Apocalypse on the Set Read online

  After the filming concluded, Landis traveled to Europe, where he worked for two years on the sets of various spaghetti westerns. Though these genre films formed the foundation of his professional career, Landis’s ultimate inspiration came from the whimsical, indulgent monster movies that he loved as an adolescent. An early infatuation with the macabre was the basis for his unique style of horror: a meandering approach that never seems to take itself seriously. Landis returned to the United States in 1971 and attempted to turn his script Schlock into a feature film. A modest budget of $60,000 was an appropriate sum for a film that was crafted to take self-effacing jabs at the ridiculous, low-budget monster movies of Landis’s youth. A distributor picked up the final product, but the film never earned the profits or recognition Landis had hoped for. Instead, people seemed more interested in the notion of someone as young as Landis—he was twenty-one at the time—directing a feature theatrical release. It was this novelty that landed him an invitation as a guest on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Yet, despite this brief period of notoriety, Landis would quickly fall back into the shadows.

  After years of pitching film ideas to studios while scratching and clawing his way to greater opportunities, Landis was finally contacted by Jim Abrahams and David Zucker, who had written a script they called Kentucky Fried Movie, a loosely strung collection of simple comedic skits aimed to satirize television and popular culture. Landis watched their ten-minute demo reel and agreed to direct the picture. After being turned down by several studios, they eventually raised $1 million from various independent sources. The film came out as a summer release in 1977, and it managed to garner a modest profit and equally modest praise. A Time magazine review remarked that the film expresses “the hope that television is not bending to the breaking point all the young minds exposed to it…. There is a lot of good sense of humor in its assaults on television and the movies’ sillier realms.”9 In a flash of premonition, the reviewer unknowingly predicts Landis’s next movie when he wrote that the film “is a sort of National Lampoon’s that talks and moves.” Shortly after Kentucky Fried Movie, Universal placed a $2.7 million bet on a film of little expectations called Animal House, Landis’s third directorial effort. The film grossed $200 million. Landis was just twenty-eight years old. Perhaps this early success had the effect of halting his development. His unflinching, raw look at the sloth of college life was richly rewarded. His youthful demeanor was now his most important asset for directing films geared toward a newly identified demographic.

  His appetite free to grow unchecked by the studios, eager to claim his next picture as theirs, Landis became a victim of his own success. One producer remarked, “He’s so arrogant. He’s his own worst enemy. But he has a reason to be arrogant. He’s the most talented director I’ve worked with. You love John or you hate him.”10 The studios had their minds made up. They loved him and were ready to satisfy his every whim. His next feature, The Blues Brothers, was the story of two brothers on “a mission from God” to reunite their band. It was a simple framework from which to hang numerous chase scenes, explosions and dance routines. No expense was too great. The production required 300 car crashes involving 120 stunt cars, 60 of which were destroyed. One of the most apt descriptions comes from critic Roger Ebert, who observed, “The Blues Brothers is the Sherman tank of musicals.”11 Ebert goes on to say that the film “cost untold millions of dollars and kept threatening to grow completely out of control.”

  The sound and spectacle of The Blues Brothers suggest that a large part of Landis’s style is born out of the bravado of youth. Each scene strives to outperform the last, as if the director is imploring the viewers to gaze in awe at the orchestra of destruction he has the power to conduct. The result was a film that would bring in over $57 million in domestic receipts. It seemed as long as the numbers kept adding up, Universal was willing to turn a blind eye to the rumors of recklessness surrounding Landis’s special effects and stunt sequences.

  His next project was a relic from his past, titled An American Werewolf in London. Having written it years earlier, Landis was finally in a position to direct his own material. Once again, Universal agreed to distribute the film, but Landis, perhaps anxious to escape the watchful eyes of studio suits, collected $10 million from several independent sources to finance the project. Though the film earned less than his earlier feats, it did rise to profitable territory, while retaining Landis’s accomplished sense for action, mayhem and gore beneath a thin veil of dark humor. It was his unique, brazen approach to storytelling that earned Landis praise from audiences and industry moguls alike. One notable admirer was Steven Spielberg, who was anxious to embark on a joint effort with Landis.

  Another Dimension

  When Warner Bros. mentioned an ambitious project to adapt Rod Serling’s 1960s-era television show The Twilight Zone, Spielberg leapt at the opportunity. It was finally a chance for the two of them to collaborate on a picture, a goal they shared since first meeting after the success of Animal House. The press had already made note of Landis’s induction into a growing fraternity of young directors who were commanding salaries and privileges once reserved for the elite veterans of Hollywood. In a review of An American Werewolf in London, Newsweek writer Jack Kroll identified Landis as “a member of the wise-guy generation of movie directors…. What they see through that camera is not so much the real world as other movies, which they parody, put on, take off and otherwise play with like the brilliant kids they are.”12 Landis’s contract for Twilight Zone: The Movie reflected his meteoric rise to success. For this film, he would stand shoulder to shoulder with Spielberg, acting as coproducer. His salary, a relatively modest sum of $150,000, was a pleasant afterthought compared to the potential income he was poised to receive with the five gross profit points he was awarded. Landis was also granted the coveted right of final cut, allowing him to make virtually all artistic decisions on his portion of the film under the condition that it remained within the boundaries of a PG rating.

  The near limitless control bestowed on Landis was common among proponents of the auteur theory of filmmaking. French film critic and theorist André Bazin first explored the idea of the director as the “author” of the film. This theory, popularized first in the 1950s, suggests that the director is the sole commanding visionary behind the work and the lone architect of the mise-en-scène. The French term mise-en-scène, literally translated as “putting on stage,” can mean everything that is placed within the camera lens, including the actors, set and props. Though the term has many interpretations and definitions, the mise-en-scène could be thought of in this sense as the completed canvas of the director’s efforts. French film critic Alexandre Astruc elaborated the analogy through the idea of the director’s caméra-stylo, or the “camera-pen.” This theory suggests that the director is more of a storyteller than a screenwriter, dominating the screen with his or her singular creative strokes.

  However, some do not buy into this theory. As writer and director David Mamet explained, “On the set, the male director is traditionally addressed as ‘sir.’ This can be an expression of respect. It can also be a linguistic nicety—a film worker once explained to me he’d been taught early on that ‘sir’ means ‘asshole.’ And, indeed, the opportunities for tolerated execrable behavior on the set abound.”13 He also said, “Whom is the film ‘by’? Spend a day on the set and you learn. It is by everyone who worked on it.” In regard to Landis’s imperial command over the shoot, it is difficult to know who held the greater belief in the auteur theory, Landis or the studio. It seems both were content with the hierarchy that held the director king above cast, crew and perhaps reason. So long as the box office numbers ascended to majestic heights, Landis was ruler.

  One person all too thrilled to be inducted into Landis’s court was veteran actor Vic Morrow, slated to be the lead in Landis’s segment. Born in 1929, the Bronx native had early aspirations to become an actor. Morrow looked for acting work while supporting himself as a taxi driver, eve
ntually showing up to an open casting call for an MGM movie called The Blackboard Jungle. Morrow caught the attention of the producer and director, outdoing numerous others who auditioned, including a young Steve McQueen. His impressive debut won him a long-term contract with MGM. Yet, it seemed his success portraying a thug was simultaneously the beginning and end of his career. He was largely typecast as a one-dimensional villain thereafter. However, he did manage to turn this tough exterior into a rewarding role on the television series Combat, in which he played an army squadron leader in World War II. The show became a hit and earned Morrow an Emmy nomination. This success was likely an inspiration to one of his daughters, who would later forge an acting career of her own under the name Jennifer Jason Leigh.

  Combat was canceled in 1967, and though Morrow found work on other projects, he continued to be cast as a tough-guy character and was increasingly anxious to gain some distance from these roles. There were TV spots here and there, but it was clear that he was getting older, and people were quick to forget his early successes. He struggled to find roles that would challenge him. Then, in the summer of 1982, he got the offer he’d been waiting for. For Twilight Zone: The Movie, Morrow was cast to play a bigot named Bill who had to confront his own prejudices as he was unwittingly swept through a series of historical events in which he was forced to embody the persecuted. In one scene, he is pursued by Nazis; in another he is the target of relentless white supremacists. His character pleads with his captors to recognize that he isn’t who they claim he is, but his desperation goes unheeded, and he faces death repeatedly.

  Warner Bros. had some reservations about the original script. The lead character was too one-dimensional, and the studio was concerned that audiences wouldn’t relate to Bill’s cold, racist personality. The general opinion was that the story would not serve much of a purpose without some form of redemption built into Bill’s development. It was at the studio’s urging that Landis decided to alter the events of the story. In one scene the script called for Bill to experience the horrors of the Vietnam War. The addition to the plot required Morrow to make a bold effort to save two young Vietnamese orphans from a small hut as a U.S. Army helicopter hovered above and destroyed their home. In the new scene, Morrow would traverse a shallow body of water as explosives ignited in the background while he carried the orphans to the shore, one under each arm. The seemingly harmless decision to imbue the segment with an inspirational note ultimately proved fatal to all three.

  With Morrow now secured in the lead role, Landis and the production were tasked with casting two young children to play the orphans. Landis and the associate producer immediately saw a problem: The shoot was to take place at night, and state labor laws did not allow young children to work late hours. The laws also required any actor under the age of eighteen working on a film set to be accompanied by a state-certified teacher and welfare worker. These two restrictions limited their options for casting. It was suggested that two small dummies be used in lieu of actual children. The idea was quickly dismissed as an unreasonable compromise to the verisimilitude of the scene; it simply had to be real people. The restrictions against using children in this capacity were ignored as Landis pressed forward and continued to assemble the cast. Associate producer George Folsey Jr. began his search for two children, one boy and one girl about six to eight years old, who were Vietnamese, Chinese or Korean. He contacted Dr. Harold Schuman, the husband of a production secretary working on the film. Dr. Schuman was a psychiatrist who had recently acted as the director of a facility in South Central Los Angeles, a region that put him in close contact with the growing Asian population of the city. Folsey explained what Landis was looking for, though he neglected to mention that a helicopter would be used in the scene.

  Dr. Schuman called a former colleague, Dr. Chen, who indicated that his own children were too old for the part. However, Chen contacted his brother and sister-in-law, who consented to allow their six-year-old daughter, Renee Chen, to participate in the project. Shortly after, Myca Dinh Le, the son of one of Chen’s associates, was selected to play the other Vietnamese orphan.

  Landis’s cavalier attitude toward the law and safety became increasingly clear to those involved in production. Even Landis himself seemed to be aware of his blatant disregard for the law. Cynthia Gorney, reporting for the Washington Post, quoted a production secretary who testified in court that Landis was caught up with the grandeur of the upcoming helicopter scene, “Saying, you know, ‘I want it big. I want it big.’ And then he turned around and started up the hallway toward me. As we passed, he threw his arms up, and he said, ‘Aargh, we are all going to go to jail.’”14 Gorney reported, “‘We decided to break the law,’ Landis testified. ‘I thought we would honor—if not the letter of the law, but the spirit of the law. I thought we would find children whose parents—we could explain to them that we were doing a technical violation. I understand that was wrong.”15 For almost any parent, the thrill of participating in a movie was too much to ignore, especially when that film had Spielberg’s name attached to it, a strong asset after his recent internationally triumphant release of E.T. The agreement was for each child to receive $500 for one night of work.

  To execute the scene, the production would also need a skilled helicopter pilot to negotiate the challenging maneuvers of a low hover amid explosions. One of their first choices was John Gamble, who held the position of chief helicopter pilot for CBS news in Los Angeles. The job didn’t sound great to him: a diminutive fee for just one or possibly two nights of shooting. Also, his experience taught him that explosions such as the ones planned could lead to costly damages on a helicopter. In a prior incident, flying debris had damaged the router of his craft, resulting in $30,000 worth of repairs. Gamble eventually passed on the job, leaving the film without a pilot. On a tight budget such as this, costs were always a consideration and inexpensive resources were always explored. It was the pursuit of controlling costs that lead to Dorcey Wingo.

  Though willing to work for less pay, Wingo was a thoroughly experienced helicopter pilot. Twilight Zone: The Movie was his first Hollywood studio feature, but there was no doubt that his numerous transport missions in Vietnam, as well as his thousands of logged hours, technical knowledge and professionalism, made him a very capable pilot. For Wingo, the proposition not only promised a paying job, but a rare opportunity to gain a foothold in the motion picture industry. The job came to him at a desperate time. His father-in-law had died at the age of forty, and in an instant, the man’s young children were without financial support. Wingo stepped up and resolved to do everything he could to see that they would be looked after, but he couldn’t meet even their most basic needs with his income prior to the picture. Wingo recalled, “It would have solved all my problems.”16 With a film credit like Twilight Zone to his name, he would have industry experience to point to while trying to make inroads in Hollywood. From a professional standpoint, accepting the job made a lot of sense. What bolstered his enthusiasm even more was the anticipation of working with Landis, a venerated director with an infectious spirit flowing from the exuberant cadence of his voice. He was a man who delved into discussions of the endearing B movies of his youth, old studio back lots rife with treasured props, and tales of inventiveness on shoestring budgets. His knowledge of film history can only be described as encyclopedic, as he effortlessly extolled the mastery of classic spaghetti westerns or delighted in the shamelessness of the tacky British movies of the 1970s. His thick beard, thin frame and saucer glasses gave him an avuncular look, but his hands gestured wildly as he conducted an orchestra of words, recalling the thrilling movies of his childhood. His innocent fascination with film makes it easy to imagine that part of him is still the eight-year-old boy enraptured with The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.

  The Last Shot of the Night

  After waiting twenty-two years for another leading role in a feature film, Morrow was finally back where he wanted to be. At the age of fifty-three, he was starting all over.
Many scenes in the script called for his character to brave several dangerous encounters, but Morrow, while mindful of safety, was willing to push himself further to accommodate Landis’s penchant for realism at any cost. However, the scene to be filmed on the night of July 22 was something different, and it didn’t feel right to Morrow.

  The two young children, Myca and Renee, arrived on the set at 8:00 p.m. with ample time to prepare for their first shot, scheduled for 9:30 p.m. The cameras rolled as Morrow grabbed both children and rushed to the shore as an aquatic explosion jettisoned water and dirt into the air. The sound and debris frightened Renee, but the shot was achieved, and the children could all break before their next and final scene.

  In the meantime, Landis and the crew set up to shoot another scene with Morrow at 11:30 p.m. The script called for him to stand near the river and scream to the hovering helicopter that he was an American and to stop firing at him. There was a notation on the call sheet mandating that a stunt man, Gary McLarty, double for Morrow in this scene, which involved heavy explosions. However, in the interest of authenticity, Landis insisted that Morrow perform the scene himself. McLarty was relegated to operating a machine gun aboard the helicopter, simulating an attack on the protagonist below. The cameras rolled and the special effects technicians on the ground ignited their explosives on cue. The immense rising fireball sent flames licking the helicopter and lit up the night sky. Sheets of water sprayed onto the windshield of the craft, obstructing Wingo’s view and forcing him to stick his head outside of the cockpit in order to steer. As he came in for a landing, Wingo yelled, “They didn’t tell me about this!”17