“Story matters because story is a metaphor for life…” - Tom Ryan revives screenwriting guru Robert McKee's memories - Part One - Patricia Highsmith, Anthony Minghella, Saul Zaentz, Charlie Kaufman and Brian Cox

Robert McKee

Now 81 and the author of a solid handful of books about screenwriting, Robert McKee joined the faculty of the School of Cinema and Television at the University of Southern California (USC) in 1983, where he began offering his now famous "Story Seminar" class. In 1984, he opened the course to the public and now travels the world presenting it to eager participants. 

To some, he’s inspirational, a screenwriting guru. Played by Brian Cox, he even features as a character in the Charlie Kaufman-written, Spike Jonze-directed film, Adaptation (2002). Others see him as a constraining influence: according to one critic, he’s “the patron saint of hack writing, the world’s foremost proponent of writing-by-numbers”. I’ve found his books useful and occasionally enlightening about the machinery of storytelling.

One thing is for sure: he is a great conversationalist. He has a way of sweeping a listener along with his train of thought, insisting on assent with a rhetorical “Right?”, “OK?” or “You know what I mean?” before he moves on. And his passion for the art of humanist storytelling is designed to turn you into a true believer. 

I spoke to him by phone in January 2003, not long after the release of Adaptation and shortly prior to a visit he made to Melbourne to conduct his three-day seminar at the Nova (for a whopping $595 a head) and to present a session on Art Film for Popcorn Taxi.

 

Tom Ryan: Where are you as we speak?

 

Robert McKee: In Los Angeles. In my house.

 

In your study? 

 

In my study.

 

What can you see from where you’re sitting? I’m designing the mise-en-scene for the interview, you see….

 

Well, eat your heart out, Tom. From my study, I have a beautiful view over all of West Los Angeles out to the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island. The sun is slowly setting in the west. 

 

And what books are on your shelf, within reach?

 

Ah, superb! Interesting books. I’m doing a new book. It’s to be called The Art of Darkness. It’s not just for screenwriters, but for novelists and playwrights, and everybody. About the dark side of life. I’m researching the nature of evil and so I have books such as Evil in Modern Thought by Susan Nieman, Dark Nature: A Natural History of Evil by Lyall Watson, a wonderful book called Evil by Roy F. Baumeister, subtitled Inside Human Violence and Cruelty (heh! heh!). So that’s the sort of thing I’m reading. 

 

No fiction on this subject?

 

On my nightstand in the bedroom is a collection of short stories by Patricia Highsmith.

 

Touching the darkness…

 

Patricia Highsmith at her home in Montcourt, France

Ah, she’s great. Strangers on a Train, The Talented Mr Ripley. There’s a woman well-acquainted with the nature of evil.

 

And with, as I understand it, a very hard edge herself. Did you know her?

 

No. Of course not. She’s a bit before my time. But there’s a wonderful photo of her there. She was beautiful. You could compare her to Barbara Stanwyck. She has a look: the kind of woman you could make a fool of yourself over.

 

I guess. A friend once visited her, and, although he didn’t exactly fear for his life, he was not received well. [The friend was Geoff Gardner]

(Editor's Note: Indeed it was. I still wonder whether I am the only Australian ever to have met her. I mentioned the visit here)

 

That wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, did he come unannounced?

 

No, I think he’d written to her beforehand, but perhaps caught her on a bad day.

 

Well, she’s the kind of writer who would inspire people to make a pilgrimage. You put her books down and you go, ‘Man is this dark!’ It’s that simple. She doesn’t cycle cliches and she lets you see how twisted the human mind and relationships can get. 

 

I know you didn’t like the film of The English Patient, but what did you think of Anthony Minghella’s Ripley film?

 

I have seen it five times, at least. You know, on cable TV where you have the choice of umpteen films every night and you’re surfing the channels, as we say, and looking for the least offensive something to watch? The Talented Mr Ripley is one of those films that, if I’m skimming through and in the middle of it, I just have to stop and start watching it all over again. It’s just superb, I think. 

Anthony Minghella

I was ready to write Minghella off, you know. But after seeing Ripley and looking back on The English Patient, I realised that the real villain was not Minghella but Saul Zaentz. He’s a good producer – Amadeus, Cuckoo’s Nest – and he understands what I call the commercial art movie. How to make the commercial art movie (ha-ha): it’s got to be long and full of decorative photography. 

The general public goes to see what they think is an art movie believing that they’re having some sort of cultural experience. The English Patient  has about 90 minutes of flawed storytelling, but that’s crammed into three hours of decorative photography. Really dreadful. But I think that was Saul Zaentz sitting on Minghella. And when Minghella was able to do something that he had control over, he produced a wonderful thing like The Talented Mr Ripley. So I think the excesses that are The English Patient are probably traceable to Saul Zaentz.

 

Saul Zaentz

I should preface my next questions by saying that I haven’t been able to get hold of the published screenplay for Adaptation, so I haven’t read your Afterword and might duplicate things you’ve already dealt with.

Are you comfortable with the film’s depiction of your views on screenwriting?

 

Well, it doesn’t actually depict my views on screenwriting. There’s nothing actually said that I teach. It takes the notion, without saying it, that he teaches Hollywood movies. And that’s all it says about what I teach.

 

Charlie’s brother, Donald [both characters are played by Nicolas Cage], does present a particular line on your work, though…

 

Oh, he does, he does. He says things like “Bob says there should be an image system”. But he doesn’t explain what an image system is. In The Talented Mr Ripley, there’s a superb image system: beautiful, subtle, subliminal, the way it should be. Donald goes about his image system in a rather heavy-handed, on-the-nose way that I rail against in this class. 

I’m delighted by the film. The fun they have with me – man, I’ll do anything for a laugh. I’ll drop my pants for a laugh, and it would get a laugh. But I said, “I want my redeeming scene.” You can throw stones, whatever. I’m bulletproof. And he understood. The fun he has with my character compared to the inquisition he put himself through is nothing! I said, “Charlie, if you’re gonna humiliate yourself in front of the world with all those jerking-off scenes and everything, you can do what you like. But I want my redeeming scene.”

I must tell you, I read many, many drafts – I had many meetings during the development process – and you have no idea all the stuff that was taken out.

I said, “Charlie, if you’re putting yourself up for this kind of ridicule, how can I, or any of us…?”

Charlie Kaufman

Susan Orleans, Charlie’s agent, John Larouche, all the people who were portrayed in the film, knew when we read the first draft that none of us were in the film. He’s using us to portray aspects of his own personality and the film is about a writer’s struggle between his personal expression and the commercial imperative. OK? 

Once again, the question is how to make a commercial art movie. How to make something you deeply believe in, that will stand up as a serious work of art, and brilliant satire in this case, but make money. OK? So he chose to use the McKee character as the voice of commercial imperative. Right? 

That’s not what I teach, in fact. I just teach people to be responsible enough to make movies that make their money back, whether or not it makes hundreds of millions. You’ve just got to make films on a budget that you think will attract an audience appropriate to that film that is sufficient to repay the money. If you do that, that’s a commercial success. You’ll be making a movie next year. If you don’t, you’re in trouble. Just be responsible. Don’t even think about making hundreds of millions.

A film like, what, On Golden Pond, or The Accidental Tourist. The Accidental Tourist made $300 million.

 

Really?

 

Yeah. It was a huge success everywhere in the world. 

Lawrence Kasdan

Or A River Runs Through It. It was another huge success. How can Larry Kasdan – he’s a buddy of mine – know that The Accidental Tourist was going to make $300 million? He just did his very best adapting and tailoring, and he did a very beautiful job. And people found it to be such a rich, satisfying film. Or Ordinary People. Shine! Right? Who could have predicted the success of Shine? So make a film on a reasonable budget for what you think is the appropriate audience and, if you’re lucky, it might be a huge success.

You know what the most successful film in history, dollar for dollar, is?

 

Tell me.

 

My Dinner with Andre. It cost $150,000. To date, world-wide, with all the ancillary markets, the film made something like $15 million. That means there were some very happy investors, and I think most of that money was Louis Malle’s own. No one can predict these things. So I do not advocate people trying to anticipate the market, or follow trends, or write blockbusters. That’s the fastest way to lose your shirt that I know of. You write from your heart, you write what you believe in; you’re fiscally responsible in making the film on a budget that makes sense, given the audience. And, if you’re lucky, you at least get the money back so that you’re back in the chair writing and directing again. 

So I said, “Charlie, if you want to portray me as the commercial imperative, fine. ’Cause I got a sense o’ humour. But I want my redeeming scene.”

 

So he made you a restrained curmudgeon with a heart of gold!

 

Yes. He wrote a wonderful redeeming scene complete with a clinch when Nicolas Cage throws his arms around Brian Cox and gives him a hug. Ah, Jesus!

 

Brian Cox (in Succession, 2019- )

Are you comfortable with Brian Cox’s performance?

 

I cast him. I had to have a say in the casting. It was one of the conditions I set to use me. And, most importantly, I needed to know their philosophy of casting. I couldn’t tell them exactly who to cast because such a person might not be available. I wouldn’t hamstring a director in that way. So I said, “Gimme a list and I’ll go through it and I’ll check off anyone I think is inappropriate. And I’ll leave you plenty of choices.”

Mostly I wanted to see that list because I wanted to see what was in their heads. It could have been that their philosophy was Dan Aykroyd, Danny De Vito, John Lithgow. But they gave me their list and it was the top ten British actors of all time: Christopher Plummer, Michael Caine, Terence Stamp, Albert Finney. It goes on and on. Why they wanted to go with British actors impressed me. And I said, “I want Brian Cox. He’s done seven films this year and, if he’s available, he’s my number one choice.” And so they went to London and talked to Brian.

 

What was there about Brian Cox that made you want him?

 

He’s one of the greatest actors alive today. 

 

But he’s only ever played supporting roles…

 

Supporting roles that we know. But, you see, I lived in England for 10 years and I’ve seen Brian umpteen times in the West End and in these little films that don’t get far beyond England, where he has played leads. But I know Brian to be a great actor, and what I love about him is this: all these other actors are wonderful, but in the subtext of their work – say, when Michael Caine is playing a villain or anything – there’s this love-me-love-me thing. There’s a sense of charm, or a sense of “It’s not my fault”, something that tries to draw your empathy, your love, no matter what they’re doing. OK? I mean like Michael Caine in The Cider House Rules: “You gotta love me!” 

I said, “I want Brian because he won’t do that.” Brian Cox is kind of like a Humphrey Bogart-Jack Nicholson kind of actor. He doesn’t play for the heart. If you go with the guy, you go with him. But he’s not asking you to love him. It’s more rigorous somehow. 

If it’s required, an actor like Bogey, or Jack Nicholson, or Brian Cox can draw that love. They know how to do that. But if it’s not required, they don’t do it because they’re tougher than that somehow. And that’s a critical consideration if you’re gonna put me in front of the world. Because I do not want that dependency relationship with writers. 

You know they call me “the guru of screenwriting”, which is always a bit annoying because it’s denigrating to students. I mean, I’ve got a couple of dozen Oscar winners and a hundred Emmy winners coming to my courses, excellent writers. Calling me a “guru” suggests they’re mindless devotees hanging on the coat tails of the master. That’s bullshit. I’m a teacher! OK. And I make certain that students understand that they cannot call me on the phone.

You’re a writer. You know. These people have to sit in a room for months, sometimes years. I’m not there to hold their hand. They have to be artists on their own two feet and tough and disciplined and dependent on no-one but themselves to produce the best work that they’re capable of. So I don’t want dependency from my students. And I don’t want Christopher Plummer or somebody getting up there and suggesting I’m this warm-hearted guy who throws his arms around his kissy-faced students.

I want to inspire them to love the art. There has to be love in what they do, but love of the art. Respect for themselves as artists, and caring about the audience and ensuring that the work they’re doing is civilising. 

So I said, “All those others guys are all wonderful and would be all fine and I’ll accept them if you can’t get Brian. But if you can get him, do it because he’s gonna do me in an honest way, without that lovey thing.”

 

Did he come and study you by way of preparing for the part?

 

Oh, sure. He attended my lectures in Scotland. And once he was cast, he attended other lectures.

I took my son to a screening at Columbia about six months before the film came out. Now it’s one thing for me to sit there and watch myself being portrayed. And I’ve portrayed myself in another movie called 20 Dates [1998, directed by Myles Berkowitz]. I’ve seen myself on the screen. When I lived in England, I did two long TV series on the arts and in fact won a BAFTA for one of them. But imagine what it’s like for a son to see his father portrayed by a movie star, you know. So when we left the film, I turned to Paul and said, “What’d you think, Paul?” And he said, “Dad, he nailed ya.” 

 

Which parts exactly?

 

You know, there’s a line where they talk about “ripping Charlie Kauffman a new arse-hole”. I turned to Paul and I said, “Is that what it’s like to be on the receiving end of me?” And he said, “Yeah.” 

(To be continued)