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Tag: Rebecca Miller

  • In ‘Mr. Scorsese,’ fitting a filmmaking titan into the frame

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    NEW YORK (AP) — The first time the filmmaker Rebecca Miller met Martin Scorsese was on the set of 2002’s “Gangs of New York.” Miller’s husband, Daniel Day-Lewis, was starring in it. There, Miller found an anxious Scorsese on the precipice of the film’s enormous fight scene, shot on a sprawling set.

    “He seemed like a young man, hoping that he had chosen the right way to shoot a massive scene,” Miller recalls. “I was stunned by how youthful and alive he was.”

    That remains much the same throughout Miller’s expansive and stirring documentary portrait of the endlessly energetic and singularly essential filmmaker. In “Mr. Scorsese,” which premieres Friday on Apple TV, Miller captures the life and career of Scorsese, whose films have made one of the greatest sustained arguments for the power of cinema.

    “We talk about 32 films, which is a lot of films. But there are yet more films,” Miller says, referencing Scorsese’s projects to come. “It’s a life that overspills its own bounds. You think you’ve got it, and then it’s more and more and more.”

    Scorsese’s life has long had a mythic arc: The asthmatic kid from Little Italy who grew up watching old movies on television and went on to make some of the defining New York films. That’s a part of “Mr. Scorsese,” too, but Miller’s film, culled from 20 hours of interviews with Scorsese over five years, is a more intimate, reflective and often funny conversation about the compulsions that drove him and the abiding questions — of morality, faith and filmmaking — that have guided him.

    “Who are we? What are we, I should say?” Scorsese says in the opening moments of the series. “Are we intrinsically good or evil?”

    “This is the struggle,” he adds. “I struggle with it all the time.”

    Miller began interviewing Scorsese during the pandemic. He was then beginning to make “Killers of the Flower Moon.” Their first meetings were outside. Miller first pitched the idea to Scorsese as a multifaceted portrait. Then, she imagined a two-hour documentary. Later, by necessity, it turned into a five-hour series. It still feels too short.

    “I explained I wanted to take a cubist approach, with different shafts of light on him from all different perspectives — collaborators, family,” Miller says. “Within a very short amount of time, he sort of began talking as if we were doing it. I was a bit confused, thinking, ‘Is this a job interview or a planning situation?’”

    Scorsese’s own documentaries have often been some of the most insightful windows into him. In one of his earliest films, “Italianamerican” (1974), he interviewed his parents. His surveys of cinema, including 1995’s “A Personal Journey With Martin Scorsese Through American Movies” and 1999’s “My Voyage to Italy,” have been especially revealing of the inspirations that formed him. Scorsese has never penned a memoir, but these movies come close.

    While the bulk of “Mr. Scorsese” are the director’s own film-to-film recollections, a wealth of other personalities color in the portrait. That includes collaborators like editor Thelma Schoonmaker, Paul Schrader, Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio and Day-Lewis. It also includes Scorsese’s children, his ex-wives and his old Little Italy pals. One, Salvatore “Sally Gaga” Uricola for the first time is revealed as the model for De Niro’s troublemaking, mailbox-blowing-up Johnny Boy in “Mean Streets.”

    “Cinema consumed him at such an early age and it never left him,” DiCaprio says in the film. “There will never be anyone like him again,” says Steven Spielberg.

    It can be easy to think of Scorsese, perhaps the most revered living filmmaker, as an inevitability, that of course he gets to make the films he wants. But “Mr. Scorsese” is a reminder how often that wasn’t the case and how frequently Scorsese found himself on the outside of Hollywood, whether due to box-office disappointment, a clash of style or the perceived danger in controversial subjects (“Taxi Driver,” “The Last Temptation of Christ”) he was drawn to.

    “He was fighting for every single film,” Miller says. “Cutting this whole thing was like riding a bucking bronco. You’re up and you’re down, you’re dead, then alive.”

    Film executives today, an especially risk-averse lot, could learn some lessons from “Mr. Scorsese” in what a difference they can make for a personal filmmaker. As discussed in the film, in the late ’70s, producer Irwin Winkler refused to do “Rocky II” with United Artists unless they also made “Raging Bull.”

    For Miller, whose films include “The Ballad of Jack and Rose” and “Maggie’s Plan,” being around Scorsese was an education. She found his films began to infect “Mr. Scorsese.” The cutting of the documentary took on the style of his film’s editing. “In proximity to these film,” she says, “you start to breathe the air.”

    Nearness to Scorsese also inevitably means movie recommendations. Lots of them. One that stood out for Miller was “The Insect Woman,” Japanese filmmaker Shōhei Imamura’s 1963 drama about three generations of women.

    “He’s still doing it,” Miller says. “He’s still sending me movies.”

    “Mr. Scorsese” recently debuted at the New York Film Festival, where Miller’s son, Ronan Day-Lewis made his directorial debut with “Anemone,” a film that marked her husband’s return from retirement. At the “Mr. Scorsese” premiere, a packed audience at Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall came to enthusiastically revel in, and pay tribute to its subject.

    “You hear all those people laughing with him or suddenly bursting into applause when they see Thelma Schoonmaker or at the end of the ‘Last Waltz’ sequence,” Miller says. “There was a sense of such palpable enthusiasm and love. My husband said something I thought was very beautiful: It reminded everyone of how much they love him.”

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  • How’s Martin Scorsese as a Documentary Subject?

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    Documenting the life and work of Martin Scorsese would be a daunting task for any filmmaker. But it’s one that Rebecca Miller threw herself into after pitching herself for the job.

    After interacting with the iconic filmmaker behind Taxi Driver, Raging Bull and Goodfellas a few times over the years, Miller contacted his documentary producing partner to see if anyone was doing a documentary on him. Directors had been trying, she heard, but Scorsese hadn’t given anyone the green light. So Miller threw her hat in the ring. “I had a meeting, and by the end of that meeting, it felt to me like maybe we were making this film,” she says.

    It turns out, they were. Releasing on Apple TV on Friday, her five-part docuseries Mr. Scorsese chronicles the director’s trajectory from his boyhood in lower Manhattan’s Little Italy neighborhood, observing the wise guys that ultimately suffused his later gangster films, all the way to prep on 2023’s Killers of the Flower Moon. It’s informed by around 20 hours of interviews with Scorsese as well as many more hours with a star-studded array of figures from his past and collaborators, Leonardo DiCaprio and Thelma Schoonmaker among them. The series covers the highs and lows, on a spectrum from winning his best director Oscar for The Departed to periods of drug abuse and depression.

    That even Scorsese has had an up-and-down journey “sort of gives hope to all of us that there’s a way you can redefine yourself always,” says Miller.

    In an interview with The Hollywood Reporter, Miller discussed the underappreciated films she wanted to highlight in the series, her treatment of Scorsese’s faith and bringing the filmmaker together with his New York boyhood pals for catch-up sessions that appear in the series.

    Did you as a director have any trepidation about tackling Martin Scorsese’s life and work?

    I think I was excited about it. Very often I sublimate fear when I’m working because if I allowed myself to feel fear and anxiety, I would never do anything. So I have to kind of pretend it’s not there. Now in retrospect, I’m nervous, but I’m very glad that I did it. I just took it on thinking, I think I can do something here. I think I have a way in and then just put one foot in front of the other, really.

    Where did the idea originate to bring together some of Scorsese’s boyhood pals for conversations with him for the film?

    So what happened was that he had these photographs of his childhood with him for the first interview. And a few of them were these dear childhood friends and it became clear to me that these people were hugely important in his formation and the raw material for his later work. So I started talking to him about is he still in contact with them? Was there any way I could find them? And in fact, he was still in touch with Robert Uricola and John Bivona and a few others who were his really close friends. I ended up contacting them and in a couple of cases going to Florida to talk to them. And then we also had these two amazing shoots, one in a cafe and one in a restaurant, where he talked to his oldest friends. And it was a real privilege because it’s also an anthropological journey of people. Robert Uricola is no longer alive, and he was the key to a lot of the memories.

    How open and voluble did you find Scorsese from the jump or did it take some time to get him to open up? 

    I really wasn’t manipulating the situation at all. I came in full of curiosity, not knowing very much about his private life, but knowing a lot about his films, having studied his films pretty carefully, and the time around his films. In other words, every year I knew what was being made, I understood the film business and what the whole culture of film was around him, but a lot of the personal things I was really surprised by or didn’t know, I just didn’t know, even the details of his childhood. And so it was me being curious and him having decided, I think, to be honest.

    Scorsese’s producing partner, his manager, the sister of his manager and a financial backer of the manager’s company all served as different kinds of producers on this project. How did that come about and did that put any creative limitations on what you could depict in the film?

    I’m glad you asked that. So essentially what happened was when we started out, it was like Marty said “yes,” he wants to do it, and then it was the pandemic literally three days later, the shutters came down. And so we started by self-financing and just doing it on my porch. We did that a couple of times, about four-hour interviews each, and then we did a little light editing to really get a sense of where we were, what we had, what we wanted to do. By this time, of course, Rick Yorn knew about the project because he’s Marty’s manager and producer, and we were going to go out to all the usual suspects and try and get financing. But he suggested that he go to Apple. First of all, he gave some gap financing through his company. And then Apple came on board and [he] really made that introduction because they have that relationship with Apple. But we were like, okay, if that works, then we’re fine, we’ll just continue working on it.

    Part of it is that I have creative control on the film and I don’t really work unless I have creative control, so that was a prerequisite for me. And he was incredibly respectful. And I guess not incredibly, because he really took his cue from Marty. So that’s your answer. I didn’t have any artistic interference, but he did get involved on that financial level as gap financing and then finally finding us Apple, which was lovely because then we didn’t have to go to absolutely everybody and do it.

    Are there any films that you think were underappreciated or under-recognized that you particularly wanted to highlight in this series or talk to?

    Yeah, I feel like Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore is a film that a lot of people haven’t seen, but it’s just a wonderful film, really a tremendous film. And also The Age of Innocence is perhaps one of my favorite films of his. And it’s interesting because Mark Harris says something that I think is really interesting in the film, which is that because of the great success of his movies about the mob, he became “the mob director.” But really his subject is worlds, distinct worlds, and he wants to go in and he wants to understand them. So there’s a part of Marty that is an anthropologist and wants to understand and say, “This is how we lived at this time” to the next generation or whatever. He’s really into what really happened, what did people really do? And you can feel that the detail of that in each of the films, I think.

    The series really hammers home Scorsese’s exploration of good and evil in his work. Is that something that you came to the film wanting to look at, or a theme you discovered along the way?

    Well, I’d say that from the beginning I was very interested in what I thought was his spiritual life, which I had the feeling was very important to his films, but I didn’t really know how exactly. [In] some of the more overtly religious films, it’s obvious, but how does that jive with Raging Bull? How does it jive with Goodfellas and so on? But you realize that it’s all these questions, these big questions about good and evil and what are we are kind of sewn into all his work. And that was something that I was really interested in exploring and that was kind of my way in, essentially.

    A lot of people have an idea of who Martin Scorsese is. What do you hope they discover as a result of watching this series?

    I read something where somebody describes the series as a crazy ride in a hot air balloon where you’re up, then you’re down, then you’re up, then you’re down, you think you’re crashing into the water, then all of a sudden you’re up over the hills. And that’s what I think, is you realize that there were so many times where he really felt like it was over. He had crashed out to the bottom and then all of a sudden he’s back again, he’s alive. I mean, literally he had near-death experiences. I think it sort of gives hope to all of us that there’s a way you can redefine yourself always. And the other thing, of course, the most important thing perhaps, is that it brings people back to the films that they either rewatch or discover films. They thought they knew him but no, there’s another aspect. His project in the largest way of looking at it is kind of like our country, all these decades of our country and how it’s reflected in his work, for better and worse — the beauty and the greed and the violence and the love. So much of it is reflected in this work.

    Was there anything left on the cutting room floor that you were kind of devastated to leave behind on this one?

    There’s one thing that I still would like to put out as its own little thing, which is the story of how he [Scorsese] essentially saved the great director Michael Powell from complete obscurity, living in a trailer in the Cotswalds, and brought him to the United States and he got a teaching job. Marty really enabled people to discover him [and] his films, and also he met Thelma Schoonmaker, who is obviously Marty’s longtime collaborator and editor, and they got married. And it’s just a very beautiful story, but it just didn’t fit in a documentary about Marty. And it’s something that I think is beautiful and also says a lot about Marty, but sometimes in order to make something good, you have to lose things.

    Are there any films that you discovered or rediscovered as a result of doing this film?

    I didn’t know his early films. One thing that’s really extraordinary is if you look at It’s Not Just You, Murray!, which he made when he was something like 22 or 21 years old, it has the keys to Goodfellas in it. I mean, it’s really mirroring Goodfellas in terms of its approach to form, its energy and its relationship to language and voiceover. Not only that, but he had storyboards that he made when he was nine or 10 years old that contain a shot that he is still attempting to make. And we actually animated his little storyboards when he was a child and you realize, oh my god, he’s still making [these], and we show the shots. He was, in a way, a complete person as a filmmaker. He was so complete in his understanding of the language. But at the same time, it took him so long and he’s still discovering, he’s still developing. He still has the same hunger as he did when he started out.

    This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

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    Katie Kilkenny

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  • Drugs, Divorce, and Directors Jail: Martin Scorsese Unpacks His Darkest Chapters in New Documentary

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    One of the most surprising realities of Martin Scorsese’s success is just how often he was on the brink of losing it. The 82-year-old auteur’s setbacks occupy as much real estate as his victories do in Mr. Scorsese, a five-part docuseries covering his film career, now streaming on Apple TV.

    Directed by Rebecca Miller, daughter of playwright Arthur Miller and wife of Daniel Day-Lewis (who starred in Scorsese’s The Age of Innocence and Gangs of New York), Mr. Scorsese follows the director from his rough-and-tumble adolescence in New York’s Little Italy neighborhood to his making of the 10-time Oscar-nominated Killers of the Flower Moon (2023)—touching on every set in between. Scorsese discusses his oeuvre in great detail—with assists from family, friends, and former collaborators such as Day-Lewis, Francesca Scorsese, Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio, Mick Jagger, Steven Spielberg, Jodie Foster, and Cate Blanchett, as well as Casino’s Sharon Stone and The Wolf of Wall Street’s Margot Robbie, both of whom speak candidly about working on their respective male-dominated Scorsese projects.

    After exploring the Mob violence he grew up near on film, Scorsese was often reduced to his gangster dramas (Mean Streets, Goodfellas), but nearly as much of the filmmaker’s work is rooted in his Catholic religion (The Last Temptation of Christ, Silence). Even Scorsese’s otherwise secular titles ponder questions like, “Who are we? What are we, I should say, as human beings?” as he says in the series’ opening. “Are we intrinsically good or evil?… This is the struggle. And I struggle with it all the time.”

    That dichotomy is reflected in some of Scorsese’s darker chapters, which range from a drug addiction during the 1970s to four divorces before his marriage to his current wife, Helen Morris, in 1999. “The problem is that you enjoy the sin!” Scorsese says in the series. “That’s the problem I’ve always had! I enjoy it. When I was bad, I enjoyed a lot of it.” Ahead, some of the most revealing moments from Mr. Scorsese.

    Scorsese credits his childhood asthma with facilitating his love of cinema.

    “As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster,” Ray Liotta’s character memorably declares at the end of Goodfellas’ opening scene. But Scorsese himself actually pursued the priesthood before his love of movies took root. He grew up first in Corona, Queens, then in New York City’s Lower East Side after witnessing an altercation between his father, Charles, a Garment District worker, and their landlord. “There was an axe involved. I remember seeing an axe,” Scorsese says in the doc, without elaborating much further. “Violence was imminent all the time.”

    When not braving the mean streets or finding refuge in the Catholic Church, an asthmatic Scorsese often visited air-conditioned movie theaters and engaged in people-watching from his apartment window. In the series, Scorsese even credits that particular vantage point with instilling his love of high-angle shots in movies.
    “Marty’s life depended upon going to movies,” says Goodfellas and Casino screenwriter Nicholas Pileggi. “That’s where he could breathe.” Or as Spike Lee more colorfully puts it: “Thank God for asthma!”

    Scorsese fantasized about destroying the rough cut of Taxi Driver after it received an X rating.

    After helming the Roger Corman–produced exploitation film Boxcar Bertha (1972), his first De Niro gangster epic, Mean Streets (1973), and Ellen Burstyn’s Oscar-winning turn in Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974), Scorsese had his major industry breakthrough with Taxi Driver in 1976—which had a fraught journey to the screen.

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    Savannah Walsh

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  • Playwright Arthur Miller’s old studio is in a Connecticut parking lot, awaiting its next act

    Playwright Arthur Miller’s old studio is in a Connecticut parking lot, awaiting its next act

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    ROXBURY, Conn. (AP) — After breakfast each morning, renowned playwright Arthur Miller would walk up a grassy slope to his creative sanctuary, a modest 300-square-foot studio with a small deck overlooking a stream and woods on his beloved Connecticut property.

    From 1958 until his death in 2005 at age 89, it was where the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer crafted and revised numerous plays, social commentary, personal journals, his autobiography and other materials, including screenplays for the films “The Misfits” (1961) and “The Crucible” (1996). Considered one of nation’s greatest playwrights, Miller was known for his dramas with strong moral and personal responsibility that often laid bare the failings of the American dream.

    Today, the view from the studio is less inspiring.

    Unbeknownst to many locals, for the last five years, the shingled, one-room structure has been tucked away behind the Roxbury, Connecticut, town hall — next to a rusted dumpster and snow plows in a nondescript parking lot, awaiting an uncertain next act.

    “It’s a piece of Roxbury history. And we can’t let it disappear,” said Marc Olivieri, a former neighbor of Miller’s and a builder who moved the studio to its current location, which was supposed to be temporary.

    A group working with Miller’s daughter, writer and filmmaker Rebecca Miller, has been trying to raise $1 million to renovate the structure and move it to the grounds of a local public library.

    They also hope to offer related programming, which Olivieri, a board member for the nonprofit Arthur Miller Writing Studio, insists is the most important part of the project.

    “Ideas and ideals are essential to maintaining the moral direction of this country,” Olivieri wrote in an email. “Writers like Miller provide the stories that color these ideas.”

    Roxbury is a quiet, bucolic community of 2,200 that is about 87 miles (140 km) northeast of New York City, and has long been a home to famous writers, artists and performers — including the late Broadway lyricist and composer Stephen Sondheim, the late authors Frank McCourt and William Styron and the late sculptor Alexander Calder.

    In the late 1950s, Hollywood legend Marilyn Monroe, Miller’s second wife, lived there too.

    “A lot of these people go there because it’s not New York. It’s out of the way. It’s quiet and people don’t make a fuss about them,” said Sarah Griswold, board president of the Arthur Miller Writing Studio. “There’s no real commemoration or acknowledgment of the creativity that lives in these hills.”

    The group, which is partnering with other Arthur Miller organizations, hopes future visitors to the studio will learn about the playwright’s work and activism, as well as attend workshops on writing, theater and topics he cared about, such as mass incarceration. There are plans to eventually host writer residencies and an online repository.

    But the group has so far raised less than $20,000 through its GoFundMe site and is now under pressure to step up fundraising efforts due to planned improvements to the highway department’s parking lot.

    The studio, which Miller helped design and which still has the mismatched, linoleum floor tiles he laid himself, was the playwright’s second writing spot in Roxbury. He wrote “Death of a Salesman” (1949) at a cabin he built at a previous home.

    The newer studio wound up in its current spot after Rebecca Miller sold her father’s second property. Figuring the new owners might tear down the small outbuilding, she turned to the town for help and paid to have it shored up and moved temporarily.

    Rebecca Miller, who said she set aside proceeds from the house sale to contribute toward the $1 million goal, is donating the studio to the town.

    “It could go all sorts of places, but I really wanted it to belong to Roxbury because Roxbury was really his home for such a long time,” she said. “And so I thought it was kind of beautiful that it would belong to the town ultimately.”

    But fundraising has been challenging.

    “You can have a poetic idea, but then to actually make this happen is another thing entirely,” she said.

    “I do feel that there is money in the community,” she said. “Once people realize that others are giving, I think there will be more of a sense of people giving. And I think there is starting to be a groundswell of support.”

    Rebecca Miller salvaged the modest furnishings from the studio, including a daybed, a pot-belly wood stove and an old metal office chair that her father, a jack-of-all-trades, insisted on fixing rather than replacing. Once the building is renovated, the items will be arranged just like the playwright left them.

    Black-and-white photographs taken by Magnum photographer Inge Morath — Rebecca Miller’s mother and Arthur Miller’s third wife — document the playwright at work over the decades in the 14-by-20-foot space. The images will be used as a guide.

    Arthur Miller progressed from working at a desk he made from a wooden door to eventually a third desk he built with heavy plywood to hold his early computer equipment and a printer.

    Wearing his signature dark-rimmed glasses, he’s seen in a 1997 photo sitting back and reading over a manuscript, surrounded by dark wood paneling. Nearby, there’s an open dictionary and a typewriter. A radio and reference books sit on some shelves.

    In another photo, taken 25 years earlier, a serious-looking Miller poses, crossed legs, with a pipe in his mouth. A photo from 1963 shows him meeting in the studio with director Elia Kazan and producer Robert Whitehead, who worked together on the play “After the Fall,” which ran on Broadway for 208 performances.

    The writer’s literary assistant in the last decade of his life, Julia Bolus — also director of the Arthur Miller Trust and a Writing Studio board member — remembers the studio well. She said they worked there together in the afternoons after Miller was done writing for the day.

    “For almost half a century, it was his central space and his one private space,” said Bolus, who is working on a project to publish Miller’s journals. “The door was always open to his family, but people did give him … that morning time to himself.”

    Mary Tyrrell, a pharmacist and owner of the historic Canfield Corner Pharmacy in nearby Woodbury, remembers how Miller would pick up his newspaper and chat at the soda fountain with her late mother, Vera Elsenboss, the former owner. Tyrrell described the writer as unassuming — someone who might be a little embarrassed by today’s public attention to his no-frills literary refuge but who would ultimately appreciate it being preserved.

    One day, Tyrrell said, her mother demanded the writer take off his favorite sweater and allow her to mend the worn-out elbows with new leather patches. Miller lamented that it wasn’t the same.

    “She goes, ‘You’re right, Arthur, but this is what you deserve,’” Tyrrell said. “The people who loved him revered him as more than he thought of himself sometimes, which is kind of a nice thing for the community.”

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