Driving Me Crazy (1988) - Part 1 of 2 - Director: Nick Broomfield
- 8 years ago
Driving Me Crazy (1988) - Part 1 of 2 - Director - Nick Broomfield
As Michael Moore has lately demonstrated and Nick Broomfield now reaffirms, sometimes the best thing that can happen to a documentary film maker is for everything to go wrong. Roger Smith, the chairman of General Motors, gave Mr. Moore the lucky break of a lifetime by refusing to have anything to do with him, and in ''Driving Me Crazy,'' Mr. Broomfield is similarly favored by everyone who insults him, ignores him, threatens to cut off his financing and uses him as a sounding board for so-called creative input. Mr. Broomfield never got mad, though that would have been understandable. Instead, he got even.
''Driving Me Crazy,'' which opens today at the Bleecker Street Cinema, started out as a companion piece to ''Body and Soul,'' an all-black musical revue featuring an American cast and designed by the West German impresario Andre Heller for European audiences. (Mr. Broomfield, who is English, notes in voice-over that although he personally had never heard of Mr. Heller, this singer and director is a big European star.) Somebody had enough confidence in ''Body and Soul'' to suppose that a making-of-the-hit documentary would some day be in order, and so Mr. Broomfield's services were engaged.
But there were many differing opinions about exactly what Mr. Broomfield should be doing, and a lot of those opinions are vented on screen. The film's producer, Andrew Braunsberg, deserves credit for letting the film expose his own bad idea of creating ''an imaginary film producer called Max'' whose behind-the-scenes adventures would be the focus of Mr. Broomfield's film. This was quickly vetoed, but even if it hadn't been, an early budget cut from $1.6 million to $300,000 imposed severe limitations on what Mr. Broomfield could do.
Nevertheless, an insufferable screenwriter fond of discussing subtexts, transpositions and levels of reality had another suggestion: that he, Joe, become a character in the film, and that an actor play Joe's agent discussing the pros and cons of Joe's making this film from the standpoint of his own career. When Mr. Broomfield, who is a quiet, weary and thoroughly unpopular presence hovering over every scene, says he doesn't see what this has to do with an all-black musical, he and Joe quarrel bitterly. Mr. Broomfield has a nightmare that he and Joe have become Siamese twins, with Joe growing out of his shoulder.
It should be noted that Mr. Broomfield, who collaborated with Joan Churchill on such highly praised earlier documentaries as ''Soldier Girls'' and ''Tattooed Tears,'' seems to make quite a few enemies in his own right. The performers resent his presence, sometimes with good reason; the choreographer Mercedes Ellington is even hit in the head by Mr. Broomfield's camera, and later in the film he knocks into someone else. His own lighting man berates him for underestimating the time required to light certain scenes, and there is a lively quarrel over whose fault it is that the film crew blew some fuses.
The film's glum-looking backers don't like Mr. Broomfield much, either. (Watching the rushes, one backer complains about a hair in the corner of the frame. ''It's a small hair,'' Mr. Broomfield insists. ''People are going to be interested in the film anyway.'' ''Look! Two hairs!'' cries his irritable companion.) And there is a major fracas over a timing mix-up that keeps a group of auditioning performers waiting, causing the show's assistant director to snap: ''Don't be sorry. Just be organized, O.K.?''
The film's frank acknowledgement of these and other bad vibrations, including blatant racial prejudice on the part of one of the project's West German principals, gives it an exceptional and at times hilarious candor. Yet even that racial episode conveys the uniquely show-biz ethos of those involved. The West German insists, with a complacent smile, that he hates ''all black people except rappers and blues singers.'' Howard Porter, the show's droll and highly theatrical assistant director, says sweetly, ''I'm gonna have every black person who's not a rapper look you up.''
From the project's first Champagne toasts to its fleeting (because the funds ran out) look at the finished show, from Mr. Heller's lovely blond meditation-minded aide to the truly incomparable Joe, ''Driving Me Crazy'' captures the backstage life of this spirited production with a delightfully keen and jaundiced eye. Mr. Broomfield indeed managed to live through a nightmare and turn it into a documentary-maker's dream.
Uploader: forthedishwasher
As Michael Moore has lately demonstrated and Nick Broomfield now reaffirms, sometimes the best thing that can happen to a documentary film maker is for everything to go wrong. Roger Smith, the chairman of General Motors, gave Mr. Moore the lucky break of a lifetime by refusing to have anything to do with him, and in ''Driving Me Crazy,'' Mr. Broomfield is similarly favored by everyone who insults him, ignores him, threatens to cut off his financing and uses him as a sounding board for so-called creative input. Mr. Broomfield never got mad, though that would have been understandable. Instead, he got even.
''Driving Me Crazy,'' which opens today at the Bleecker Street Cinema, started out as a companion piece to ''Body and Soul,'' an all-black musical revue featuring an American cast and designed by the West German impresario Andre Heller for European audiences. (Mr. Broomfield, who is English, notes in voice-over that although he personally had never heard of Mr. Heller, this singer and director is a big European star.) Somebody had enough confidence in ''Body and Soul'' to suppose that a making-of-the-hit documentary would some day be in order, and so Mr. Broomfield's services were engaged.
But there were many differing opinions about exactly what Mr. Broomfield should be doing, and a lot of those opinions are vented on screen. The film's producer, Andrew Braunsberg, deserves credit for letting the film expose his own bad idea of creating ''an imaginary film producer called Max'' whose behind-the-scenes adventures would be the focus of Mr. Broomfield's film. This was quickly vetoed, but even if it hadn't been, an early budget cut from $1.6 million to $300,000 imposed severe limitations on what Mr. Broomfield could do.
Nevertheless, an insufferable screenwriter fond of discussing subtexts, transpositions and levels of reality had another suggestion: that he, Joe, become a character in the film, and that an actor play Joe's agent discussing the pros and cons of Joe's making this film from the standpoint of his own career. When Mr. Broomfield, who is a quiet, weary and thoroughly unpopular presence hovering over every scene, says he doesn't see what this has to do with an all-black musical, he and Joe quarrel bitterly. Mr. Broomfield has a nightmare that he and Joe have become Siamese twins, with Joe growing out of his shoulder.
It should be noted that Mr. Broomfield, who collaborated with Joan Churchill on such highly praised earlier documentaries as ''Soldier Girls'' and ''Tattooed Tears,'' seems to make quite a few enemies in his own right. The performers resent his presence, sometimes with good reason; the choreographer Mercedes Ellington is even hit in the head by Mr. Broomfield's camera, and later in the film he knocks into someone else. His own lighting man berates him for underestimating the time required to light certain scenes, and there is a lively quarrel over whose fault it is that the film crew blew some fuses.
The film's glum-looking backers don't like Mr. Broomfield much, either. (Watching the rushes, one backer complains about a hair in the corner of the frame. ''It's a small hair,'' Mr. Broomfield insists. ''People are going to be interested in the film anyway.'' ''Look! Two hairs!'' cries his irritable companion.) And there is a major fracas over a timing mix-up that keeps a group of auditioning performers waiting, causing the show's assistant director to snap: ''Don't be sorry. Just be organized, O.K.?''
The film's frank acknowledgement of these and other bad vibrations, including blatant racial prejudice on the part of one of the project's West German principals, gives it an exceptional and at times hilarious candor. Yet even that racial episode conveys the uniquely show-biz ethos of those involved. The West German insists, with a complacent smile, that he hates ''all black people except rappers and blues singers.'' Howard Porter, the show's droll and highly theatrical assistant director, says sweetly, ''I'm gonna have every black person who's not a rapper look you up.''
From the project's first Champagne toasts to its fleeting (because the funds ran out) look at the finished show, from Mr. Heller's lovely blond meditation-minded aide to the truly incomparable Joe, ''Driving Me Crazy'' captures the backstage life of this spirited production with a delightfully keen and jaundiced eye. Mr. Broomfield indeed managed to live through a nightmare and turn it into a documentary-maker's dream.
Uploader: forthedishwasher