the freeway, leading him to take and kill hostages. Ashby later denigrated this ending in several interviews variously as being over-the-top, a cliché of veterans, or having been done before in film, thus he and Jones decided to give Bob a much different ending. During an intercut sequence set to Tim Buckley’s song, “Once I Was,” Luke gives a speech to a group of high school students while Sally and Vi go shopping for a barbecue. Bob, meanwhile, walks down to the beach, methodically removes all his clothes and wedding ring, and walks into the Pacific Ocean, killing himself for a much quieter, perhaps even more dignified ending than a highway shootout would have allowed him. However, during these rehearsals, Salt’s highway shootout ending, while clearly out of favor with much of the cast, is still a possibility. Early in rehearsal for the three-way confrontation, after one take, Dern comments on his lack of faith in the improvisation process and his lack of sympathy for his character, Bob: See the key thing is, and a lot of time it doesn’t happen in improvisations, is that we have got a structure to the scene and once you have a structure then it’s a snap. What’s not a snap is finding the structure especially with method, he’s as method as she and I are (indicating Voight and Fonda). I’m bored with this fucking life, improvising every time and coming up with this pain. I could do it if there was a specific take each time, and I’m trying to get the same specific ideas. But each time when I’m having to search and do things, you know, he’s too grim. One time I thought why don’t I just kill myself.58

At the end of the film, as mentioned, Bob does kill himself by walking naked into the ocean and swimming out as far as he can.

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Later, after Dern’s comment about wanting to “kill myself,” there are more rehearsals and more discussions. During one of the later discussions when Dern is being particularly quiet and Voight and Ashby are talking about Luke’s presence during the scene and the effect it might have on Sally and Bob, Dern abruptly joins the conversation to explain a discovery he has made about his character: I just realized something now. If he . . . what we’re just talking about now, that’s the point when Bob decides that it’s all over. That’s why he kills himself because he [Voight’s character, Luke] could talk him down. See what I mean? He [Bob] doesn’t have any fight left in him. You won’t see me make that decision here, you won’t see it until the last scene when I go. I’m not going to register anything big.59

The point Dern makes here is that if they do decide to go with an ending in which Bob does kill himself, it has become clear to Dern, the actor, that it is at this moment, during this three-way confrontation that Bob, the character, decides to do so. This is a fascinating creative moment to witness, because Dern has clearly been struggling with his character’s state of mind and motivation. Through the process of improvisation, rehearsal, and frank discussions, he is able to come to an understanding of the character, and that understanding ultimately translates to the screen. For, despite what Dern says about not signaling the realization, he does signal it. The moment is subtle (in a sequence that is otherwise rarely so). Luke tells Bob, “I’m not the enemy here. You don’t want to kill anyone here. You’ve got enough ghosts to carry around,” and just as Dern had discussed in rehearsals, Bob realizes that if Luke is not the enemy and if Luke can “talk him down” then, as Bob says earlier in the sequence, he really does not “belong here.” Luke and Sally take “here” to mean in the house or in a relationship with Sally. But Bob utters a nearly imperceptible line of dialogue—“I’m fucked”—as he exhales a deep breath, which indicates that “here” has a much deeper and more fatal meaning than simply the house in which he and Sally live. To the unsuspecting viewer who does not yet see Bob’s suicide coming, the gestures that Dern makes in the scene do not “indicate” the decision the character has made. But much like with Chance in Being There, repeated viewings make clear how in-synch the acting is with the narrative, while at the same time complicating and expanding the narrative. What the script notes show us is how effectively the collaborative style, in which Ashby relies heavily on input from his actors, makes such moments possible. Moments such as these are sprinkled throughout Ashby’s body of work (including his later, less successful films). When thinking about such moments as authorial contributions, it is worth returning to Baron and Carnicke: The dense array of connotatively rich gestures, postures, intonations, and inflections seen and heard in film are the material, intratextual elements that belong to filmic representation in the same way that lighting design and editing patterns do. Importantly, performance details contribute to the flow of narrative information; interpretations about characters’ desires, their confrontations, and

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their choices depend in part on the sense that audience members make of actors’ gestures and expressions (emphasis added).60

Baron and Carnicke here provide one of the most succinct articulations of performance as authorship, not only in their comparison of acting with cinematography and editing, but also in their elucidation of the way that actors’ choices direct interpretation. In this sense, Sellers’s reddened eyes as Chance, or Dern’s barely decipherable “I’m fucked” constitute just the type of “gesture” or “intonation” that “contribute to the flow of narrative information,” in other words, which contribute to authorship. It was in his willingness to create a space for actors to explore and develop such gestures and expressions that led to Ashby regularly being labeled an “actor’s director.” Even the few actors with whom Ashby did not get along often describe how working with him benefited their later careers. Much is still made of the dueling egos on the set of Shampoo. Warren Beatty thought of himself as director-in-waiting and on-set continued his practice of what Peter Biskind describes as Beatty’s notion of “hostile intelligences.”61 In its way, this was as collaborative an approach as Ashby’s, except that it was based on hostility and resentment rather than trust and admiration. But even in such a hostile environment, Beatty saw the merit of Ashby’s more relaxed approach: Hal understood something that I had trouble with, which was the value of passivity. A lot of times people will look at a person who seems passive as a guy who doesn’t know what he wants and doesn’t know what he’s doing. Rather, it’s the value of not pushing it, the receptive potential of directing, allowing things to happen, which is a big gift for a movie director.62

Beatty’s praise of Ashby here can be read as another example of an actor praising Ashby in such a way that allows the actor to take credit for what is inherently good about his performance. Ashby’s “passivity” with Beatty allowed Beatty to be an “active” participant in making “things happen.” This is the double-edged sword of being known as an “actor’s director”: on one hand, the term implies respect for the director who can coax fine performances from his cast; on the other hand, it hints that the director is less directing than he is facilitating the actor’s expression of his natural talent. In Ashby’s case, such a notion allows for readings of his career that because he depended on strong collaborators, he was not an effective director. Thus Ashby, the passive director, dependent upon strong collaborators, cannot be read as an auteur, and so is not included in the pantheon of New Hollywood directors. While it can hardly be said to have been Beatty’s intent to make such a claim, the misperception persists and is perpetuated every time Ashby is “praised” for getting out of the way and letting his actors get to work. Being There, however, seems to have been a best-case scenario for both director and star, as Peter Sellers won a great deal of praise for his performance—including being nominated for an Academy Award and a BAFTA and winning a Golden Globe award (Melvyn Douglas, who plays millionaire Benjamin Rand, won several awards, including an Academy Award, in one of his final roles after fifty years of working in

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Hollywood). And it was not only that Sellers worked with Ashby to develop such characteristics as Chance’s accent, but that Ashby allowed him—as he had with his writers and cinematographer—to bring his own ideas to the making of the film and its narrative—everything from developing Chance’s very precise diction to improvising the moment when he dips Chance’s umbrella into the pond, thereby authenticating the moment for the viewer. So while some have argued that Ashby was a passive director who benefited from the talent of the people around him, there is no question that Ashby was a director able to get singular performances out of actors with wildly different backgrounds and temperaments.63 Yet, in working with actors, however difficult, however reticent to mesh with his style, Ashby had one element in his favor that no amount of on-set disagreement could damage: his active participation in the final editing on all of his 1970s films. As a director, he shot a lot of footage, and he believed that directing a film did not end when production wrapped, but rather continued through the process of working with his editors. As a result, Ashby and his editors were able to construct performances that his actors sometimes might not have been aware they were capable of. In this sense, while his collaborative relationship with actors constitutes another layer of multiple-authorship in his approach to filmmaking, Ashby remains the director because it is he who determines how the many snippets of film—each with its own set of multiple authors—are put together to create a whole.

Editing Ashby began his career in Hollywood as an assistant editor and worked his way up to editor before moving on to directing films. While every film he directed is credited to an editor other than Ashby,64 he took an active role in the final cut of almost all of his films. For his first seven features, Ashby would meet with his editor (who often worked in Ashby’s house in the Hollywood Hills) early in post-production to go over their ideas for the film. He would then give the editor almost free rein: he would not “look over their shoulders” while they were cutting. He would generally give his editors two or three passes at assembling the film, showing each new cut to various friends, producers, or studio heads. Then Ashby would fine-tune the film, producing the final cut himself (generally working very closely with the editor, especially with Jones and Zimmerman). When it came to cutting, Ashby would often spend sixteenand eighteen-hour days for weeks at a time in the editing booth.65 It was this zealous commitment to editing and the concomitant sense of burnout that led Ashby to make the Lorimar deal in which he shot two films back to back. This would allow him, in the editing stage, to move back and forth between the two films in an attempt to maintain a fresh eye and avoid the kind of exhaustion and stress that had plagued him for much of the 1970s. For Ashby, editing was not a job that was entirely distinct from the process of directing. On numerous occasions throughout his career, he talks about “finding the film” in the editing. Whether when directing himself or while working with other directors

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(particularly Norman Jewison), Ashby saw editing as an extension of the process of creating a film.66 Thus Ashby’s approach to editing can be described as collaborative in two distinct ways: despite his past as a top-flight editor and his perfectionist streak when it came to editing, Ashby continually pursued collaborative relationships with his editors; further, since Ashby saw editing as an extension of, or even the final stage of, the directing process, editing also became an extension of the process of working with actors to get the best take, working with cinematographers to find the most effective shot, and working with writers to best enhance the narrative. As a director he had the confidence to allow his collaborators to take various chances because he knew that, with his editors, he would be able to assemble the best of those attempts into a complete, coherent film. Because Ashby worked so closely with his editors on final cuts, it can be difficult to say exactly whose hand is discernable in any given editing decision. However, the opening sequence of Being There bears remarkable similarity to some of the transitions made in Coming Home, both of which were edited by Don Zimmerman. Both films’ introductory sequences provide striking examples of editing finesse in an Ashby film—examples of how he and Zimmerman combine shot selections and performance footage through assemblage into a compressed piece of functional narrative that acts as something of a thematic prologue for the film as a whole. In Being There, the example comes during the opening credits, which appear over shots of Chance performing morning tasks around the Old Man’s house. The film begins in near silence, with only the sound of deep breathing as a slow fade from black reveals a shot of Chance curled up in bed asleep, morning sunlight streaming through his windows. There is a cut to a large television set with a darkened screen; the sound cue of Chance’s breathing tells us we are still in the same room. The television remains blank for several seconds, then there is a click, and the TV’s tube and volume both slowly fade in to reveal an orchestra playing the first movement of Schubert’s Symphony Number 8 (his “unfinished” symphony), a piece of music that will act as the soundtrack to the next few minutes of film time. There is a cut to a different angle of Chance, still lying in bed with his eyes closed, and we can see he is wearing yellow pajamas. This would seem to indicate that the television was activated by a timer, rather than by means of a remote control. This shot lingers for several moments as Chance slowly opens his eyes and gets out of bed. This is followed by several cuts to different angles of Chance in the same room going about what appears to be his morning routine. The Symphony continues to play, and at this point the viewer would have no reason to believe that Chance is anything other than the wealthy middle-aged man that most of the film’s characters will soon mistake him for. Thus far, the sequence constitutes an example of efficient Hollywood continuity editing. As the credits continue to role, however, there comes a cut first to a full-screen shot of the image on the television (the conductor), then a cut to Chance in a garden, still in his yellow pajamas, but now also wearing a protective apron. He waters plants while a working television with poor reception emits a mix of white noise and garbled dialogue. At the same time, the Symphony continues uninterrupted, with no temporal breaks in the music. Ashby and Zimmerman have again resorted to the use of transdiegetic sound as an element of their editing.67 However, unlike previous examples

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discussed, in this case, the music crosses and re-crosses the border of diegesis in the same locale and during, roughly, the same period of narrative time, and thus exists as both part of the diegesis and outside the diegesis concurrently. As is often the case with such uses of trans-diegetic music, the effect, at first, seems merely to indicate that this is what a typical morning for Chance looks like. The viewer soon finds out that it is not a typical morning, as his protector, the Old Man, is already lying dead upstairs, unbeknownst to Chance (and, at this point, the viewer). As the opening credits continue and the music plays uninterrupted, there comes a brief series of cuts to Chance performing other duties around the house, including brushing down a very old, classic car in the garage. Between each cut to a different location, there is a return to a full-screen shot of the orchestra performing on TV. Thus, the editing pushes the dissonant aspect of the trans-diegesis. On one hand, the subtlety of the editing between different shots of Chance is such that it does not draw attention to the trans-diegetic nature of the music. On the other hand, by returning to shots of the orchestra, the film challenges the viewer to recognize that things are not as they seem. The orchestra is clearly playing a recognizable piece of music along a precise timeline. At the same time, Chance is clearly performing his duties along his own precise timeline, albeit one much longer in duration than the length of the Symphony. While the two timelines seem linked because of the uninterrupted flow of the music, it is physically impossible that Chance could do as much as we see him do during the few short minutes that the music plays. However, the film insists on tying Chance’s sequence of actions directly to the grounded temporality of the orchestra playing Schubert. Thus, within the first few moments of the film, by way of precise editing, Ashby and Zimmerman are able to develop one of the film’s key themes: throughout most of Being There, Chance is not what he seems to be to most of the other characters. After another cut to a full-screen shot of the orchestra, there is a cut to Chance back in his bedroom, sitting on his bed much like in the opening moments. He is wearing his apron and holding a remote control, and though he seems absorbed in the music, watching the television intently and moving to its rhythms, he soon changes the channel. A cartoon comes on featuring the Hanna-Barbera character of Mumbly the dog. There is then a cut back to a medium shot of Chance watching the program and smiling. As the film’s final opening credits appear on screen, Chance watches Mumbly’s antics, then there is another cut to the television screen and another change of channel, this time to a national weather report describing snow in different locations. The next shot is over Chance’s shoulder at the TV he is watching, which is a small table-top model, very different from the one Chance had been watching in his bedroom. There is then a cut to a medium-long shot of Chance, sitting at an ornate dining table under a chandelier. He is now wearing a suit with a napkin tucked into his shirt like a bib, and he is eating a meal, presumably his breakfast, while he continues to watch the weather report. In another example of trans-diegesis, the editing has transported us from a bedroom to a dining room and from a pajama-clad to a besuited Chance in an instant, while the weather report, much like the Symphony previously, continues on in an unabated temporal fashion.

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In this opening sequence, which lasts approximately four minutes, no dialogue is heard outside the television and no character other than Chance appears. Yet many of the film’s key narrative and thematic elements are established. There is a man who seemingly comes from wealth, who gardens, who watches television wherever he goes, and whose only facial expressions or body expressions seem to come in reaction to what he sees on TV. In fact, aside from his fixation with television, Chance seems very like the man that the rest of the world will mistake him for once he leaves the Old Man’s house: wealthy, sophisticated, a bit eccentric. Thus the film plays the same trick in miniature on the viewer that it will play on its main characters as its narrative unfolds. That the film is able to transmit these vital pieces of narrative and thematic information via Sellers’s performance, Deschanel’s framing, Jeff Wexler’s sound design, and some intricate mise-en-scène, is down to the film’s editing at the hands of Ashby and Zimmerman.68 Ashby’s strongly held belief that he could “find the film” in its editing would become a problem for him during the cutting of his last four films for several reasons. According to Haskell Wexler, “He was very arrogant about what he could fix in the editing. Rather than try and rewrite it, he would say, ‘We’ll shoot this, and I’ll cut to the reaction of this guy, it’ll be fine.’ ”69 Additionally, Ashby had always believed in helping young talent develop, as he had been helped by the likes of Wyler, Stevens, Swink, and Jewison. During the 1980s, he had a tendency to put his faith in editors who were too inexperienced to work to his specifications in the way that Jones and Zimmerman were capable of. This often led to his having to reassemble cut film and start an editing job from scratch after the work of his young editors proved dissatisfying, adding weeks to post-production time. In fact, while Ashby’s career in the 1980s is often described as having “dropped off,” the truth is that his intense workload hardly lessened at all. Between 1981 and his death in 1988, he shot three feature films, two concert films, and two television pilots. So while the quality of his filmmaking might have diminished from its peak years in the 1970s, his activity certainly did not. The reasons for the decline in quality of his final four films are complex—certainly more so than the picture that Peter Biskind and others have painted of a drug-addled recluse unable to finish a job—but one cause is clear: of Ashby’s four final feature films, three were taken away from him before or during the editing process and cut or re-cut by a different editor.70 A fourth (Second-Hand Hearts) suffered from such innumerable difficulties over its three-year post-production that when Ashby finally handed it over to Lorimar he had “emotionally cut loose from the project.”71 Thus, while the late films can still be said to have multiple authors, Ashby was divorced from one of the authorial tools on which he most relied. Watching these films offers an instructive lesson into how important the editing process was to Ashby’s conception of filmmaking. Most informative is Ashby’s final film, 8 Million Ways to Die (1986). As mentioned, the film was physically taken from Ashby soon after principal photography had ended. But not only did the production company PSO fire Ashby as director, they also replaced his editor, Robert Lawrence, with Stuart Pappé.72 Pappé had no contact with Ashby throughout the editing process and cut the film to PSO’s specifications. The result is a film with little of the subtlety of films such as Coming Home or Being There. It does

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feature some sequences that recall Ashby’s earlier work—he still resorts to long shots in times of emotional depth, there are some fascinating camera movements, and there is an exhilarating opening long take of Downtown Los Angeles and a Los Angeles freeway, shot from a helicopter, that is as technically astounding as nearly any shot in Ashby’s entire body of work. Furthermore, while the pre-production and production on 8 Million Ways to Die do not directly resemble those processes on any other Ashby film, there are some striking resemblances to the ways some of his previous films had come together. The assemblage of the film’s screenplay shared aspects of the writing process with several of his previous films. Like The Landlord, The Last Detail, Bound for Glory, and Being There, the movie was based on pre-existing work, in this case a Lawrence Block crime novel from his Matthew Scudder series.73 The screenplay was originally written by Oliver Stone and, like Block’s novel, set in New York City. When PSO approached Ashby with this script, he was interested, but thought that the New York police drama had been overdone recently, so wanted to relocate the action to Los Angeles. He also wanted to work more of Scudder’s alcoholism and recovery process into the film than Stone’s script included. So Ashby started working on his own version of the script. Although he had sat in on many script conferences in his career, and had made numerous narrative choices on his films, Ashby had never written a script before, and PSO seems to have been uncomfortable with the idea. Without consulting Ashby, they hired R.  Lance Hill to work on rewrites.74 Over the course of the next several months of pre-production, from January to July 1985, two more writers would be hired—Don Edmonds and Ashby’s old collaborator Robert Towne—and Ashby himself would continue writing scenes.75 When production started in July, it was not so much that writing had been a collaborative process (Ashby had hardly met with Hill and was instrumental in having him fired), but rather represented a plethora of competing ideas. So while the compressed nature of the writing situation was unlike any Ashby and a crew of his had dealt with before, the actual scenario of showing up for the shoot without a finished script dramatically resembled the situation of Coming Home, which had won an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay. Ashby believed that with his knowledge of editing, with Towne still contributing ideas during production, and with the faith and trust of his actors, he would be able to fashion a good film in the editing process. His actors believed this as well, and his work with them, particularly Jeff Bridges and Rosanna Arquette, involved similar sessions to those on Coming Home, featuring a great deal of improvisation in rehearsal followed by rewrites. However, in this case, because pre-production was so short, much of the improvising was done a day before or on the day of shooting, and then Ashby would shoot multiple takes of the actors performing their scenes at different levels of intensity.76 After the film was released, a disappointed Rosanna Arquette described the process: “We’d purposely do takes where we’d overact, then calm down and do a take right after that was perfect.”77 Ashby counted on being able to cut the “perfect” takes together in editing. However, Pappé, having no contact with Ashby during the film’s editing, had no way of knowing about this process or of detecting which were the “perfect” takes Ashby might use. Such a lack of awareness in editing the film, according

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to Arquette and others, is what led to the film’s wild, unpredictable tonal shifts and, ultimately, its resultant poor quality. Such complaints could be a case of lingering bitterness—not only did the film perform poorly,78 but Arquette and the other actors had grown close with Ashby during filming and were personally disappointed at his firing. However, Arquette’s description of the process, and how Ashby’s approach to editing might have made it work, closely resembles Jane Fonda’s description of working on Coming Home. Fonda (who was also one of the producers of the film) and Ashby had their differences—for example, they argued repeatedly about just what should take place during the film’s major love scene.79 Yet, in describing the process of making the film and how it led to the finished product, she says: In the end, there were many aspects that made the completed film work. One was Hal’s style of directing: He had started off in the business as a film editor. Unlike other directors with whom I  had worked, he would do thirty or forty takes of each scene, not saying very much to the actors about what they should do differently each time—and he’d print all of them (her emphasis). Then, in the solitude of the editing room, his brilliance would shine like that of a sculptor with clay. He would take a glance here, a sigh from me there, a slight turn of Jon’s head, and would edit them together in a way we hadn’t expected—or in some cases hadn’t intended.80

Fonda’s description of working with Ashby not only prefigures Arquette’s, it also illustrates in succinct fashion the importance of editing to Ashby’s overall filmmaking strategy.81 On each film, he knew he was following a screenplay, and he knew he was dependent on his cinematographers for ideas and execution of framing and camera movements. Furthermore, he relied on his actors to work with him to interpret their characters in ways that meshed with his narrative and thematic impulses. Finally, he trusted his editors to follow their instincts in assembling the film. However, even with all this in mind, Ashby never saw the film as being complete until he had made his own final decisions in the editing room. Whether Ashby could have shaped another awardwinning performance out of Bridges’s or Arquette’s or Andy Garcia’s roles in 8 Million Ways to Die would be pure speculation. It is quite possible, as PSO head Mark Damon argued in the aftermath of the film’s failure, that Ashby’s insistence on improvising with the actors was a “mind-boggling” decision that destroyed the work of two great writers, Stone and Towne.82 It is quite possible that 8 Million Ways to Die could never have been made into a great film. However, in firing Ashby and preventing him not only from editing it, but also from communicating with editor Pappé, PSO did ensure that what was released was not, in the strictest sense, a film directed by Hal Ashby. Because of Ashby’s commitment to collaboration, he was quite deliberate in assembling teams of artists who thrived in such an environment, who wanted to take part in the collaborative process and so contribute to the authoring of the film, from the earliest planning of pre-production, through filming, to the final stages of post-production. Consequently, preventing him from overseeing the editing of a film served to relegate him to the

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margins of one of the vital collaborative stages of filmmaking, and so to exclude him from his filmmaking process. In a sense, then, Being There can be viewed as the last feature film83 to benefit from the full measure of Ashby’s collaborative practice. On one hand, it displays Ashby’s distinctive approach to narrative, including its marginal protagonist and its discourse on politics. It also exhibits recognizable stylistic features, such as its use of trans-diegetic music or its narrative-based editing strategies. On the other hand, the contributions of Ashby’s collaborators are clearly evident as well: Ashby worked closely with Robert C. Jones to adapt Jerzy Kosinski’s screenplay, allowed Caleb Deschanel great latitude in composing the film’s visual palette, directed his actors to memorable, award-winning performances (while encouraging their own individual approaches to their roles), and devised an editing strategy for the film with his trusted editor Don Zimmerman. The work of all these contributors can be discerned in the film.84 In fact, what makes Being There a “Hal Ashby film” is precisely, in large part, its being the product of multiple authors working collaboratively to produce a piece of film art that is at once representative of its key contributors as well as a unified whole. Hence, it has a great deal in common with all of the films that Ashby directed in the 1970s, for as much as any particular aspect of narrative or style might have interested Ashby, it is via his sustained commitment to collaborative filmmaking practice that a true consistency can be read across his body of work.

Conclusion When seen in the context of his career, then, Being There becomes simply one example not only of Ashby’s particular approach to filmmaking practice, but, by extension, a representative example of how that practice opposes the dominant critical narrative that has been formulated to describe and define New Hollywood. Ashby’s own contributions to the authorship of his films were never seen as the distinctive work of an auteur, in part because he was highly resistant to the concept. Also, however, because Ashby welcomed and encouraged the contributions of what Sellors has called the “authorial collective” on each of his films, each film bears distinctive markings of more than just one individual. Thus, as scholars have demarcated the boundary between the auteurs and nonauteurs within 1970s Hollywood, it has been easy for them to accept Ashby’s and the industry’s claim that he was not an auteur and to reinforce that notion by describing his films as too varied in theme and style to be representative of one authorial hand. The scholars are not wrong in this case. However, the over-reliance on the auteur paradigm as a constructing mechanism with which to frame a canon of New Hollywood films and filmmakers has meant that other approaches to filmmaking practice and their resultant films have been undervalued, not necessarily because of the films themselves or anything that might be said about their quality, but simply because they do not fit into a pre-conceived definition of what makes a proper New Hollywood film. However, as this chapter has shown, it was not only Ashby who benefited from the contributions of individuals he worked with, but other directors as well. If the authorial

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contributions of, for example, cinematographers such as Caleb Deschanel, Gordon Willis, or Michael Chapman can be read in the films they worked on with Ashby, they might also be read in the films of the other directors they worked with, filmmakers such as Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, or Woody Allen. In such a reading, multiple-authorship becomes not a variant on the single-author, auteur approach to filmmaking as scholarship has understood it, but, perhaps, a guiding practice that was much more prevalent than has heretofore been understood. Therefore, insight into Ashby’s approach to collaboration and multiple-authorship, while enhancing an appreciation for Ashby’s practice and his films, might also provide a starting point for a fuller exploration into just how vital it was to the overall filmmaking practice of the New Hollywood era.

Final Thoughts: Rethinking New Hollywood as a Cinema of Multiple-Authorship

Chapter 5 repeatedly refers to Being There’s walking-on-water sequence as the ending of the film. However, while this sequence does conclude the fictional narrative, it is not the end of the actual film. The president’s final line—“Life is a state of mind”—is edited to coincide with both the final note of Johnny Mandel’s spare piano theme and Chance’s stopping on the pond one last time to examine some tree branches. There is an abrupt cut to black and then, as the first end credits appear, there is a brief, fullscreen shot of fuzzy television color bars accompanied by white noise.1 There is then a cut to an outtake: Peter Sellers, as Chance, attempts to perform a scene that was cut from the film. A “blooper reel” of outtakes from this scene plays throughout the closing credits. Sellers, lying in a hospital bed in the Rand mansion, repeatedly attempts a stretch of profanity-laden dialogue that was spoken to him by some black gang members on his departure from the Old Man’s house. With each attempt, he erupts in spontaneous laughter. After several takes, he makes it nearly to the dialogue’s conclusion without laughing, but the off-screen giggles of some crewmembers trigger him and he laughs again just as the credits end. Much like the walking-on-water sequence, this postnarrative ending created some controversy. The film received generally very positive reviews, including from Roger Angell in the New Yorker, Andrew Sarris at the Village Voice (who called it one of the best films of 1979), Roger Ebert, and many others. Ashby also received many personal letters from a wide range of Hollywood talent praising the film, including from actress Ellen Burstyn (in which she expresses her wish to work with Ashby), his good friend and colleague Haskell Wexler, and producers Irvin Winkler and Ray Stark.2 But many people involved with the film, particularly Kosinski and Sellers, were quite distraught by the end credit outtakes, which they thought damaged the lingering aura of mystery conveyed by the walking-on-water sequence. Indeed, on discovering the outtakes, Sellers sent Ashby a telex: “It breaks the spell, do you understand? Do you understand, it breaks the spell! Do you hear me, it breaks the spell! I’m telling you how it breaks the spell!”3 Out of respect for Sellers’s wishes, Ashby had the credit sequence removed from some overseas releases of the film.4 However, on most prints the credits with the outtakes remained, and US and European DVD releases of the film today include the outtakes version.5

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Ashby would continue to defend the decision to include the outtakes for many years. Among his papers in the Herrick Library is a long, undated, hand-written letter on the subject. Remarks that Ashby makes in the letter indicate that it was written sometime after Sellers’s death in July 1980, but while Being There was still fresh in his and the recipients’ minds—perhaps late 1980 or early 1981. The letter is addressed to Melvyn Roger, but it is unclear if this is one person or two (possibly Melvyn Douglas, who played Benjamin Rand, and Roger Ebert who had highly praised the film: the letter does mention the recipient[s] having written a review of the film). The letter is an eloquent defense of the credit outtake sequence, in which Ashby answers not only criticisms of the letter’s recipient(s), but also of others who had taken issue with his choice about how to end the film. At one point, he seems to be answering Sellers’s angry telex when he writes about his decision: Most certainly the first question I asked was does it pull you out of the film? Does it break the spell? Big question when you’ve put so much work into the preceding two hours of film . . . In the end, I  felt, and still do, most strongly, they do not hurt. They do in fact accomplish what I wanted, which I will explain further in a moment. If BEING THERE—the whole film wasn’t strong enough to over-shadow any end credits, no matter what they were, then it wouldn’t or couldn’t be much of a film.6

Throughout the letter (it is ten hand-written pages), he returns to the argument that if the short credit sequence could actually ruin the film, then the film itself must not have been very good. He defends his position from several vantage points, making intriguing comments about the film being “just a film,” about offering the audience a playful moment, and about pulling back the curtain on Sellers’s performance so that viewers might see “the man, the character, the actor, all at once.” Thus, for Ashby, including the outtakes clearly was not meant as a gimmick, an attempt, as Sellers’s biographer Ed Sikov describes it, to “get some easy laughs.”7 Rather, there were several interconnected reasons why Ashby chose to insert the outtakes and why he chose to keep them in most prints of the film.8 An intriguing moment in the letter comes when Ashby makes a point that sheds light not so much on how he conceived of film as a medium, but on his thinking about the filmmaking process. He describes going to the same cinema every night for a week to watch the film with a paying audience: “for one full week of watching I never saw one—not ever one—person leave the theater during the new end credits . . . I’d never had a situation where they all stayed right through and seemed to be having a good time.” This phenomenon comes across as remarkable to Ashby who is well aware that audiences do not generally stay through the credits, at least not all the way to the end. Nestled in this section of the letter are a few highly informative statements in which Ashby explains his delight at this reception: End credits are meant to be informative—and these were provocatively so, in many ways. I’m not sure how many read the credits this way, but I do know they are attentive. They watch, listen, laugh, and enjoy them . . . While you are learning

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about who all those people are that helped make the film, you are able to watch this wonderful man who created that fantastic character of Chance (emphasis added).9

While Ashby is comfortable making an argument about “film as film,” and happy to offer the audience the “gift” of watching Sellers’s uncontrollable laughter, he is also, finally, clearly pleased to have found a way to entice the audience to stay and learn about “all those people that helped make the film.” Such a motivation reinforces a depiction of Ashby as collaborator, as a practitioner of multiple-authorship filmmaking. In a sense, in overriding his star’s desire to have the outtakes removed, Ashby is exercising his control as director, but he is also making an explicit statement about film as a collective, collaborative medium. As I have pointed out and discussed at length, Ashby was open about his collaborative practice, happy to publically give any and all of his cast and crewmembers credit for the success of his films. With the comedic outtakes added to the end credits of Being There, Ashby and editor Don Zimmerman actually build that philosophy into the structure of the film. However, an artist’s belief in a particular approach to his practice does not require critics and scholars to accept that approach. In analyzing Ashby, his practice, and his films by way of multiple-authorship, it is worth asking what benefit this might have to film scholarship, or to an understanding of the filmmaker, his films, the era, or the contemporary filmmakers and their films that were produced in the same industrial and cultural milieu within which Ashby was working. There are at least three benefits that come from examining Ashby in this way. First, it provides a better understanding of Ashby’s artistry as a filmmaker. As Chapters 1 and 2 illustrate, New Hollywood scholarship has been so dominated by a single-authorship comprehension of the auteur that the films of Ashby and filmmakers like him who do not conform to that paradigm have received little sustained critical analysis. Yet as Chapter 3 clearly demonstrates, Ashby was a thoughtful filmmaker who conceived of the films he directed as works of popular art that could grapple with complex personal and political themes in ways to which audiences could relate. Thematically, his films continually pushed the boundaries of the issues that popular Hollywood films could address and the manner in which they could address them. Some of these themes conform to the current scholarly definitions of what makes a New Hollywood film, but in some key ways, Ashby’s approach is very different. Analyzing those differences might complicate our understanding of New Hollywood, but it will also broaden and enrich that understanding. Stylistically, Ashby had a concrete set of cinematic and editorial approaches to conveying thematic and narrative ideas that can be traced across his work. Chapter 4 elucidates some aspects of this style, and Christopher Beach has written about others, but the possibility that there is still much that can be said about Ashby’s filmmaking practice cannot be ignored. However, if New Hollywood studies continue to be dominated by auteurist approaches to the era’s films and filmmakers, the opportunity to investigate Ashby and his films will remain diminished. Thus, a multiple-authorship analysis provides a framework in which to better understand Ashby’s filmmaking practice and his talents or quality as a director, one that is not beholden to the single-author, auteur paradigm.

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A second benefit of a multiple-authorship approach, as exemplified by Chapter 5, is that it begins to allow for a fuller analysis of the contributions that casts and crews make to the authorship of a film. This is no small feat for while scholars and critics often feint towards recognizing the contributions of nondirectors, there is generally little follow-through. The romantic notion that there can be only one artist of a work of art holds strong, even in film studies where, logically, it seems obvious that the singleartist model simply does not apply. John Caughie addresses this tendency to look for a single artist, how auteur studies reinforces that tendency, and the tendency’s detrimental effect on film studies: “The critical shift which auteurism effected within the history of film criticism can be seen as a step backwards . . . and in a medium in which an aesthetic of individual self-expression seemed least appropriate.”10 At the same time, however, Caughie recognizes some of the benefits that auteurism bequeathed to film studies in its emphasis on elements such as mise-en-scène, camera placement and movement, editing, and other formal aspects of film.11 Auteurist critics—in the early days and today—tend to attribute these aspects of a film solely to the director, which perpetuates the regressive romantic approach that Caughie identifies. Even with this singular attention, though, Caughie finds this focus on formal characteristics auteurism’s “most positive contribution” because of the way it engages “with the specific mechanisms of visual discourse, freeing it from literary models.”12 In other words, auteur studies was one of the key steps towards transforming film criticism into a criticism that was precisely concerned with the film medium itself—the “specific mechanisms of visual discourse”—and not the remnants of literary discourse models of criticism that had so pervaded film analysis in the early parts of the last century. A multiple-authorship approach to film analysis need not override these benefits. On the contrary, such an approach should expand the methodology by which films are interrogated and interpreted. To return for a moment to the final fictional sequence of Being There, it should be clear based on Chapter 5 that one can perform a detailed sequence analysis—based on aspects of mise-en-scène, camera framing and movement, editing, and other formal considerations—that is not dependent on assigning the realization of those aspects solely to the film’s director. In examining the contributions to the sequence from Kosinski, Jones, Deschanel, Sellers, Ashby, Zimmerman, and others, a strict adherence to traditional methods of formal analysis can be maintained. At the same time, however, the opportunity for a more nuanced, dialogic approach to analysis also presents itself. If one takes the time to, for instance, trace Caleb Deschanel’s authorial contributions to the other films he has worked on as well as tracing Ashby’s own authorial contributions, one then has the ability to find within Being There the ways in which the stylistic concerns of those two individual authors work in unison with each other—sometimes fluidly, sometimes, perhaps, with a certain amount of tension. A perception of this type of dialogic relationship can only serve to enrich any instance of film analysis. Thus, a multiple-authorship approach allows film scholars to continue to benefit from various methodologies of film analysis (and, it must be said, film theory) without being constrained by a somewhat unrealistic reliance on a single-author model that binds a film’s creation or its quality to an individual artist.

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A third benefit of a multiple-authorship approach is an extension of the previous two: it allows for a more specific and detailed tracing of the formal and stylistic tendencies of nondirectors across their own bodies of work. For example, in the 2009 documentary film No Subtitles Necessary: László & Vilmos, Leonard Maltin says of the Hungarian-American cinematographers László Kovács and Vilmos Zsigmond that without them, “the American New Wave of the late 1960s and ‘70s wouldn’t have flowered as it did.” In the same film, cinematographer Ellen Kuras, who has worked with Spike Lee, Martin Scorsese, Jonathan Demme, and Michele Gondry, goes even further in describing the two as having “changed the face of American cinema.” If such statements can be said to be true, even partially, it is up to scholarship to analyze them in greater detail. Generally, directors are said to have been the great creative impetus behind the New Hollywood era, when Kovács and Zsigmond are recognized as having done their best work.13 Maltin and Kuras, however, present an argument that it was, in fact, at least partially the work of cinematographers that defined the era’s stylistic innovation. The auteur model would demand that we look at films such as Targets (Peter Bogdanovich 1968), Easy Rider (Dennis Hopper 1969), Five Easy Pieces (Bob Rafelson 1970), and Shampoo (Hal Ashby 1975) as the products of their individual directors.14 However, a multiple-authorship model allows for analysis of these films based on the authorial contributions of Kovács, who shot all four of them. Interrogating Kovács’s stylistic contributions to these key films of the era is one step towards addressing the validity of the claims by Maltin, Kuras, and others,15 thus providing a more comprehensive critical understanding of how authorship in the New Hollywood era actually functioned. If such an approach can be applied to Kovács, it can be applied to other potential authors as well: cinematographers, writers, editors, set designers, producers, and performers, among other possibilities. For instance, if New Hollywood films continue to be understood to concern such themes as alienation, cynicism, or loneliness, it makes sense to look to the writers who developed those themes—writers such as Robert Towne, Paul Schrader, or John Milius—and attempt to discern the traces of their authorship. With such a project underway, scholarship has the opportunity to apply a more rigorous methodology to analyzing the contributions of these authors, and in doing so can begin to develop a richer understanding of the films of so-called auteurs. For, just as the dialogic relationship between Ashby and cinematographer Caleb Deschanel might produce different stylistic results than the one between Ashby and László Kovács, so might the differing relationships between Martin Scorsese and cinematographers such as Kovács or Michael Chapman also produce different results. Thus our understanding of films directed by Scorsese and other directors of the era, and, in the end, our understanding of the era itself will be enriched by way of a multiple-authorship reading. It is one hope of this work that other researchers will be enticed to apply such a model of analysis to the various films of the era and their authors. However, returning to Ashby, to come to a fuller comprehension of the films he directed, it is necessary to understand them as collaborative, multiple-authored works of art. He saw them as such while making them, promoted them as such afterwards, and in the case of Being

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Authoring Hal Ashby

There, formulated the argument—with the closing-credit sequence—via the medium of the film itself. Once the ferocity of his commitment to collaborative practice is clear, it becomes more readily evident why and how a filmmaker such as Ashby does not fit into the narrative that has been constructed about 1970s Hollywood as an era of directors’ cinema, an epoch of the auteur. Furthermore, on examining the catalogue of all those with whom Ashby collaborated—Gordon Willis, László Kovács, Haskell Wexler, Robert Towne, Jack Nicholson, Lee Grant, Jane Fonda, Warren Beatty, Peter Sellers, and so many more—and investigating how those individuals repeated or extended their work with Ashby in other films of the decade—films by such directors as Coppola, Scorsese, Allen, Polanski, and many others—the question arises of how accurate it is to describe New Hollywood strictly as a cinema of the auteur. Certainly many of these filmmakers had distinctive visions and attempted to convey those visions on film. Approaching these films via the auteurist emphasis on such stylistic elements as miseen-scène, framing, and camera movement, or such narrative elements as ambiguity, open endings, and cynicism can be instructive. There is no need to discard or abandon the ways that the auteurist paradigm demands we analyze film. However, building such analysis on a multiple-authorship framework offers a more instructive method for examining and understanding the films of the era and just what makes them so distinctive when compared with films from other moments in Hollywood history. Returning to and re-evaluating a filmmaker such as Ashby is edifying in part because his films are so rich with stylistic and thematic depth. Furthermore, expanding the context within which New Hollywood is studied to include a broader conceptualization of authorship will give film scholarship a more multifaceted understanding of what makes the era’s films so distinctive. In this light, Ashby and his films can be regarded as a set of exceptions that disprove the rule—or at least challenge it in fundamental ways. Where scholarship that has dealt with Ashby has attempted, rather unsuccessfully, to force him into the box of New Hollywood, single-author filmmaking, it would prove more fruitful to change the parameters of the box. With Ashby and his films as an example, it is time to begin a re-evaluation of New Hollywood. It will no longer suffice to view it as an era of auteur directors who were singly responsible for their films. Rather, it is time to explore how New Hollywood—like all eras of Hollywood history—comprises the films of multiple authors, working collaboratively to create movies in which all their individual visions can be detected, but in which—in the best of them—those visions come together in the service of a greater whole.

Notes Introduction 1 See below for a longer discussion of the unsettled dating of New Hollywood. 2 A brief list of key titles would include: David A. Cook, Lost Illusions: American Cinema in the Shadow of Watergate and Vietnam 1970–1979 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: UC Press, 2000); Thomas Elsaesser, Alexander Horwath, and Noel King (eds), The Last Great American Picture Show: New Hollywood Cinema in the 1970s (Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 2004); Lester D. Friedman (ed.), American Cinema of the 1970s: Themes and Variations (New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 2007); Mark Harris, Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood (London: Penguin Books, Ltd., 2008); Peter Krämer, The New Hollywood: From Bonnie and Clyde to Star Wars (London: Wallflower Press, 2005); and Peter Lev, American Films of the 70s: Conflicting Visions (Austin: UTexas Press, 2000). 3 Recent and emerging scholarship on multiple or collaborative authorship includes the following texts among others: Sondra Bacharach and Deborah Tollefsen, “ ‘We’ Did It: From Mere Contributors to Coauthors,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 68, no. 1 (2010): 23–32; Robert L. Carringer, “Collaboration and Concepts of Authorship,” PMLA 16, no. 2 (2001): 370–379; Paisley Livingston, Cinema, Philosphy, Bergman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Alan Lovell and Gianluca Sergi, Making Films in Contemporary Hollywood (London: Hodder Arnold, 2005); C. Paul Sellors, Film Authorship: Auteurs and Other Myths (London: Wallflower, 2010); Christy Mag Uidhir, “Minimal Authorship (of sorts),” Philosophical Studies: An International Journal for Philosophy in the Analytic Tradition 154, no. 3 (2011): 373–387. 4 For more on the particular ways the different studios were handled by and responded to these corporations, see Douglas Gomery, The Hollywood Studio System: A History (London: BFI, 2005) and Paul Monaco, The Sixties: 1960–1969 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001). 5 For example, advances in synch sound camera technology, the Steadicam, the rapid development of advanced sound production and exhibition by Dolby and others, the increased use of flatbed editing equipment, and the many massive developments in special effects technology. 6 While most texts about 1970s cinema—New Hollywood or otherwise—explore the roots of these many influences, Cook’s Lost Illusions is especially detailed in its recounting of the many trends that shaped the era. 7 A few examples might include films directed by Martin Scorsese (New York, New York 1977), Michael Cimino (Heaven’s Gate 1980), William Friedkin (Sorcerer 1977 and Cruising 1980), and Francis Ford Coppola (One from the Heart 1981). 8 Peter Krämer, The New Hollywood, 2. 9 Peter Lev, American Films of the 70s, xviii.

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10 For more on Diller’s success in refashioning Paramount as a leaner, more blockbusteroriented studio (albeit with the occasional art film), see Gomery, The Hollywood Studio System, 229–231. 11 One irony of this is that Keathley’s essay is specifically about the Vietnam War’s legacy of paralysis, what he calls a “Post-traumatic” cinema in which the protagonist realizes “his own inability to act” (Christian Keathley, “Trapped in the Affectation Image: Hollywood’s Post-traumatic Cycle (1970–1976),” in The Last Great American Picture Show, ed. Thomas Elsaesser, Alexander Horwath, and Noel King, 293–309). Coming Home features as one of its main protagonists a partially paralyzed Vietnam veteran, but to Keathley, this merits no elaboration. 12 Shampoo does appear on one of Krämer’s lists in the appendix; it is not, however, mentioned explicitly in the text. 13 This is particularly noteworthy considering that most of the existent writing on Ashby discusses Coming Home as a Vietnam War film. 14 Lev describes his approach as a “dialogue [that] passes through both aesthetics and ideology” (Lev, American Films of the 70s, xi). 15 Keathley, “Trapped in the Affectation Image,” 296. 16 Thomas Elsaesser, “The Pathos of Failure: American Films in the 1970s: Notes on the Unmotivated Hero,” in The Last Great American Picture Show, ed. Thomas Elsaesser, Alexander Horwath, and Noel King, 280, 291. Elsaesser does admit that his choice of films is selective (280). 17 The first edition was published in 1980 when it still was not certain that the phenomenon of New Hollywood had come to an end. In the third edition (2000), Kolker looks back to the 1970s through two decades of American film that he sees as less than exciting. In doing so, he interrogates his own earlier enthusiasm for the films of the 1970s and for the state of American cinema in general. 18 Robert Kolker, A Cinema of Loneliness: Penn, Stone, Kubrick, Scorsese, Spielberg, Altman, 3rd ed. (Oxford: OUP, 2000), 13. 19 To be sure, the auteur concept has had its detractors over time. Even during New Hollywood, when acceptance of the auteur concept was arguably at its most fervent, writers such as Richard Corliss, Pauline Kael, and Graham Petrie challenged the notion’s logic and its rigidity of application in a variety of scholarly and popular pieces. Writing soon after the end of New Hollywood, Noël Carroll described the influence of the auteur concept on the era’s films as a “catastrophe” in his article “The Future of Allusion: Hollywood in the Seventies (and Beyond)” (81). However, while it has accommodated some of this criticism, the overriding set of assumptions that provides the framework for the concept of the auteur has generally been resistant to most of its critics’ arguments. 20 To be clear, the Cahiers critics did not initiate the concept that directors were the primary—or even sole—artistic force in filmmaking. Directors such as D. W. Griffith, Charlie Chaplin, Erich von Stroheim, and F. W. Murnau, and the critics who wrote about them had advanced a variety of claims to directorial sole authorship (e.g., Griffith’s well-known 1913 advertisement in the New York Dramatic Mirror claiming credit for “all great Biograph successes”). However, while this discourse had been percolating for decades, its articulation in the pages of Cahiers du Cinema throughout the 1950s and 1960s certainly reinvigorated it with a focus that earlier iterations had not sustained.

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21 Christopher Beach’s The Films of Hal Ashby (Detroit: Wayne State UP, 2009) wrestles with the question of whether Ashby belongs among the pantheon of New Hollywood auteurs. 22 Robert Stam, Film Theory: An Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), 90. 23 Richard Corliss, “Notes on a Screenwriter’s Theory 1973,” in Auteurs and Authorship: A Film Reader, ed. Barry Keith Grant (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2008), 140–147. 24 Graham Petrie, “Alternatives to Auteurs,” in Auteurs and Authorship, ed. Barry Keith Grant, 110–118. 25 Lovell and Sergi, Making Films in Contemporary Hollywood, 113. 26 For an example of this approach applied to a New Hollywood auteur, see Robert Self ’s “Robert Altman and the Theory of Authorship,” Cinema Journal 25, no. 1 (1985). 27 Carringer, “Collaboration and Concepts of Authorship,” 377–378. 28 For more on the use of “utterance” to describe the outcome of the authorial process, see Paisley Livingston, “Cinematic Authorship” in Film Theory and Philosophy, ed. Richard Allen and Murray Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 132–148; C. Paul Sellors, “Collective Authorship in Film,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 65, no. 3 (2007), 263–271; and Sellors, Film Authorship, 107–111. 29 Robert L. Carringer, The Making of Citizen Kane, rev. ed. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996). 30 Pauline Kael, “Raising Kane” in The Citizen Kane Book, Pauline Kael and Herman J. Mankiewicz (New York: Bantam Doubleday Dell, 1974). 31 Jack Stillinger, Mutliple Authorship and the Myth of the Solitary Genius (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 178–181. 32 Philip Cowan, “Underexposed: The Neglected Art of the Cinematographer,” Journal of Media Practice 13, no. 1 (2012): 81–90. 33 The concept of the dialogic relationship between an artist, his art, and his audience— which stems from the work of Mikhail Bakhtin—is one I return to occasionally. In short, the “dialogic” represents the constant possibility of a multiplicity of meaning brought about by the existence, not only of language, but also of more than one level of language operating at any given time. For Bakhtin, this resulted from an interplay of “voices,” including those of author, narrator, and character. Martin Flanagan’s 2009 monograph Bakhtin and the Movies: New Ways of Understanding Hollywood Film goes into much greater detail than I can here about the applicability of Bakhtin’s ideas to film studies.

Chapter 1 1 Lester D. Freidman, “Introduction: Movies of the 1970s,” in American Cinema of the 1970s, ed. Lester D. Friedman, 23. 2 David A. Cook, Lost Illusions, 1. 3 In a 1959 essay titled “The New Hollywood: Myth and Anti-Myth,” Robert Brustein writes: “[i]t would seem then that Hollywood is making room among its old formulas for radical new developments; it would seem also that the film-makers are beginning to assume attitudes toward their products which, twenty years ago, they would have considered visionary and impractical” (Robert Brustein, “The New Hollywood: Myth and Anti-Myth,” Film Quarterly 12, no. 3 [1959]: 23).

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4 See, for instance, David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson, The Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style & Mode of Production to 1960 (London: Routledge, 1985); Cook, Lost Illusions (2000). 5 The full title of the case is: United States v. Paramount Pictures, Inc., 334 US 131. 6 Bordwell, Staiger, and Thompson, The Classical Hollywood Cinema, 335. 7 Ibid., 400. 8 Murray Smith, “Theses on the Philosophy of Hollywood History,” in Contemporary Hollywood Cinema, ed. Steve Neal and Murray Smith (London: Routledge, 1998), 7. 9 David Welky, The Moguls and the Dictators: Hollywood and the Coming of World War II (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 2008). 10 Matthew Belloni, “De Havilland Lawsuit Resonates through Hollywood,” Reuters, August 23, 2007, http://www.reuters.com/article/industryNews/ idUSN2329585820070824 (accessed May 18, 2009). 11 Of particular importance was the influence of French New Wave cinema. It made a profound impression, stylistically, on many Hollywood directors of the late 1960s and 1970s. Furthermore, due to the close relationship between French critics and New Wave filmmakers, and the incorporation of both into American university film programs, the French New Wave’s influence dramatically widened the reach of the concept of the auteur among American filmmakers. This would have a transformative effect on Hollywood’s and the public’s conception of what a director was. 12 The SAG strike in March 1960 was the first industry-wide strike by the union and concerned payment of residual fees to actors from profits of theatrical-release films broadcast on television. SAG won a “guarantee that actors would share 6 percent of the producers’ net revenues from the sale of a given film’s rights for telecast.” Additionally, the studios agreed to pay SAG $2.25 million dollars to set up a healthcare plan for members (Monaco, The Sixties: 1960–1969, 18). 13 Bordwell, Staiger, and Thompson, The Classical Hollywood Cinema, 320–322, 332–335. 14 Monaco, P., The Sixties, 24. 15 Ibid., 33. 16 Quoted in Michael Pye and Linda Myles, The Movie Brats: How the Film Generation Took Over Hollywood (New York: Rinehart, 1979), 9. 17 Even with this rampant suspicion, there was an acknowledged distinction between the corporate presidents who owned the studios, and the men they appointed to run them. Many studio heads and producers—at both the studios and the many new production companies—were known for their affinities for “creating art” (along with making money), from Evans and Calley to Bert Schneider among many others. 18 A Decade under the Influence, DVD, directed by Ted Demme and Richard LaGravanese (New Video Group, 2003). 19 Monaco, P., The Sixties, 2. As with other dates during the period, scholars differ as to when, exactly, this era of transition occurred, with Thomas Schatz staking out 1956–1965, David Cook placing it from 1952–1965, and so on. While the dates vary slightly, each period roughly encompasses the early fallout of the Paramount Decree through the takeover of Paramount by Gulf + Western. 20 Peter Biskind, Easy Riders, Raging Bulls: How the Sex-Drugs-and-Rock ‘N’ Roll Generation Saved Hollywood (New York: Touchstone, 1998), 171. 21 These jobs included work at a soda fountain and a button factory, occasional spots on the mid-1950s TV show, People Are Funny, and a stint as a road companion and

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23 24

25 26

27

28 29

30

31

32 33

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“secretary-cum-manager” to Sammy Davis, Jr., in his pre Rat Pack days. Nick Dawson, Being Hal Ashby: Life of a Hollywood Rebel (Lexington: UP Kentucky, 2009), 34–40. The most difficult hurdle Ashby had to face in becoming an editor was in joining the union. Like many of the Hollywood unions of the day, one could not join without experience on a union film, but one could not get such experience without being a member of the union or without having a prominent editor vouch for him (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, p. 34). Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 33. The first film on which Ashby worked as an (uncredited) assistant editor was Josef Shaftel’s B-Western The Naked Hills (1956). The first film for which he received an assistant editor’s credit was William Wyler’s The Big Country (1958). Scott Berg (1985), “Directed by William Wyler,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 121. Jeff Wexler, email message to the author, April 6, 2009. Wexler’s earliest film credit is as a “production assistant” on Harold and Maude. He worked in the sound department on the rest of Ashby’s films, working his way up to sound mixer (head of the sound department) by the time of Coming Home, a position he would hold on the rest of Ashby’s films. He has subsequently worked as sound mixer on films by David Fincher (Fight Club [1999]) and Cameron Crowe (Almost Famous [2000]) among many others. Gary Crowdus and Richard Porton, “The Importance of a Singular, Guiding Vision: An Interview with Arthur Penn,” Cineaste 22, no. 2, 1993, (accessed September 17, 2011), http://www.cineaste.com/articles/the-importance-of-a-singular-guidingvision-an-interview-with-arthur-penn-web-exclusive. David Cook, Lost Illusions, 157. This is not to say that other directors of the era depended on collaboration any less than did Ashby, only that he was most consistently vocal in his celebration of that type of working relationship, and least likely to declare himself an auteur no matter what the benefit. Specifically, The Cincinnati Kid (1965); The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming (1966); In the Heat of the Night (1967); The Thomas Crown Affair (1968), on which he also served as associate producer; Gaily, Gaily (1969), on which he served as editorial consultant and associate producer. The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming grossed nearly $8 million and was the fifth biggest earner of 1966. In the Heat of the Night, on a budget of under $3 million took in $14 million in its year of release and would go on to earn nearly $30 million during its extended first run throughout 1968. Haskell Wexler, “Audio Track Commentary,” In the Heat of the Night, DVD, directed by Norman Jewison (1967; The Mirisch Corporation: MGM, 2008). In fact, the elements of Ashby’s style and approach to filmmaking that he picked up from working with Jewison cannot be so easily delineated—in addition to the general philosophical approaches to filmmaking mentioned above, Ashby also inherited a love of location shooting from Jewison and developed the habit of editing to particular music, a trait that would become increasingly important in the films that he directed. Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 80. For a highly detailed account of the dispute, see Dawson Being Hal Ashby, chapters 24 and 25. Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 312.

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37 After battling cancer of the pancreas for several months, Ashby died on December 27, 1988. 38 Hal Ashby, Carbon State, Inc., et al., “Deposition of Hal Ashby,” Deposition, January 21, 1986, Box 98, Folder 1073, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. 39 Paul Frizler, “Hal Ashby,” in Close-up: The Contemporary Director, ed. Jon Tuska (Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1981), 227. 40 This move also saved the film $5,000 a day in transportation costs (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 106). 41 The film was shot by Gordon Willis two years before his work on The Godfather earned him the nickname “Prince of Darkness.” I discuss his working relationship with Ashby in more detail in Chapter 5. 42 Robert C. Jones, who worked on several Ashby films as an editor and writer, characterized Ashby’s tactic of avoidance: “Hal wouldn’t return calls–people would call him endlessly, but if he didn’t want to talk to you, he wouldn’t return the call” (Robert C. Jones, in discussion with the author, January 27, 2009). 43 Jeff Wexler, email message to the author, April 6, 2009. 44 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 113. 45 Ashby and Young would eventually collaborate on the little-seen 1984 Neil Young concert film Solo Trans. 46 Hal Ashby to Norman Jewison, January 8, 1970, Box 38, Folder 389, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. 47 The sequence is highly reminiscent of one from the previous year’s Medium Cool (1969), directed by Ashby’s long-time friend and frequent collaborator Haskell Wexler. 48 More could certainly be said about Elgar’s choice to remain with the light-skinned Lani over the darker skinned Francine and how it adds an additional layer of nuance to the film’s critique of Elgar’s flamboyant white privilege. 49 Another of the film’s many quirks: the opening five seconds depict the marriage of Ashby to Joan Marshall, which took place near the end of principal photography and was filmed by the crew (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 109–111). No attempt is made to explain this oddity. 50 Robert Altman’s MASH, released four months earlier than The Landlord, is generally credited as the first Hollywood studio film to use the word. 51 Frizler, “Hal Ashby,” 231. 52 For more on the marketing of The Landlord, as well as a highly detailed account of its production history, including Ashby’s efforts at hiring not only black actors, but also a predominately black crew, see Christopher Sieving’s chapter on The Landlord in his monograph, Soul Searching: Black-Themed Cinema from the March on Washington to the Rise of Blaxploitation (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2011), 161–200. 53 Robert Evans, The Kid Stays in the Picture (London: HarperCollins, 1995), 169. 54 Ashby wanted Gordon Willis, who had shot his previous film, to act as cinematographer for Harold and Maude. According to Ashby, Paramount continually stalled on offering Willis the position, and when they finally got around to it, he had already been hired to shoot The Godfather (Hal Ashby to Robert Evans, December 1, 1970, Box 31, Folder 289, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles). 55 Ashby to Robert Evans. 56 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 131.

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57 Aljean Harmetz, “After 12 Years, a Profit for Harold and Maude,” New York Times, August 8, 1983, (accessed December 15, 2010), http://www.nytimes.com/1983/08/08/ movies/after-12-years-a-profit-for-harold-and-maude.html. 58 The three films Ashby made with Lorimar (and his own production company, Northstar International) were Being There (1979), Second-Hand Hearts (1981), and Lookin’ to Get Out (1982). 59 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 166, 177, 201. 60 A Columbia released cast and crew list of August 4, 1981 lists Ashby as director and long-time collaborators Haskell Wexler and Jeff Wexler as cinematographer and sound mixer, respectively. (Columbia Pictures, “Tootsie cast and crew list,” memo, August 4, 1981, Box 61, Folder 681, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles.) Tootsie was eventually directed by Sydney Pollock, shot by Owen Roizman, and mixed by Les Lazarowitz. 61 Kenneth Lemberger to Kenneth Kleinberg, October 6, 1981, Box 61, Folder 681, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. 62 Lorimar Film Entertainment to Columbia Studios, October 7, 1981, Box 61, Folder 681, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. 63 By the autumn of 1981, the editing of Lookin’ to Get Out was taking much longer than any party had expected. The film had wrapped in November 1980 and was eventually released in October 1982. After much disagreement between Ashby and Lorimar about what the final film should look like, Ashby eventually ceded editorial control, but the resulting release was not the film Ashby had wanted to make. While researching for his biography on Ashby, Nick Dawson came across a print of the film that Ashby had donated to the University of Southern California, and with the help of the film’s star, Jon Voight, this Ashby cut was released on DVD in June 2009. 64 Peter Biskind, Star: The Life and Wild Times of Warren Beatty (London: Simon & Schuster UK Ltd., 2010), 181. 65 Ashby was nominated for an Academy Award for best director for Coming Home. Perhaps most prestigiously, four of his films (The Last Detail, Bound for Glory, Coming Home, and Being There) were nominated for the Palme d’Or at Cannes. 66 Quoted in A Decade under the Influence, directed by Ted Demme and Richard LaGravanese. 67 Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 143. 68 Quoted in Mason Wiley and Damien Bona, Inside Oscar: The Unofficial History of the Academy Awards (New York: Ballantine Books, 1993), 493. 69 David Carradine, Random Roles on the AVClub, interview by Noel Murray, September 9, 2008, (accessed December 15, 2008), http://www.avclub.com/articles/davidcarradine,2451/. 70 Harmetz, “After 12 Years.” 71 Quoted in Aaron Hillis, “Jon Voight’s Long-Lost Hal Ashby Comedy,” ifc.com, April 9, 2009, (accessed April 12, 2009), http://www.ifc.com/news/2009/04/jon-voight. php. 72 Quoted in Michael Dare (1986), “How To Kill a Movie,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson, 123–132 (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 128. 73 I discuss this aspect of Ashby praise in greater detail in Chapter 5 when examining Ashby’s relationship with such creative producer-actors as Warren Beatty and Jane Fonda.

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74 One noteworthy exception might be Shirley MacLaine, who worked with Ashby on Being There (1979); however, even her criticism is tempered with statements that she simply did not understand Ashby’s working methods. 75 Quoted in Dare (1986), “How To Kill a Movie,” 127. 76 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 108. 77 Ibid., 155. 78 Jeff Wexler, email to the author, March 21, 2009. 79 Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 187. 80 Ibid., 215. 81 L. Andrew Stone to Hal Ashby, November 27, 1985, Box 12, Folder 116, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. 82 Tay Garnett (1977), “Hal Ashby,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 55. 83 In fact, before making The Last Detail, Ashby had been in talks with Nicholson about two other films. The first was an adaptation of Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which Ashby spent several months working on with Kesey, only to see both of them drop out, ironically, over the studio’s reluctance to cast Nicholson (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 134, 145). Ashby and Nicholson also had plans to film a remake of The Postman Always Rings Twice (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 134), a film that was eventually directed in 1981 by Bob Rafelson and produced by Ashby’s Northstar International production company. 84 At the opposite extreme, Ashby’s decision to hire young, unproven editors on his films Second-Hand Hearts and Lookin’ to Get Out would prove immensely problematic for him (see Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 228–229, 244–245). 85 As an example, Ashby came up with the idea for the ending of Being There—when Peter Sellers’s character Chance walks on water—near the end of shooting. The Lorimar representative on set tried to prevent it, so Ashby took him aside and said, “I’m about to change the end of this movie because I’ve come up with a better one. The studio can’t know about it or they’ll shut me down. This is it, kid. Decide. Are you on the side of art or commerce?” (Michael Dare, “How the ‘Walking on Water’ Shot in Being There Actually Got Made,” Dareland, accessed November 29, 2015, https://web.archive.org/web/20070615135848/http://www.dareland.com/lastshot. htm). 86 For example, Allen’s Interiors (1978) made $10.43 million on a budget of $10 million. This film, however, came between Annie Hall (1977), which made $38 million on a budget of $4 million, and Manhattan (1979), which made nearly $40 million. 87 Between 1970 and 1988, Ashby set up four production companies with the goal of producing his own films and those of other like-minded directors. Only one of them (Northstar International) had any type of success, but it was involved in the turmoil surrounding the Lorimar films. 88 Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 324. This is according to Rick Padilla, a production assistant who worked with Ashby late in his life developing scripts and looking for new projects. 89 Richard Fernandez, (1978), “Cinema Chat with Hal Ashby,” Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 82. 90 In fact, for the editing of Let’s Spend the Night Together, the 1982 Rolling Stones concert film, Ashby devised his own nonlinear editing system, which consisted of sixteen monitors each playing back video prints of shots from sixteen different

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cameras, all synchronized. Ashby would later lend the system to Jonathan Demme, who used it in the editing of his concert film about The Talking Heads, Stop Making Sense (1984) (Jonathan Demme, “Introducing Harold and Maude,” Lincoln Center, New York, February 14, 2008, [accessed December 19, 2008], http://www.youtube. com/watch?v=Co77MXD3TUE). 91 Cook, Lost Illusions, 68. 92 Serpico (1973), Dog Day Afternoon (1975), and Network (1976). 93 Quoted in Don Shewey, “Sidney Lumet: The Reluctant Auteur,” American Film, December 1982, (accessed October 13, 2011), http://donshewey.com/arts_articles/ sidney_lumet.html.

Chapter 2 1 For example, see John Guillory’s highly critical take on the term “canon” in “Canon, Syllabus, List: A Note on the Pedagogic Imaginary” Transition 52 (1991): 36–54, published in the midst of the “canon wars” that raged across American university campuses in the 1980s and 1990s. 2 Andrew Sarris, The American Cinema: Directors and Directions 1929–1968 (New York: De Capo Press, 1968), 25. 3 I include the directors’ names here because they support my contention that best film lists and best director lists both reinforce the auteur paradigm. 4 Describing his vote in the 2012 BFI poll, Edward Buscombe discusses the predominance of auteurs and writes: “There’s one exception that proves the rule; I don’t think Stanley Donen is one of the best ten directors there has ever been. But Singin’ in the Rain is so astonishing” (Edward Buscombe, “BFI ballot 2012,” BFI, August 2012, [accessed August 30, 2012], http://explore.bfi.org.uk/ sightandsoundpolls/2012/voter/644). 5 Much like Rosenbaum, filmmaker Paul Schrader argues that canons have been deemed obsolete and it is his prerogative to resuscitate them. Schrader, “Canon Fodder,” Film Comment, September–October 2006, 35. 6 There is no doubt that some of these filmmakers, particularly William Wyler and Steven Spielberg, have had their status as auteurs vigorously contested at given points in history, but that they have been legitimate subjects of such debates puts them at least in the realm of consideration for auteur status. 7 In addition to its list of 100 Best Films, the AFI has also published several Best-100 lists of genre films and certain film artifacts (best lines, best music). Harold and Maude shows up on two of these lists: as the 69th best love story and as the 45th best comedy. Being There (1979) also makes the comedy list, at number 26. 8 Lucas and Spielberg are the subjects of scores of books. There are dozens of scholastic texts aimed at school children that, for example, discuss the making of Star Wars as educational supplements. While these texts do not necessarily constitute works that contribute to an academic canon, they do serve the purpose of introducing children of a young age to the directors and their works within an officially sanctioned cultural milieu. 9 “Marginality” is a key narrative element of Ashby’s films, as well, which I discuss in more depth in Chapter 3.

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10 Robin Wood, Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1987), 2. 11 James Monaco, American Film Now: The People, the Power, the Money, the Movies (New York: New American Library, 1979), 276. 12 The last of Ashby’s films to have been produced before the publication of Monaco’s text. 13 It must be pointed out that Monaco’s familiarity with the films is at least somewhat suspect: he seems nonplussed that Shampoo would be set in 1968, when the country’s election of Richard Nixon is a vital component of any subtext the film might have. Further, he argues that Bound for Glory portrays Woody Guthrie as a “legend,” not a man (Monaco, J., American Film Now, 277), when, in fact, the film goes to great lengths to show Guthrie’s many marital infidelities and his stubbornness, among other clearly drawn flaws. 14 Monaco, J., American Film Now, 66 and 75. 15 Chapter 3 will consider the political nature of Ashby’s filmmaking in greater depth. 16 Other chapters in Jacobs’s text consider: Cassavetes, Altman, Coppola, Scorsese, Paul Mazursky, and Michael Ritchie. 17 Jacobs disagrees with Monaco when it comes to Bound for Glory’s Woody Guthrie, whom she describes as “unheroic” in many ways (231). 18 Diane Jacobs, Hollywood Renaissance: The New Generation of Filmmakers and their Works (New York: Dell, 1980), 215. 19 Ibid., 215. 20 Ibid., 220. 21 Wood discusses Mazursky briefly in the 1987 edition of Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan, but omits him from the 2003 edition. He does not mention Ritchie at all, and Kolker ignores both completely. 22 Allen, Cassavetes, and Kubrick are special cases, each for different reasons. All of them worked with cast and crewmembers who regularly contributed to the New Hollywood films of the era, and their films share narrative and stylistic similarities with many of those films. And all three have been considered American auteurs. However, Allen and Kubrick kept geographical distance as best they could from Hollywood while still making studio-financed films. Furthermore, Kubrick’s career was well underway several years before New Hollywood began. Cassevetes made most of his films outside the Hollywood studio system, both in terms of production and, often, distribution. 23 For example, see Cook, Lost Illusions, 102–103, 153, 105–107, 99, 108–110 for respective descriptions of the uneven nature of these directors’ careers. 24 Ernest Mathijs and Xavier Mendik, eds, The Cult Film Reader (Maidenhead, UK: Open University Press, 2008), 1. 25 Bruce Kawin, “After Midnight,” in The Cult Film Experience, ed. J. P. Telotte (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991), 18. 26 Ibid., 18. 27 Vincent Canby, review of Harold and Maude, directed by Hal Ashby, New York Times, December 21, 1971 (accessed November 6, 2011), http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/ review?res=990CE7DF1138EF34BC4951DFB467838A669EDE. 28 Despite such long individual runs and the two re-releases, Harold and Maude did not make a profit until 1983, nearly twelve years after its initial release (Harmetz, “After 12 Years”). 29 Ashby’s Being There (1979) is also included as one of the films in this text.

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30 Mark Jancovich has written widely on cult films, offering probing and detailed analysis of the phenomenon of cult films and their audiences. He has not, to my knowledge, written about Harold and Maude or any other Ashby film. 31 Timothy Corrigan, “Film and the Culture of the Cult,” in The Cult Film Experience, ed. J. P. Telotte (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991), 31. 32 Gregory Waller, “Midnight Movies, 1980–1985: A Market Study,” in The Cult Film Experience, ed. J. P. Telotte (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991), 174. 33 Janet Staiger, “The Politics of Film Canons,” Cinema Journal 24, no. 3 (1985): 17. 34 Ibid., 8. 35 Ibid., 9. 36 Ibid., 4. 37 Ibid., 18. 38 Ian Christie, “Canon Fodder,” Sight and Sound 2, no. 8 (1992): 31. 39 Staiger, “The Politics of Film Canons,” 11. 40 Owing to the changing nature of video distribution via such methods as downloading, streaming, video on demand, and other on-line methods of acquisition that did not exist when Staiger and Christie were writing, the nature of these limitations has certainly changed over the past decade. Nevertheless, consumers’ knowledge about which films are “good” and worthy of downloading, streaming, or renting is still highly dependent on the existence of canons. 41 Suggested reading would include the two anthologies: John Caughie, ed., Theories of Authorship: A Reader (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981) and Barry K. Grant, ed., Auteurs and Authorship: A Film Reader (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2008). Also, C. Paul Sellors, Film Authorship: Auteurs and Other Myths (London: Wallflower, 2010), a meticulous dissection of the major permutations of the auteur concept from its earliest days. 42 Francois Truffaut (1954), “A Certain Tendency in French Cinema,” in Auteurs and Authorship: A Film Reader, ed. B. K. Grant (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2008), 15. 43 John Caughie, “Introduction,” in Theories of Authorship: A Reader, ed. John Caughie (London: Routledge & Kegan, 1981), 12. 44 Kael’s response to auteurism, “Circles and Squares,” published in Film Quarterly in 1963, was in part a direct attack on Sarris’s “auteur theory.” See also Sarris’s blistering response to Kael’s “Raising Kane” (1971), which argued that Herman J. Mankiewicz as much as Orson Welles was the auteur behind Citizen Kane. 45 Ian Cameron (1962), “Films, Directors and Critics,” in Auteurs and Authorship: A Film Reader, ed. B. K. Grant (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2008), 31. 46 Ibid., 32. 47 Quoted in Edward Buscombe (1973), “Ideas of Authorship,” in Theories of Authorship: A Reader, ed. John Caughie (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981), 23. 48 Truffaut, “A Certain Tendency,” 16. 49 Andrew Sarris (1962), “Notes on the Auteur Theory in 1962,” in Auteurs and Authorship: A Film Reader, ed. B. K. Grant (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2008), 42. 50 It is probably also worth mentioning that Rivette and his cohorts would later admit to how prone they were to myth-building through provocation and shock statements. 51 Geoff King, New Hollywood Cinema: An Introduction (London: I. B. Touris, 2002), 88. 52 Ibid., 89.

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53 Cook, Lost Illusions, 133. 54 This is reflected in Paul Schrader’s formulation, quoted earlier, that it was enough for a director to walk into a producer’s office and tell the producer that he was lucky the director was there because he was going to make the producer a lot of money. 55 Peter Wollen, Signs and Meaning in the Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1972), 163. 56 For some of Wollen’s reflections on the changes between the first two editions of Signs and Meaning in Cinema, see Peter Wollen, interview by Lee Russell Signs and Meaning in Cinema, Expanded Edition (London: BFI Publishing, 1998), 154–183. 57 Carringer, “Collaboration and Concepts of Authorship,” 378. 58 Stillinger, Multiple Authorship, 174. 59 Ibid., 179. 60 Sellors, Film Authorship, 125. 61 Ibid., 5. 62 Cook, Lost Illusions, 68. 63 The publication of Sellors’s monograph in 2010—a book-length attempt to de-couple the concept of the auteur from the practice of filmmaking—would seem to indicate that the coupling still holds, and strongly enough that it requires such an elaborate investigation. 64 Beach, The Films of Hal Ashby, 3. 65 Beach does call for a “more nuanced approach” to the concept of the auteur that “might recognize several forms of auteurship” (2009, p. 6), including Ashby’s highly collaborative film practice. 66 Quoted in Beach, The Films of Hal Ashby, 3. 67 Beach, The Films of Hal Ashby, 3. 68 There are many examples of Ashby discussing his collaborative approach to filmmaking. In one interview from 1980, he says, “I really feel strongly about film being a communal art. I really encourage that from everybody—to try and get as much creativity as I can from everybody that’s working on the film” (Powers, p. 90). 69 Roger Ebert, review of Being There, directed by Hal Ashby, Chicago Sun-Times January 1, 1980, (accessed September 21, 2011), http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/ article?AID=/19800101/REVIEWS/1010301/1023. 70 As outlined in greater detail in Chapter 1. 71 Jordan R. Young and Mike Bruns (1980), “Hal Ashby: Satisfaction in Being There,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 101. 72 Ibid., “Hal Ashby,” 101. 73 Ibid., “Hal Ashby,” 102. 74 This is but one example of how thoroughly popular criticism embraces an auteurist paradigm. 75 Hal Ashby (1970), “Breaking out of the Cutting Room,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 4. 76 Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 172. 77 Quoted in Beach, The Films of Hal Ashby, 46. 78 David Thompson, The New Biographical Dictionary of Film, 5th ed. (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2010), 38. 79 Glenn Man, “Movies and Conflicting Ideologies,” in American Cinema of the 1970s, ed. Lester D. Friedman (New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 2007), 138. 80 Ibid., 139. 81 Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 142–143.

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82 Hal Ashby, “AFI Seminar with Hal Ashby,” interview by Rochelle Reed, March 12, 1975, transcript, American Film Institute, Louis B. Mayer Library. 83 Robert C. Jones, in discussion with the author, January 27, 2009. 84 Ashby, “AFI Seminar.” 85 Jeff Wexler, email message to the author, April 6, 2009. 86 For his work on The Conversation and Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979), as well as his early work with George Lucas on THX 1138 (1971) and American Graffiti (1973), Cook credits Murch as being “the conceptual and practical architect of what has become known as ‘sound design’ ” (Cook, Lost Illusions, 391). 87 Sellors, Film Authorship, 5.

Part Two 1 In some cases, the primary individuals involved do not recall whether they or Ashby made certain decisions about the shooting or editing of a given sequence.

Chapter 3 1 Elsaesser (1975), “The Pathos of Failure,” 279–280. 2 Keathly, “Trapped in the Affectation Image,” 296. 3 It is important to note that Ashby is not credited as a writer on any of his films (although he did get a post-release credit on 8 Million Ways to Die after arbitration). Thus the protagonists of Ashby’s films are not “his” in the sense of authorship. Rather, Ashby continually chose to direct films that featured such protagonists, so they become “his” in the sense that throughout his career he remained interested in exploring issues of marginality in his work as director. 4 The Last Detail was filmed in 1972 and released in the United States in December 1973, only a few months after the Nixon administration had officially ended conscription. Ending conscription had been a pledge of Nixon’s 1968 campaign, and his administration’s failure to follow through on the promise during his first term had added to already existing public animosity towards the US armed services. 5 Perhaps coincidentally, The Slugger’s Wife tends to be Ashby’s least respected film. It received universal panning by critics and recouped only $1.3 million of its $19 million budget. Interestingly, Roger Ebert’s review of the film treats it almost solely as a product of its screenwriter, Neil Simon, and does not mention Ashby’s name once, a very different tack from his review of Being There, as discussed in Chapter 2. 6 As recounted in Chapter 1. 7 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 120–121. 8 The choice of music for this sequence, Cat Stevens’s “I Think I See the Light,” reinforces this attitude of defiance. And, in fact, many did judge Harold and, by extension, the film poorly based mainly on this sequence. Even before its release, producer Robert Evans wanted the scene cut, thinking it would “repulse viewers” (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 130). Several of the negative reviews of the film specifically

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11 12 13 14 15

16 17

18 19

20 21 22

23 24 25

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mention being appalled by the relationship. And writing over twenty years after the film’s release, Peter Sellers’s biographer Roger Lewis offers: “There can be few more squeamish moments in screen history than Cort and Gordon’s sharing of a post-coital cigarette [sic]. Maude’s wrinkled dugs may be hidden by the bed sheets, but because, with her degree of experience, she’ll know every trick in the book, the film is nothing less than a flirtation with necrophilia.” Roger Lewis, The Life and Death of Peter Sellers (London: Random House, 1994), 604. Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 138. Early in the film, Mulhall, a Southerner, responds positively to Buddusky’s comment about “heading North.” However, it would be in Boston, only a year later, that some of the country’s most vicious fighting over desegregation would come with the issue of busing. Master at Arms, a naval officer typically responsible for discipline. Robert Towne (1973), The Last Detail, in Two Screenplays: Chinatown and The Last Detail (New York: Grove Press, 1997), 214. Penelope Gilliatt (1976), “The Urgent Whisper,” in Jean-Luc Godard: Interviews, ed. David Sterritt (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 1998), 82– 83. Robert Kolker discusses this assertion in some depth in the Third Edition of A Cinema of Loneliness (2000). For instance, Taxi Driver’s Travis Bickle is a clearly an ex-marine, but how much his situation may have been affected by his having been in Vietnam is never made explicitly clear. Similarly, the protagonists of many of the decade’s conspiracy thriller films are often tormented by vague or unnamed corporate entities, but the films rarely make overt or specific criticisms of the corporate world’s growing encroachment into citizens’ personal lives. Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 95. The undated memo is written on a sheet of paper stamped with Ashby’s Appian Way address, a house he moved to in 1970. As mentioned, Ashby’s archives are teeming with long and detailed letters that he wrote in support of various political causes, most of which include the full address of their intended recipients. Whether he would have mailed a memo such as this, in such short form, is unknown. Hal Ashby to President Richard Nixon (memoranda), n.d., Box 88, Folder 960, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. For example, in a letter dated May 20, 1971, Ashby writes to New Mexico Senator Clinton Anderson about the possibility of Hopi land being used for coal mining, which Ashby finds “incredulous,” asking the Senator to take action to stop it. On June 4 of the same year, he writes to California Assemblyman Charles Conrad in support of Assembly Bill 13, “the abolishment of the death penalty for all crimes.” Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 142. John and Judith Hess, “The Last Detail: Beyond the Call of Duty,” Jump Cut 2, 1974, 11–12. Shampoo was co-written by its star Warren Beatty and Robert Towne (who also wrote The Last Detail). In Chapter 5 I discuss the possibility that Ashby made key contributions to the structure of the final screenplay. Lev, American Films of the 70s, 66–67. Mann, “Movies and Conflicting Ideologies,” 141. Bound for Glory, the first film to make use of the Steadicam, was released in the United States on December 5, 1976. Two other films used the Steadicam that year, and

Notes

26 27

28 29

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although they were shot after Bound for Glory, they were released before it: Marathon Man (October 6, 1976); Rocky (November 21, 1976). Ozark Blue is a fictionalized composite of at least two real-life Guthrie friends. The film’s closing credits incorporate an ingenious bit of sound mixing. Several performers, including David Carradine as Guthrie, sing: “This Land Is Your Land” in edited together bits which then blend into a mix of other Guthrie songs sung by performers such as Odetta, Woody Guthrie’s son, Arlo, Country Joe McDonald, and Judy Collins. Aljean Harmetz, “Gambling on a Film about the Great Depression,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 47. Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 180.

Chapter 4 1 Dare, “How To Kill a Movie,” 32. While Bridges comes across as sincere in his praise of Ashby whenever he has been interviewed about 8 Million Ways to Die, his comments here also deflect that praise away from Ashby as a director. This is not the only incident in which an actor commenting on working with Ashby makes such a statement, with the idea of Ashby as an “actor’s director” often seeming to mean he did not direct his actors at all but simply let them shine, unfettered, only to assemble snippets of their greatness in the editing room. This tendency is revisited in greater detail in Chapter 5. 2 As outlined in Chapter 1. 3 Hal Ashby, Carbon State, et al., “Arbitration Brief Before the Directors Guild of American-Producers Arbitration Tribunal,” February 19, 1986, Box 27, Folder 246, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. 4 Ashby, Carbon State, et al., “Deposition of Hal Ashby.” 5 Quoted in Beach, The Films of Hal Ashby, 14. 6 Ashby talks about this process regularly, but most succinctly in his interview with Jordan R. Young and Mike Bruns, mentioned in Chapter 3. I discuss the process in more detail in Chapter 5. 7 Robert C. Jones in discussion with the author, January 2009. 8 Ibid. 9 Motor Only Sync, film to which synchronous sound has not yet been added, often used in the early phases of editing. 10 Jeff Wexler email message to author, April 6, 2009. 11 For example, there are several cuts to Chance standing at the edge of the frame, looking into the scene, but not moving, as if he is waiting for direction. Only after one or two seconds does it seem to occur to him that he should speak or walk into the center of the scene. 12 Of Haskell Wexler, the cinematographer with whom he most often worked, Ashby said: “I try to get as much creativity as possible from every person I’m working with. Haskell Wexler drives some directors crazy because he feels strongly about everything. I love to have him around. He’s my conscience. But in the end I make the decision–to turn the camera on; to turn the camera off.” (Harmetz, “Gambling on a Film about the Great Depression,” 46).

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13 Beach refers to these as tableau compositions (The Films of Hal Ashby, 53). 14 This protest sequence and other reactions to Bill’s death are discussed in much greater detail in the section on music later in this chapter. 15 A statement by Ashby that would seem to indicate that he did play a role in incorporating these shots comes from a 1985 interview with Scott Berg about one of his early mentors, William Wyler. The interview was not published until 2010 (in Dawson, Hal Ashby: Interviews). At one point, Ashby is discussing his opinion on the question of whether Wyler had an individual style: “He always held back, he never hit it on the head all the time. A great example for me would be in The Best Years of Our Lives, which I had nothing to do with, it’s just a film I’ve seen a number of times. When Frederic March first comes home and he and Myrna Loy get together, it’s that long shot down the hall and there is so much emotion to it. He would do that continually, always holding back, holding back.” Quoted in Berg, “Directed by William Wyler,” 120 (emphasis added). 16 This section is a revised version of an article published by the author in Alphaville Journal of Film and Screen Media, Issue 3 (Summer 2012) and is reprinted with the kind permission of the editors of Alphaville Journal of Film and Screen Media. 17 As discussed in Chapter 1, Ashby and Neil Young had wanted to work together since their attempt to use Young’s songs as the soundtrack for The Landlord. 18 Ashby referred to the Simon refrain as an “anti-score” (Ashby, “AFI Seminar with Hal Ashby”). 19 Beach, The Films of Hal Ashby, 123. 20 In fact, United Artists were quite hesitant about letting Ashby use so many different songs in the film, fearful of the tremendous cost. But many of the musicians, being either friendly with Ashby or sympathetic to the film’s message, let their work be used at reduced prices (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 196). 21 I prefer the term “extra-diegetic” for music that is part of the film but clearly not part of the film’s diegesis. “Non-diegetic” is a broader term that encompasses a variety of musical utterances that are not strictly diegetic, including meta-diegetic and extra-filmic music. 22 Henry M. Taylor, “The Success Story of a Misnomer,” Offscreen 11, nos. 8–9 (2009), 123. The succinct nature of Taylor’s definition of “trans-diegetic” has led to its citation by other writers on the topic. Ironically, Taylor’s essay argues that, based on a strictly Platonic understanding, Film Studies has been misusing the term “diegesis” and its many variants. See Allesandro Cecchi, “Diegetic Versus Nondiegetic: A Reconsideration of the Conceptual Opposition as a Contribution to the Theory of Audiovision,” Worlds of Audio Vision (2010), accessed April 28, 2012, www.unipv.it/wav/pdf/WAV_Cecchi_2010_eng.pdf. 23 Edward Branigan, Narrative Comprehension and Film (London: Routledge, 1992), 97. 24 Robynn J. Stilwell, “The Fantastical Gap between Diegetic and Nondiegetic,” in Beyond the Soundtrack: Representing Music in Cinema, ed. Daniel Goldmark, Lawrence Kramer, and Richard Leppert (Berkeley: U of California P, 2007). As the title of her essay indicates, Stilwell prefers the term “non-diegetic” to “extra-diegetic.” Note 21 explains my preference for the latter. 25 Stilwell, “The Fantastical Gap between Diegetic and Nondiegetic,” 186–187. For more on the uncertain nature of the border between the diegetic and the extra-diegetic, see Cecchi, “Digetic Versus Nondiegetic.”

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26 I am relying here on Michel Chion’s definition of “acousmatic” and his articulation and problematizing of the borders between “onscreen, offscreen, nondiegetic” sound. See Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, trans. Claudia Gorbman (New York: Columbia UP, 1994), 71–80. 27 Another instance of the dialogic occurs during the closing credits when the same song plays again, taking on a much different meaning in the wake of the film’s melancholic ending. 28 It is worth noting the exception of the integrated Hollywood musical, where the elision between diegetic and extra-diegetic music has long been a regular stylistic convention of the genre. 29 According to Jeff Wexler, a great deal of music was played on set throughout the filming of Coming Home, but, as is standard industry practice, the actual music in the film was added during postproduction. So it was in the editing of the film that the illusion of the dancers being in rhythm with the music was created (Jeff Wexler email to the author, February 3, 2011). 30 It is not made explicitly clear whether the news report they watch is live footage of Luke, which would indicate full temporal restoration, or filmed footage of Luke, which would indicate that the timelines are still temporally unaligned. 31 In fact, the ways in which Ashby uses music could be said to overlap between narrative and style. 32 See, for example, Jennifer Watchell’s “The Director’s Director,” in which such filmmakers as Alexander Payne, David O. Russell, and Wes Anderson among others discuss Ashby’s influence on their work. Watchell, “The Director’s Director,” Good (June 2008), accessed December 15, 2008. http://www.goodmagazine.com/section/ Features/the_directors_director.

Part Three 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Lovell and Sergi, Making Films in Contemporary Hollywood, 13. Sellors, Film Authorship, 124. Ibid. Robert Carringer, The Making of Citizen Kane, x. Sellors, Film Authorship, 124. Paisley Livingston, Cinema, Philosophy, Bergman (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2012), 77. Carringer, “Collaboration and Concepts of Authorship,” 377. Ibid. This claim seems to echo Staiger’s “ease of discussion” criterion for the perpetuation of film canons. Philip Cowan, “Underexposed: The Neglected Art of Cinematography,” Journal of Media Practice 13, no. 1 (2012): 77. Ibid., 78. Ibid., 77–78. Ibid., 81. Lovell and Sergi, Making Films in Contemporary Hollywood, 14–15. Carringer, The Making of Citizen Kane, x–xi. For a detailed history of this shot’s composition and execution, see Larry McConkey, “Steadicam Operator Larry McConkey on Filming the Goodfellas Copacabana

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Tracking Shot and the Early Days of Steadicam,” interview by Matt Mulcahey, Filmmaker, April 23, 2015, accessed April 25, 2015, http://filmmakermagazine.com/ 93916-steadicam-operator-larry-mcconkey-on-filming-the-goodfellas-copacabanatracking-shot-and-the-early-days-of-steadicam/#.VoQnMFIzDAk.

Chapter 5 1 Coming Home won three Academy awards and was nominated for five more (including best film and best director); it won an acting award at Cannes as well as awards from the Golden Globes and various US film-critic bodies. Additionally, it was one of the top-grossing films of 1978 (depending on how one measures gross, it comes in variously at 4, 7, or 18 on different lists). 2 Lorimar produced several hit television shows. During the company’s relationship with Ashby, its best-known hits were The Waltons, Dallas, and Eight is Enough. 3 Ed Sikov, Mr Strangelove: A Biography of Peter Sellers (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 2002), 317. 4 Ibid., 317. 5 Lewis, The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, 605. 6 Young and Bruns, “Hal Ashby: Satisfaction in Being There,” 99. 7 As mentioned, Braunsberg would go on to form Northstar International Pictures with Ashby, which, in addition to producing three Ashby films, would co-produce The Postman Always Rings Twice (1981), directed by Bob Rafelson and starring Nicholson and Jessica Lange. 8 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 203. 9 Sikov, Mr Strangelove, 357. 10 Young and Bruns, “Hal Ashby: Satisfaction in Being There,” 100. 11 Jerzy Kosinski, Being There (unproduced screenplay), 1978, Box 1, Folder 5, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, 17. 12 Ibid., 2. 13 Young and Bruns, “Hal Ashby: Satisfaction in Being There,” 100. 14 Robert C. Jones, Being There: Screenplay (Hal Ashby’s copy), 1978, Box 2, Folder 11, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, 104. 15 Sikov, Mr Strangelove, 372. 16 Robert C. Jones email to the author, October 8, 2010. 17 Mary Lazar, “Jerzy Kosinski’s Being There, Novel and Film: Change not by Chance,” College Literature 31, no. 2, 2004. 18 Biskind, Star, 185–186. 19 There is no published version of the screenplay. Two copies of the screenplay found online directly match the drafts of Jones’s script found in the Ashby papers. From December 1978: http://www.dailyscript.com/scripts/being_there_12_16_78.html; from January 1979: http://www.dailyscript.com/scripts/being_there_1_10_79.html. 20 Jones’s original scripted ending, as filmed by Ashby, is available as an extra on the “Deluxe Edition” Blu-ray released in 2009. It is not, incidentally, available as an extra on the “Deluxe Edition” DVD released the same year. 21 James Powers (1980), “Dialogue on Film: Hal Ashby,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 84.

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22 Ibid., 84. 23 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 213. 24 According to several sources, once Ashby decided to go ahead with the walking on water ending, he called his close friend Robert Downey, Sr., who had shot a similar sequence for his 1972 film Greaser’s Palace. Downey advised Ashby about a particular type of airport platform, which the crew was able to acquire quickly (ibid.). 25 Robert C. Jones email to the author, September 27, 2010. 26 More American Graffiti (1979); The Black Stallion (1979). 27 J. Wexler email to the author, April 6, 2009. 28 Haskell Wexler shot two Norman Jewison films on which Ashby worked as editor: In the Heat of the Night (1967) and The Thomas Crown Affair (1968); he shot four Hal Ashby films: Bound for Glory (1976); Coming Home (1978); Second-Hand Hearts (1981); Lookin’ to Get Out (1982). 29 Powers, “Dialogue on Film,” 86. In addition to visiting Willis on the set of The Landlord, Deschanel also served as an intern for him on The People Next Door (1970). Incidentally, Deschanel has said that Being There is the film most influenced by his relationship with Willis. See Jon Silberg, “The Right Stuff: Caleb Deschanel,” American Cinematographer, January 2010, accessed March 20, 2012, http://www.theasc.com/ac_ magazine/January2010/CalebDeschanel/page1.php. 30 Quoted in Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 215. 31 Young and Bruns, “Hal Ashby: Satisfaction in Being There,” 101. 32 Powers, “Dialogue on Film,” 86. 33 As discussed in Chapter 4. 34 Ashby would have been keenly aware of the song’s association (in different form), via its appearance in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), with the concept of the odyssey and the transition between stages in life. Thus the song’s use here resembles the intertextual use of “Born To Be Wild” in Coming Home as discussed in Chapter 4. 35 The Black Stallion was shot in 1977 but was not released until 1979. According to director Carroll Ballard, United Artists found the film “unreleasable” because it was too arty. It was not until Francis Ford Coppola agreed to support the film that it was finally released to wide commercial and critical acclaim (Silberg, 2010). 36 Willis’s first feature, The End of the Road (1970) was shot in 1968, but was not released until February 1970, due in part to its depressing themes and a controversial abortion sequence. His second feature, Loving (1970), was released in late April 1970 approximately a month before The Landlord was released. 37 It must be said, however, that while Deschanel’s imprint can be read on the last shot, so, too can Ashby’s. All of Ashby’s films from the 1970s end either with a final shot of the protagonist walking away from the camera or with an over-the-shoulder shot of the protagonist looking off into the distance. The one exception, Coming Home, ends with a complicated intercutting of three different sequences, one of which—Bob Hyde walking to his death in the ocean—also includes such a shot. 38 Cynthia Baron and Sharon Marie Carnicke, Reframing Screen Performance (Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 2008), 232. 39 R. Colin Tait, “When Marty Met Bobby: Collaborative Authorship in Mean Streets and Taxi Driver,” in A Companion to Martin Scorsese, ed. Aaron Baker (Hoboken: WileyBlackwell, 2015), 305. 40 As discussed in greater detail in Chapter 1.

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41 Hal Ashby and Carbon State, Inc., “Arbitration Brief Before the Directors Guild of American-Producers Arbitration Tribunal,” February 19, 1986, Box 27, Folder 246, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, Section 1.E. 42 Technically, the DGA decided in Ashby’s favor. However, he was never allowed input into the film’s editing, and of the $60 million in grievances for which he had filed, the DGA ordered PSO to pay him $550,000. Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 312. 43 All but two of Ashby’s 1970s films—Harold and Maude and Bound for Glory— garnered at least one acting Academy Award nomination. Both those films were nominated in acting categories by the Golden Globes and other international awards bodies. 44 Speaking of Ashby, Hoffman told Nick Dawson, “He was an emotional creature; he worked with what moved him. We were kin.” (Being Hal Ashby, 177). Dawson details the many efforts—including Tootsie—that Hoffman made to put together a project with Ashby. 45 As pointed out in Chapter 1, the regard with which Jack Nicholson held Ashby as a director was also extremely helpful in getting The Last Detail released in Ashby’s desired cut. 46 See Chapter 3 for more on Ashby’s marginal protagonists. 47 Or seemingly unaware; it could be argued that a scene late in the film, during which Chance discusses his identity with Benjamin Rand’s physician, might indicate that Chance is at least somewhat aware of his situation. 48 Sikov, Mr Strangelove, 135. 49 Bosley Crowther, review of Never Let Go directed by John Guillermin, New York Times, June 15, 1963, accessed February 3, 2011, http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/rev iew?res=9A06E4DA1731E73BBC4D52DFB0668388679EDE. 50 Biographer Roger Lewis describes Sellers’s roles in Never Let Go and Being There as, while very different, the two most “dramatically revealing” roles he would play (Lewis, The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, 500). 51 Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 211–212. 52 Sikov, Mr Strangelove, 358. 53 See Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 211; Lewis, The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, 254; and Sikov, Mr Strangelove, 358. 54 Appelbaum (1978), “Positive Thinking,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson, 68. 55 In addition to showing Ashby’s facility in working with different types of actors under various writing conditions, a comparison between the writing process of Coming Home and Being There also shows how adept Robert C. Jones had become at writing for Ashby under extremely different circumstances. 56 Appelbaum, “Positive Thinking,” 80. 57 Jones in discussion with the author, January 2009. 58 Coming Home “Script notes,” March 27, 1977, Box 17, Folder 154, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, 14. 59 Ibid., 30. 60 Baron and Carnicke, Reframing Screen Performance, 62. 61 Biskind, Star, 194. 62 Ibid., 196. 63 Biskind, who makes no effort to hide his admiration of Beatty and who makes it plain that Shampoo was, in his opinion, a Beatty film, describes the finished product as

Notes

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65

66

67 68

69 70

71

72

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such: “Ashby did manage to capture George’s sweetness, his innocence, the flip side of his narcissism” (Star, 194). Without these characteristics, Beatty’s George would have come across as a one-note womanizer with little to offer in the way of sympathetic characteristics. As with other crew members, Ashby tended to work with editors on repeat occasions: William A. Sawyer and Edward Warschilka edited his first two films; Robert C. Jones edited his next three films and Lookin’ to Get Out (1982); Don Zimmerman, who had worked in the editorial department on four of Ashby’s first five films, edited Coming Home (1978) and Being There (1979). Nick Dawson describes in great detail how Ashby’s commitment to work often came at the expense and to the detriment of his relationships and his health, most likely leading to his collapse from exhaustion while shooting the Rolling Stones concert film Let’s Spend the Night Together (1983). Dawson provides ample anecdotal evidence that it may have been this exhaustion that led to the collapse, rather than the drug use to which it is often attributed by Biskind and other writers, while admitting that the issue is still contested. Being Hal Ashby, 254. Of Ashby’s work editing for Jewison, Haskell Wexler has said: “On Norman’s pictures which he edited, which Norman will tell you and I will guarantee you, [Ashby] was the maker of those pictures. If you had to say who was the strongest force to make the films what they were, what they are, it was Hal Ashby” (Haskell Wexler in discussion with the author, April 1, 2010). As discussed in detail in Chapter 4. Nick Dawson describes the final editing process of Being There: “Don Zimmerman had previously been editing the film to Ashby’s specifications, but in the last six or seven weeks before the December 19 release date, Ashby took over cutting himself with Zimmerman by his side . . . By December, Ashby was working seven days a week and barely leaving the cutting room” (Being Hal Ashby, 221). This is very similar to Robert C. Jones’s description of editing for Ashby, mentioned in Chapter 4. Quoted in Biskind, Easy Riders, 353. While researching his Ashby biography, Nick Dawson came across a cut of Lookin’ to Get Out that is in many ways vastly different from the version released by Lorimar and Paramount in 1982. It has an entirely different opening sequence, additional footage, and major revisions to sequences throughout the film. It also includes a familiar, more subtle approach to music and editing than the theatrical release. With Jon Voight’s help, this new version was released on DVD in 2009 as the “Extended Version.” While it seems safe to assume that this version represents Ashby’s cut rather than Robert Jones’s, it is difficult to say for sure whether it represents the final cut that Ashby envisioned before the film was taken away from him. Quoted in Pollock (1982), “Whatever Happened to Hal Ashby,” in Hal Ashby: Interviews, ed. Nick Dawson (Jackson: UP Mississippi, 2010), 112. Dawson describes in great detail the many problems that plagued both production and postproduction on Second-Hand Hearts (Being Hal Ashby, chapters. 17, 18, 19), not least of which was Ashby’s own choice to work with an inexperienced editing crew, which ended up causing Ashby to have to completely re-cut the film twice on his own. It was this lengthy postproduction imbroglio that led, more than anything else, to Ashby’s latecareer reputation of not being able to complete a film on time. According to Dawson, Lawrence, who is credited with Pappé as one of the film’s editors, quit in protest at the hiring of Pappé out of loyalty to Ashby (Being Hal Ashby, 312).

188

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73 The film actually combines action from two of Block’s novels: A Stab in the Dark (1981) and 8 Million Ways to Die (1982). 74 Beach, The Films of Hal Ashby, 151. 75 The writing is credited to Oliver Stone and “David Lee Henry” a pseudonym for R. Lance Hill. In arbitration, the Writers Guild of America would also recognize the contributions of Ashby, Towne, and Edmunds, none of whom received screen credit (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 315). 76 Dare (1986), “How To Kill a Movie,” 124, 127. 77 Ibid., 127. 78 8 Million Ways to Die was filmed for $11 million (which was $2.5 million under budget). It earned $1.3 million (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 308, 318). 79 Jane Fonda, My Life So Far (London: Ebury Press, 2006), 372. 80 Ibid., 374. 81 Fonda’s remarks also echo Warren Beatty’s description of Ashby’s “placid demeanor”— indicating, perhaps, that Ashby did not do much actual directing. And while this does seem to be contradicted by her description of his calling for so many takes, it still represents another example of an actor downplaying Ashby’s effectiveness as a director. Because the New Hollywood era is still so closely aligned with the concept of the singleauthor auteur, such statements must be seen as contributing, even if in small fashion, to Ashby’s delegation outside the group of 1970s “genius” directors. 82 Mark Damon, interview by Luke Ford, n.d., accessed February 4, 2011, http://www. lukeford.net/ profiles/profiles/mark_damon.htm. How much Damon can be trusted is also subject to debate as, during the DGA arbitration over Ashby’s firing, it was in his interest to cast Ashby in a negative light. He repeatedly brought up Ashby’s use of cocaine, which Dawson is painstaking in showing as highly unlikely to have been ongoing. Further, in describing the “difficulty” in editing the film, Damon said, “Ashby doesn’t shoot a lot of footage, and he very much edits in camera. Therefore, any other editor coming on cannot, in my estimation, go very far afield from Ashby’s intentions” (quoted in Dare, “How To Kill a Movie,” 130). As has been repeatedly made clear, Ashby was in fact a director who shot a high number of takes, so, on this point at least, Damon’s description of Ashby’s working method must be viewed with some skepticism. 83 While Ashby’s final four feature films all encountered troubled post-production periods, his two concert films from the 1980s—Let’s Spend the Night Together (1982) and Solo Trans (1984)—were relatively trouble free and were overseen by Ashby through all stages of production. 84 Given the space, I would also consider the work of production designer Mike Haller, sound mixer Jeff Wexler (both of whom worked on several Ashby films), or a host of other authors whose distinct contributions can be detected in the film.

Final Thoughts 1 The implication here is that the “channel” on which the viewer has been watching the film is now being changed, an intratextual reference to Chance’s constant watching of television throughout the film. 2 Stark’s letter creates something of a historical irony. In praising Being There, he writes of Ashby, “You really are quite a remarkable talent with a remarkable range and

Notes

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4 5 6 7 8

9 10 11 12 13

14 15

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I hope someday we’ll have the privilege of working together” (Ray Stark to Hal Ashby, January 17, 1980, Box 3, Folder 23, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles). A few years later, Stark and Ashby would work together on The Slugger’s Wife, by all accounts a remarkably unpleasant experience that created nonstop headaches for both men and resulted in the most spectacular critical and commercial failure of either man’s career. Quoted in Sikov, Mr Strangelove, 373. For his few remaining months, Sellers would rank Being There and Dr. Strangelove as the films he was most proud of, and soon before he died he was in talks with Ashby to work on another film together (Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 226). However, he also continued to harbor resentment against Ashby for the credit sequence, blaming it, in part, for his losing out in the Academy Awards that year. Dawson, Being Hal Ashby, 226. The previously mentioned “Deluxe” editions of Being There on DVD and Blue-ray (2009)—for both Region 1 and Region 2—include the outtake credits. Hal Ashby, “Written Defence of the Closing Credits of Being There” (letter), n.d., Box 3, Folder 23, Hal Ashby Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles. Sikov, Mr Strangelove, 373. Director Hal Needham had included a blooper reel during the closing credits of his 1978 film Hooper, and would do so again on several other films on which he worked with actor Burt Reynolds. All of these films are comedies. To the best of my knowledge, Being There is the first dramatic Hollywood film to include such an endcredit sequence. Ashby, “Written Defense.” John Caughie, “Introduction,” in Theories of Authorship: A Reader, ed. John Caughie (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981), 11. Ibid., 12–13. Ibid., 13. Kovács is best known for his work with Dennis Hopper (Easy Rider 1969, The Last Movie 1971), Bob Rafelson (Five Easy Pieces 1970, The King of Marvin Gardens 1972), and the six films he shot for Peter Bogdanovich. Zsigmond is best known for his work with Robert Altman (McCabe and Mrs. Miller 1971, The Long Goodbye 1973), Michael Cimino (The Deer Hunter 1978, Heaven’s Gate 1980) and for his Academy Award-winning work on Stephen Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977). I include the directors’ names in brackets here to emphasize the way auteurism demands attention be paid to them. More difficult to assess would be director Rafelson’s claim (in the same documentary) that Kovács “filmed air” better than any cinematographer he ever worked with.

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Filmography This filmography is divided into three sections. The first section, films directed by Hal Ashby, includes extensive cast and crew information and a brief synopsis of each film in addition to standard production, director, and principal cast details. The second section, films on which Ashby worked in any type of editorial capacity, includes standard production, director, and principal cast details as well as information about editorial crews who worked on the films. The final section, films that were consulted or in some other way influenced this book, includes standard production, director, and principal crew information.

Hal Ashby: Director The Landlord, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Norman Jewison, Patrick J. Palmer (associate), Walter Mirisch (executive). Screenplay Bill Gunn. Cinematographer Gordon Willis. Editors William A.  Sawyer, Edward Warschilka. Production Design Robert Boyle. Sound Christopher Newman. Performers Beau Bridges, Diana Sands, Lee Grant, Pearl Bailey, Louis Gossett, Jr., Marki Bey. 1970. France: StudioCanal, 2012. DVD. Ashby’s first film as a director, The Landlord is the story of a young, highly privileged white man (Bridges) from Long Island who buys a brownstone building in a black neighbourhood in Brooklyn with the intention of evicting all the tenants and converting it into an opulent home for himself. Over the course of the film he falls in love with two black women (Sands and Bey), one of whom he has a child with. Ostensibly a comedy, the film offers a nuanced, trenchant depiction of race and class relations during the late Civil Rights era.

Harold and Maude, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Colin Higgins, Charles Mulvehill, Mildred Lewis (executive). Screenplay Colin Higgins. Cinematographer John Alonzo. Editors William A.  Sawyer, Edward Warschilka. Production Design Michael Haller. Sound William Randall. Performers Ruth Gordon, Bud Cort, Vivienne Pickles. 1971. USA: Paramount Widescreen Collection, 2002. DVD. A dark comedy that is at once macabre and life-affirming, it concerns a burgeoning friendship and then love affair between the 20-year-old Harold (Cort) and 79year-old Maude (Gordon), two very different societal outcasts who fall in love during the final days of Maude’s life. In June of 2012, Harold and Maude became the first Ashby film to be released on DVD by Criterion Collection.

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The Last Detail, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Gerald Ayers, Charles Mulvehill (associate). Screenplay Robert Towne. Cinematographer Michael Chapman. Editor Robert C. Jones. Production Design Michael Haller. Sound Tom Overton. Performers Jack Nicholson, Randy Quaid, Otis Young. 1973. USA:  Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2002. DVD. The story of two naval petty officers (Nicholson and Young) who must escort a young sailor (Quaid) from a naval base in Virginia to a navy stockade in New Hampshire by bus and rail. During the journey the petty officers develop mixed feelings about their duty (“detail”), and the film, which begins as a comedic road movie ends on a note of melancholy and failure. Notable at the time for its extreme use of profanity, it was one of three films on which Ashby worked with Robert Towne and was Michael Chapman’s first film as cinematographer.

Shampoo, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Warren Beatty, Charles H. Maguire (associate). Screenplay Robert Towne, Warren Beatty. Cinematographer László Kovács. Editor Robert C.  Jones. Production Design Richard Sylbert. Sound Frank Warner. Performers Warren Beatty, Julie Christie, Goldie Hawn, Lee Grant, Jack Warden, Carrie Fisher. 1975. USA: Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2003. DVD. Set on the eve of the American presidential election of 1968, Shampoo is a political satire disguised as a sex romp, which concerns Beverly Hills hairdresser George Roundy and his quest to raise money to open his own salon while also conducting several love affairs (with Grant, Christie, Hawn, and Fisher). Written by Towne and Beatty, who also produced, it was one of the biggest financial and critical successes of 1975 and was, at the time, Columbia Pictures’ most financially successful film ever.

Bound for Glory, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Robert F.  Blumofe, Harold Leventhal, Charles Mulvehill (associate). Screenplay Robert Getchell. Cinematographer Haskell Wexler. Editor Pembroke J.  Herring, Robert C.  Jones. Production Design Michael Haller. Sound Don Parker, Jeff Wexler. Performers David Carradine, Ronnie Cox, Melinda Dillon, Randy Quaid. 1976. USA:  MGM Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD. Loosely based on Woody Guthrie’s autobiography of the same name, the film concerns a three-year period in Guthrie’s life, during which time he leaves Texas for California, begins to understand the plight of migrant farmers and workers, and starts to write the highly politicized music he would become known for. This was Ashby’s largest-budgeted film, which he was able to make in large part due to Shampoo’s tremendous financial and critical success.

Coming Home, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Jerome Hellman, Bruce Gilbert (associate). Screenplay Nancy Dowd, Robert C. Jones, Waldo Salt, Rudy J. Wurlitzer (uncredited). Cinematographer Haskell Wexler. Editor Don Zimmerman. Production

Filmography

203

Design Michael Haller. Sound Frank Warner, Jeff Wexler. Performers Jane Fonda, Jon Voight, Bruce Dern. 1978. USA: MGM Home Entertainment, 2002. DVD. A film about the effects of the Vietnam war on returning veterans, it concerns Luke (Voight), a paraplegic veteran, Bob (Dern) a gung-ho marine, and Sally (Fonda), Bob’s wife who becomes Luke’s lover. Highly critical of the war and of the treatment of returning veterans, the film was one of Ashby’s most successful financially and critically. It also garnered Ashby’s only Academy Award nomination for Best Director.

Being There, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Andrew Braunsberg, Charles Mulvehill (associate). Screenplay Jerzy Kosinski, Robert C. Jones (uncredited). Cinematographer Caleb Deschanel. Editor Don Zimmerman. Production Design Michael Haller. Sound Jeff Wexler. Performers Peter Sellers, Shirley MacLaine, Melvyn Douglas, Jack Warden. 1979. USA: Warner Bros. Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD. Often considered the final success in Ashby’s string of 1970s films, Being There is an elegiac, slightly dark comedy that stars Peter Sellers as Chance, a mentally challenged gardener who, through a series of coincidences, finds himself befriending members of the upper echelon of American power, including corporate leaders and the US President.

Second-Hand Hearts, directed by Hal Ashby. Producer James William Guercio, Charles Mulvehill (associate). Screenplay Charles Eastman. Cinematographer Haskell Wexler. Editor Amy Jones. Production Design Peter Wooley. Sound Art Rochester. Performers Robert Blake, Barbara Harris. USA: Lorimar / Paramount Pictures, 1981. A love story and road movie about two social outcasts (Blake and Harris) who drunkenly get married one evening and then try to make a life together as they drive west across the United States. Shot in 1978 before Being There, but not released until 1981, it was part of Ashby’s strategy at the time to shoot two films back-to-back and then edit them simultaneously to avoid burnout. The film was a critical and financial failure.

Let’s Spend the Night Together, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Ronald L. Schwary, Kenneth J. Ryan (associate). Cinematographers Caleb Deschanel, Gerald Feil. Editor Lisa Day. Sound Jeff Wexler. Performers Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, Bill Wyman, Ron Wood. 1982. France: StudioCanal, 2006. DVD. A concert film of the Rolling Stones’ 1981 North American tour, it was filmed over two nights in the Meadowlands Sports Complex in New Jersey and one night in Sun Devil Stadium in Arizona. Perhaps most notable today for Ashby’s development of an early form of non-linear film editing using multiple synchronized video monitors, each displaying footage from different cameras. The system was later used by Jonathan Demme for the editing of Stop Making Sense (1984).

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Lookin’ to Get Out, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Andrew Braunsberg, Robert Schaffel, Edward Teets. Screenplay Al Schwartz, Jon Voight. Cinematographer Haskell Wexler. Editor Robert C. Jones. Production Design Robert Boyle. Sound Jeff Wexler. Performers Jon Voight, Burt Young, Anne-Margret. USA:  Lorimar / Paramount Pictures, 1982. A film about two low-life gamblers (Voight and Young) who flee New York to Las Vegas in an effort to escape dangerous men to whom they owe money. Due to extensive post-production difficulties on the film, which resulted in its very late delivery, Lorimar orchestrated Columbia’s firing of Ashby from directing Tootsie (1982), which was in part responsible for Ashby developing a reputation as a hyper-perfectionist recluse who could not finish a film. Lorimar eventually took the film away from Ashby to be edited by Robert C. Jones.

Solo Trans, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers L.  A. Johnson, Neil Young, Elliot Rabinowitz (executive). Screenplay Newell Alexander, L.  A. Johnson, Neil Young. Cinematographer Bobby Byrne. Editors L.  A. Johnson, Norm Levy, Jim Prior, Elon Soltes, Neil Young. Sound Sandy Battaglia, Geep Parker, Brad Rector. Performers Neil Young, Newell Alexander. USA: 1984. A concert video of Neil Young filmed in Dayton, Ohio in September 1983. The concert is divided into three sections–solo acoustic, electronic music (from Young’s controversial Trans album), and old-time rock with Young’s band The Shocking Pinks. It features a framing device that was integrated into the live show wherein a fake television journalist is broadcast to the audience on television monitors reporting from backstage.

The Slugger’s Wife, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Ray Stark, Margaret Booth (executive). Screenplay Neil Simon. Cinematographer Caleb Deschanel. Editors Don Brochu, George C. Villaseñor. Production Design Michael Riva. Sound Jeff Wexler. Performers Rebecca De Mornay, Michael O’Keefe, Randy Quaid. 1985. USA:  Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD. A film about a struggling rock singer (De Mornay) who becomes romantically involved with a professional baseball player (O’Keefe) and emerges as something of a good-luck charm to him as he attempts to break one of the sport’s most hallowed records—number of home runs in a season. Produced by Ray Stark and written by Neil Simon, it was the least financially successful film for all the major players involved.

8 Million Ways to Die, directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Mark Damon, Charles Mulvehill, Steve Roth. Screenplay Oliver Stone, David Lee Henry, Robert Towne (uncredited), Hal Ashby (uncredited). Cinematographer Stephen H.  Burum. Editor Robert Lawrence, Stuart Papé. Production Design Michael Haller. Sound Jeff Wexler.

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205

Performers Jeff Bridges, Rosanna Arquette, Andy Garcia. 1986. USA: 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2011. DVD. Ashby’s final film, based on a series of detective novels by Lawrence Block, concerns alcoholic ex-cop Matthew Scudder (Bridges) who becomes obsessed with helping a mysterious call-girl (Arquette), which brings him into conflict with Angel, a dangerous drug dealer (Garcia). The original screenplay by Oliver Stone was vastly rewritten during pre-production and filming, including work by previous Ashby collaborator Robert Towne. Ashby was fired from the production soon after principle photography had concluded.

Beverly Hills Buntz (Television pilot), directed by Hal Ashby. Producers David Milch, Jeffrey Lewis (executive), Jessie Ward (associate). Screenplay Jeffrey Lewis, David Milch. Cinematographer Robert Seaman. Editor Jonathan Pontell, Alec Smight. Performers Dennis Franz, Peter Jurasik, Dana Wheeler-Nicholson. USA. MTM Enterprises / NBC. 1987. Beverly Hills Buntz was a spin-off of the recently concluded Hill Street Blues. Ashby was called in to redirect the pilot episode when the producers found the original pilot too dark. The show concerns Norman Buntz (Franz) who has relocated to Beverly Hills after his time as a New York police officer (on Hill Street Blues). Meant as a fish-out-of-water comedy rather than the gritty drama of its predecessor, the show received mixed to positive reviews, but only last for thirteen episodes. Ashby did not direct any episodes after the pilot.

Jake’s Journey (Television pilot), directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Allan McKeown, Mike Merson. Screenplay Graham Chapman, David Sherlock. Editor John Farrell. Production design Nigel Phelps. Performers Graham Chapman, Peter Cook, Rik Mayall, Chris Young. UK. HTV / Witzend Productions. 1988. Commissioned by CBS television, the pilot was loosely based on Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court and concerned a teenage American boy (Young) who is helped to readjust to life in England by a time-travelling knight (Chapman). It was never aired by CBS, but was eventually shown on several occasions by the Disney Channel, by which time Chapman was too ill to continue. Notable for being the final project of both Chapman and Ashby.

Lookin’ to Get Out! (Extended Version), directed by Hal Ashby. Producers Andrew Braunsberg, Robert Schaffel, Edward Teets. Screenplay Al Schwartz, Jon Voight. Cinematographer Haskell Wexler. Editors Robert C.  Jones, Hal Ashby (uncredited). Production Design Robert Boyle. Sound Jeff Wexler. Performers Jon Voight, Burt Young, Anne-Margret. USA. Warner Bros. Home Entertainment, 2009. DVD. This cut of the film was discovered by Ashby biographer Nick Dawson in the UCLA film library and includes many scenes and editing decisions that are not in

206

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the original theatrical release, including a completely different opening scene and an expanded ending. Voight became convinced that this was Ashby’s desired cut and helped get the film released on DVD in 2009.

Hal Ashby: Editor The Best Man, directed by Franklin J.  Schaffner. Performers Henry Fonda, Cliff Robertson, Edie Adams, Lee Tracy. Editor Robert Swink. Editorial consultant Hal Ashby. USA: Millar/Turman Productions/United Artists, 1964. The Big Country, directed by William Wyler. Performers Gregory Peck, Jean Simmons, Charlton Heston, Burl Ives. Editors Robert Belcher, John Faure, Robert Swink. Assistant editor Hal Ashby. USA: United Artists, 1958. Captain Sinbad, directed by Byron Haskin. Performers Guy Williams, Heidi Brühl, Pedro Armendáriz. Editor Robert Swink. Assistant editor Hal Ashby. USA:  King Brothers Productions/MGM, 1963. The Children’s Hour, directed by William Wyler. Performers Audrey Hepburn, Shirley MacLaine, James Garner. Editor Robert Swink. Assistant editor Hal Ashby. USA: The Mirisch Company/United Artists, 1961. The Cincinnati Kid, directed by Norman Jewison. Performers Steve McQueen, Edward G.  Robinson, Ann-Margret, Karl Malden. Editor Hal Ashby. USA:  MGM/Filmways Pictures, 1965. The Diary of Anne Frank, directed by George Stevens. Performers Millie Perkins, Joseph Schildkraut, Shelley Winters. Editors David Bretherton, William Mace, Robert Swink. Assistant editor Hal Ashby. USA:  George Stevens Productions/Twentieth Century-Fox, 1959. Gaily, Gaily, directed by Norman Jewison. Performers Beau Bridges, Melina Mercouri, Brian Keith, George Kennedy. Editors Ralph E.  Winters, Byron Brandt. Editorial consultant and associate producer Hal Ashby. USA:  The Mirisch Company/United Artists, 1969. The Greatest Story Ever Told, directed by George Stevens. Performers Max von Sydow, Dorothy McGuire, Robert Loggia, Charlton Heston, Robert Blake. Editors Harold F. Kress, Argyle Nelson, Jr., J. Frank O’Neill. Assistant editor Hal Ashby. USA: George Stevens Productions/United Artists, 1965. In the Heat of the Night, directed by Norman Jewison. Performers Sidney Poitier, Rod Steiger, Lee Grant. Editor Hal Ashby. USA:  The Mirisch Corporation/United Artists, 1967. The Loved One, directed by Tony Richardson. Performers Robert Morse, Anjanette Comer, Rod Steiger, John Gielgud. Editors Hal Ashby, Brian Smedley-Aston, Antony Gibbs. USA: MGM/Filmways Pictures, 1965.

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207

The Naked Hills, directed by Josef Shaftel. Performers David Kane, Keenan Wynn, Marcia Henderson, Denver Pyle. Editor Gene Fowler, Jr. Assistant editor (uncredited) Hal Ashby. USA: La Salle/Allied Artists, 1956. The Pride and the Passion, directed by Stanley Kramer. Performers Carey Grant, Frank Sinatra, Sophia Loren. Editors Ellsworth Hoagland, Frederic Knudtson. Assistant editor (uncredited) Hal Ashby. USA: Stanley Kramer Productions/United Artists, 1957. The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming, directed by Norman Jewison. Performers Alan Arkin, Carl Reiner, Eva Marie Saint. Editor Hal Ashby. USA:  The Mirisch Company/United Artists, 1966. The Thomas Crown Affair, directed by Norman Jewison. Performers Steve McQueen, Faye Dunaway. Editors Hal Ashby, Byron Brandt, Ralph E. Winters. USA: Simkoe/The Mirisch Company/United Artists, 1968. The Young Doctors, directed by Phil Karlson. Performers Frederic March, Ben Gazzara, Dick Clark, Eddie Albert. Editor Robert Swink. Assistant editor Hal Ashby. USA: Millar/Turman Productions/United Artists, 1961.

Other American Grafitti, directed by George Lucas. USA:  American Zoetrope/Universal Pictures, 1973. Annie Hall, directed by Woody Allen. USA: United Artists, 1977. Apocalypse Now, directed by Francis Ford Coppola. USA: United Artists, 1979. The Black Stallion, directed by Carroll Ballard. USA:  American Zoetrope/United Artists, 1979. Bonnie and Clyde, directed by Arthur Penn. USA: Warner Bros.-Seven Arts, 1967. Brewster McCloud, directed by Robert Altman. USA: MGM, 1970. Close Encounters of the Third Kind, directed by Steven Spielberg. USA:  Columbia Pictures, 1977. The Conversation, directed by Francis Ford Coppola. USA: Paramount Pictures, 1974. Cruising, directed by William Friedkin. USA: United Artists, 1980. A Decade under the Influence, directed by Ted Demme and Richard LaGravanese. USA: New Video Group, 2003. DVD. The Deer Hunter, directed by Michael Cimino. USA: Universal Pictures, 1978. Dog Day Afternoon, directed by Sidney Lumet. USA: Warner Bros., 1975. Easy Rider, directed by Dennis Hopper. USA: Columbia Pictures, 1969. Five Easy Pieces, directed by Bob Rafelson. USA:  BBS Productions/Columbia Pictures, 1970.

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The French Connection, directed by William Friedkin. USA: 20th Century Fox, 1971. The Godfather, directed by Francis Ford Coppola. USA: Paramount Pictures, 1972. The Godfather Part II, directed by Francis Ford Coppola. USA:  Paramount Pictures, 1974. The Graduate, directed by Mike Nichols. USA: Embassy/United Artists, 1967. Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, directed by Stanley Kramer. USA:  Columbia Pictures, 1967. Heaven’s Gate, directed by Michael Cimino. USA: United Artists, 1980. Hooper, directed by Hal Needham. USA: Warner Bros., 1978. Interiors, directed by Woody Allen. USA: United Artists, 1978. Jaws, directed by Steven Spielberg. USA: Universal Pictures, 1975. The King of Marvin Gardens, directed by Bob Rafelson. USA: Columbia Pictures, 1972. The Last Movie, directed by Dennis Hopper. USA: Universal Pictures, 1971. The Long Goodbye, directed by Robert Altman. USA: United Artists, 1973. Manhattan, directed by Woody Allen. USA: United Artists, 1979. MASH, directed by Robert Altman. USA: 20th Century Fox, 1970. McCabe and Mrs. Miller, directed by Robert Altman. USA: Warner Bros., 1971. More American Graffiti, directed by Bill L. Norton. USA: Universal Pictures, 1979. Nashville, directed by Robert Altman. USA: Paramount Pictures, 1975. The Natural, directed by Barry Levinson. USA: TriStar Pictures, 1984. Network, directed by Sidney Lumet. USA: MGM/United Artists, 1976. New York, New York, directed by Martin Scorsese. USA: United Artists, 1977. No Subtitles Necessary:  Laszlo & Vilmos, directed by James Chressanthis. USA:  NC Motion Pictures, 2008. DVD. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, directed by Milos Forman. USA: United Artists, 1975. One from the Heart, directed by Francis Ford Coppola. USA:  American Zoetrope/ Columbia Pictures, 1981. The Passion of the Christ, directed by Mel Gibson. USA: Icon Productions/Newmarket Films, 2004. The Pink Panther, directed by Blake Edwards. USA:  The Mirisch Company/United Artists, 1963. Raging Bull, directed by Martin Scorsese. USA: United Artists, 1980. The Right Stuff, directed by Phillip Kaufman. USA: Warner Bros., 1983. Sorcerer, directed by William Friedkin. USA: Universal Pictures, 1977. Star Wars, directed by George Lucas. USA: 20th Century Fox, 1977. Taxi Driver, directed by Martin Scorsese. USA: Columbia Pictures, 1976. THX 1138, directed by George Lucas. USA: American Zoetrope/Warner Bros., 1971.

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209

Tootsie, directed by Sydney Pollack. USA: Columbia Pictures, 1982. Visions of Light:  The Art of Cinematography, directed by Arnold Glassman, Todd McCarthy, and Stuart Samuels. 92 min. USA/Japan: Kino International. 1992. A Woman Under the Influence, directed by John Cassavetes. USA: Faces International Films, 1974. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, directed by Mike Nichols. USA: Warner Bros., 1966.

Index Allen, Woody 38, 44, 47, 65, 176n. 22 Alonzo, John A. 66, 104 Also Sprach Zarathustra 136 Altman, Robert 2, 7, 16, 38, 41, 45, 47, 57 American Cinema: Directors and Directions 1929–1968, The 43, 54 American Cinema of the 1970s 66 American Film Institute (AFI) 43–4 American Film Now 45 American Films of the 1970s 4, 6 American Graffiti 48 Anderson, Wes 49, 183n. 33 Angell, Roger 161 Annie Hall 65, 104 Apocalypse Now 63, 135 Arquette, Rosanna 35, 156–7 Ashby, Hal career 20–4 and cinematography 104–11 collaborative film practice 61–8 and editing 101–4 and Hollywood’s state 17–20 marginality 37–9, 73–86 and music 111–18 Richard Nixon, mise-en-scène 87–91 political narratives 86–100 relationships with casts and crews 33–7 relationships with producers 24–33 Astruc, Alexandre 60 authorship theories 7–10 A.V. Club 49 Bakhtin, Mikhail 169n. 33 Baron, Cynthia 143, 144, 150–1 Bart, Peter 31, 33, 75 Barthes, Roland 9 Bazin, André 54 Beach, Christopher 41, 45, 61–3, 69, 70, 112, 163

Beatty, Warren 18, 31–3, 35, 66, 67, 105, 145, 151, 166 Being Hal Ashby: Life of a Hollywood Rebel 11, 45 Being There 5, 32, 33, 36, 37, 48, 64, 65, 75, 87, 90, 103, 104, 109, 110, 124, 125, 126, 127, 153, 156, 164–6 acting 143–52 cinematography 134–43 editing 152–8 production background 125–7 writing 127–34 Bellow, Saul 129 Berg, Scott 182n. 16 Best Years of Our Lives, The 182n. 16 Bicycle Thieves 43 Big Country, The 21, 65 Biskind, Peter 20, 33, 132, 151, 155, 186n.63 Black Stallion, The 104, 136, 137 Blazing Saddles 115 Block, Lawrence 156 Bluhdorn, Charles 2, 18–19 Bogdanovich, Peter 27, 48, 57, 104 Bonnie and Clyde 4, 31, 41, 57, 74, 132 Bordwell, David 17, 18 Bound for Glory 35, 37, 46, 65, 75, 87, 93, 94–100, 102, 104, 111, 112, 129, 156 Branigan, Edward 113 Braunsberg, Andrew 126–7, 146 Brautigan, Richard 129 Bresson, Robert 54 Bridges, Jeff 35, 101, 156, 181n. 2 British Film Institute (BFI) 43 Brooks, Mel 115 Brown, Garrett 37 Brustein, Robert 169n. 3 Buckley, Tim 149 Burstyn, Ellen 161

212

Index

Burum, Stephen H. 104 Buscombe, Edward 56, 58 Cahiers du Cinéma 41–2, 43, 52–3, 55, 57, 168n. 20 Calley, John 19 Cameron, Ian 54–5, 62, 68 Canby, Vincent 49 Carlito’s Way 104 Carnicke, Sharon Marie 144, 150–1 Carradine, David 35 Carringer, Robert L. 9–10, 59, 122, 123 Carroll, Noël 168n. 19 Casablanca 49 Cassavetes, John 9, 38, 44, 47, 62, 176n. 22 Caughie, John 53, 164 Chaplin, Charlie 43, 44 Chapman, Michael 37, 66, 67–8, 104, 140, 159 Chinatown 73, 104 Christie, Ian 51 Cinema of Loneliness, A 6, 45 Citizen Kane 10, 43 Classical Hollywood 1, 16, 17, 20, 21, 31, 55, 56, 57, 63, 113, 114–15 Coming Home 5, 6, 18, 33, 34, 36, 44, 46, 48, 64, 75, 87, 99, 102–4, 107–8, 111–13, 115, 125, 127, 145, 148, 153, 156, 157 Conversation, The 67 Cook, David 15, 22, 39, 57, 61 Coppola, Francis Ford 2, 7, 16, 38, 41, 43, 45, 47, 62, 63, 65, 67 Corliss, Richard 8, 59, 168n. 19 Corrigan, Timothy 50 Cowan, Philip 10, 59, 122 Crowther, Bosley 146 Cult Film Experience, The 50 Cult Film Reader, The 48, 49 Damon, Mark 157, 188n. 82 Dawson, Nick 11, 23, 35, 41, 45, 69, 76, 133, 146, 173n. 72, 187n. 65, 187n. 68, 187n. 70, 187n. 72 Days of Heaven 5 de Havilland, Olivia 18 De Niro, Robert 67, 144 De Palma, Brian 44, 48

Decade Under the Influence, A 20 Defining Cult Movies 49 Demme, Jonathan 175n. 91 Deodato, Eumir 136 Dern, Bruce 148 Deschanel, Caleb 36, 37, 64, 66, 127, 134–43, 158, 159, 164, 165, 185n. 29 Diller, Barry 5 Director’s Event, The 61 Dog Day Afternoon 115 Douglas, Melvyn 127, 162 Dowd, Nancy 148 Easy Rider 31, 57, 73, 74, 104, 118, 165 Easy Riders, Raging Bulls 20 Ebert, Roger 29, 49, 64–5, 161, 162 Edmonds, Don 156 8 Million Ways to Die 24, 26, 32, 35–6, 67, 75, 101, 104, 144, 155–7 Elsaesser, Thomas 4, 5, 45, 47, 73 Essential Cinema: On the Necessity of Film Canons 44 Evans, Robert 5, 19, 31, 33, 76, 179n. 8 Ferguson, Perry 59 Film Authorship: Auteurs and Other Myths 60 Film Director as Superstar, The 61 Film Till Now, The 43 Films of Hal Ashby, The 45, 61 Five Easy Pieces 74, 104, 165 Fonda, Jane 18, 145, 148, 166, 188n. 81 Ford, John 10, 43, 44, 55, 57, 58, 59 French Connection, The 1, 74 French New Wave 6, 57, 170n. 11 Friedkin, William 2, 7, 16, 38, 41, 48 Friedman, Lester 15 Frizler, Paul 30 Fuller, Sam 44 Garnett, Tay 36 Gilliat, Penelope 86 Godard, Jean-Luc 86–7 Godfather, The (I and II) 1, 48, 65, 73, 104, 140 Goodfellas 124 Gordon, Ruth 35

Index Graduate, The 4, 31, 57 Grant, Lee 35–6, 37, 166 Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner 29 Gulf + Western 2, 18, 19 Hal Ashby: Interviews 45 Haller, Michael 37, 64 Harold and Maude 31, 33, 35, 44, 46, 48, 49, 50, 66, 74, 75–82, 87–8, 102–4, 109–12, 126, 145, 146 Hawkline Monster, The 129 Hawks, Howard 43, 57 Henderson the Rain King 129 Hendrix, Jimi 116 Hess, John 91, 92 Hess, Judith 91, 92 Higgins, Colin 75–6 Hill, R. Lance 156 Hills Have Eyes, The 48 Hitchcock, Alfred 43, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 113 Hoffman, Dustin 32, 145 Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan 45, 46 Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan . . . and Beyond 6 Hollywood Renaissance 46 Hopper, Dennis 38, 44 Horwath, Alexander 4 Huston, John 43 In the Heat of the Night 23, 34, 91, 103, 104 Jacobs, Diane 46–7 Jancovich, Mark 50, 177n. 30 Jaws 4, 39, 48 Jewison, Norman 22–3, 26, 27, 91, 102, 113, 153 Jones, Robert C. 37, 64, 67, 102, 127, 129–31, 133, 148, 155, 158, 172n. 43, 187n. 64 Kael, Pauline 8, 10, 53, 62, 66, 168n. 19 Kawin, Bruce 49 Keathley, Christian 6, 73 Keaton, Buster 43 Kerkorian, Kirk 19 Kesey, Ken 174n. 84 King, Geoff 56–7

213

King, Noel 4 Klute 140 Kolker, Robert 6, 45, 47 Kooper, Al 26 Kosinski, Jerzy 126–31, 145, 158 Kovács, László 66, 67–8, 104, 107, 165, 166, 189n. 13 Krämer, Peter 4, 6 Kramer, Stanley 65 Kubrick, Stanley 9, 43–4, 47, 176n. 22 Kuras, Ellen 165 Landlord, The 17, 21, 26, 27–30, 29, 31, 35, 65, 66, 74, 87, 88, 103, 104, 111, 113, 135, 139, 142, 156 Last Detail, The 5, 6, 30, 31, 35, 37, 66, 73, 74, 75, 82–6, 89, 91, 93, 99, 102–4, 108, 109, 111, 129, 140, 142, 145, 156, 179n. 4 Last Great American Picture Show, The 4 Lawrence, Bob 24 Lazar, Mary 131 Lean, David 43 Lehman, Peter 62 Let’s Spend the Night Together 38, 111, 134–5, 174n. 91 Lev, Peter 4, 6, 92 Lewis, Roger 180n. 8 Livingston, Paisley 122 Lookin’ to Get Out 32, 35, 75, 102, 104, 125, 145, 173n. 64 Lorimar 125, 127, 134 Love Story 5 Loved One, The 21 Lovell, Alan 8–9, 121, 123 Lucas, George 19, 45, 48 Lumet, Sidney 39, 115 Lynch, David 43, 44 MacLaine, Shirley 127, 134, 145 Magnificent Seven, The 30 Making Films in Contemporary Hollywood 8 Making of Citizen Kane, The 59 Malcolm, Derek 29 Malick, Terrence 47 Maltin, Leonard 165 Man, Glenn 66, 93

214 Mandel, Johnny 111, 161 Manhattan 1, 5, 65, 104, 140 Mankiewicz, Herman J. 10, 59 Mann, Anthony 44 MASH 74 Mast, Gerald 20 Matewan 104 Mathijs, Ernest 48 Mazursky 47 MCA 18, 19 Mean Streets 144 Mendik, Xavier 48 Metz, Christian 9 Milius, John 56, 165 Millimeter 64, 65 Mirisch, Walter 26 Mirisches 30, 140 Molasky, Andrew 131 Monaco, James 45–6, 176n. 13 Movie 53, 54, 55, 58 Multiple Authorship and the Myth of the Solitary Genius 59 Murch, Walter 67

Index Offscreen 113 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest 174n. 84 101 Cult Films You Must See Before You Die 49 1001 Films You Must See Before You Die 49 Pakula, Alan 140 Paper Moon 104 Pappé, Stuart 155–6 Paramount Decree 17–18 Passion of the Christ, The 135 “Pathos of Failure, The,” 5, 45 Peckinpah, Sam 45, 47 Penn, Arthur 22, 27, 47 Petrie, Graham 8, 59, 168n. 19 Pink Panther, The 30 Polanski, Roman 41, 45, 47 “Politics of Film Canons, The” 50 Postman Always Rings Twice, The 184n. 7 Pound, Ezra 59 Pride and the Passion, The 65 Production Sales Organization (PSO) 24–5 Quaid, Randy 37

Naked Hills, The 21, 65 Nashville 1, 73 National Treasure 135 Natural, The 135 Needham, Hal 189n. 8 Never Let Go 146 New Hollywood 1–2, 4–7, 9, 70 auteur and 52–61 counter-narrative 61–8 establishment, and Ashby 15–40 New Hollywood, The 4 New Hollywood canon formation 42–50 roles of 50–2 New Hollywood Cinema in the 1970s 4 Nichols, Mike 27, 48 Nicholson, Jack 35, 37, 66, 126, 145, 166 No Subtitles Necessary: László & Vilmos 165 Northstar International Pictures 125, 184n. 7 “Notes on the Auteur Theory in 1962” 54 Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey 9, 58

Rafelson, Bob 48, 104 Raging Bull 5, 68, 104, 140 Ray, Nicholas 44, 57 Reboll, Antonio Lázaro 50 Reframing Screen Performance 144 Richardson, Tony 21 Right Stuff, The 104, 135, 136, 138 Ritchie, Michael 47 Rivette, Jaques 55 Rocky Horror Picture Show, The 48 Roger, Melvyn 162 Rosenbaum, Jonathan 44 Rosenman, Leonard 111 Ross, Steven 2 Rotha, Paul 43 Rumble Fish 104 Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming, The 23, 34, 91 Salt, Waldo 148, 149 Sarris, Andrew 43, 45, 53–8, 68, 161 Sawyer, William A. 26, 187n. 64

Index Scarface 104 Schaffner, Franklin J. 21 Schneider, Steven Jay 49 Schrader, Paul 20, 67, 165 Scorsese, Martin 2, 7, 9, 16, 41, 43, 44, 47, 57, 62, 104, 140, 144, 165 Second-Hand Hearts 33, 75, 104, 125, 126, 128, 155 Sellers, Peter 32, 64, 75, 126–7, 129, 133, 145–6, 148, 150–1, 161, 163, 166 Sellors, C. Paul 9, 60–1, 66, 68, 69, 119, 122, 158 Sergi, Gianluca 8–9, 121, 123 Shaft 48 Shampoo 5, 6, 18, 27, 31–3, 35, 37, 46, 62, 66, 67, 74–5, 87, 89, 90, 91–4, 99, 102–8, 111, 112, 114, 118, 129, 132, 145, 151, 165 Sieving, Christopher 172n. 53 Sight & Sound 43 Signs and Meaning in the Cinema 58 Sikov, Ed 162 Singin’ in the Rain 43 Slugger’s Wife, The 75, 104, 135, 179n. 5 Smith, Murray 17 Solo Trans 111 Spielberg, Steven 44, 45, 47 Staiger, Janet 17, 50–2 Stam, Robert 8 Staples Singers 26–7 Star Wars 4, 5, 39, 48 Stark, Ray 161, 188–9n. 2 Steiner, Max 114 Stevens, Cat 49 Stevens, George 21 Stillinger, Jack 10, 59 Stilwell, Robynn J. 113, 115 Stone, L. Andrew 36 Stone, Oliver 156 Storaro, Vittorio 63 Strauss, Richard 136 Stringer, Julian 50 Sweet Sweetback’s Badaasssss Song 48 Swink, Robert 21–2, 65 Tait, R. Colin 144 Targets 165

Tavoularis, Dean 63 Taxi Driver 1, 68, 73, 74, 104, 140, 144 Taylor, Henry M. 113, 115, 182n. 23 Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The 48 Theories of Authorship 53 Thompson, David 66–7 Thompson, Kristen 17 THX 1138 48, 135 Tobias, Scott 49 Toland, Gregg 10, 59 Tootsie 32–3, 125 Total Film 49 Towne, Robert 66, 67, 156, 165, 166 “Trapped in the Affection Image” 6 Trans-diegetic music 111, 113, 115–18 Truffaut, François 52–5, 57, 68 Universal Pictures 125 Untouchables, The 104 Vertigo 43 Visions of Light: The Art of Cinematography 140 Voight, Jon 34, 35, 37, 145, 148 Wales, George 49 Waller, Gregory 50 Warschilka, Edward 26, 187n. 64 Wasserman, Lew 18, 19 Waters, John 49 Welky, David 17 Welles, Orson 10, 41, 43, 57, 59 West Side Story 30 Wexler, Haskell 22–3, 37, 65–6, 102–4, 135, 155, 161, 166, 181n. 13, 185n. 28 Wexler, Jeff 22, 36, 38, 67, 103, 135, 171n. 27 Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf 104 Wilder, Billy 43 Willis, Andy 50 Willis, Gordon 65–7, 104, 123, 139–40, 159, 166, 172n. 55 Winkler, Irvin 161 Wizard of Oz, The 49 Wollen, Peter 56, 58 Woman Under the Influence, A 135

215

216 Wood, Robin 6, 45–7 Wordsworth, William 59 Wrong Man, The 113 Wurlitzer, Randy 36 Wyler, William 10, 21–2, 44, 65, 182n. 16

Index Young, Neil 26 Zimmerman, Don 127, 153, 154, 155, 158, 163, 187n. 64 Zsigmond, Vilmos 68, 165