What does it mean to start at the very beginning? For that matter, what does the concept of “beginning” mean? And how exactly does a beginner “begin”? These are the questions I now began to contemplate as my understanding of things was shattered by the concept of beginner’s mind.

For starters, a beginner does not begin by expecting to do anything good, great or original: He or she simply wants to tell a story, which can be defined as a narrative with a beginning, middle and end. The beginner does not desire to structure this narrative in a complex or ambitious way, but keeps things simple. Moreover, a beginner doesn’t expect to make his or her collaborators happy, or audiences respond in a positive way; those thoughts simply don’t occur because the beginner’s only goal is to tell a story.

Obviously, the desires Isabel and I had for Be Seen & Be Heard were ambitious–we wanted to address racism in the film industry and depict the struggles of minority actors and filmmakers striving for success. But this wasn’t Be Seen & Be Heard any longer; it was a new film called My Dinner with Andre Royo. As I began to recognize and discard the weighty ambitions which were holding me back, I started to see the material before my eyes in a new way. What if the film, which is named after My Dinner with Andre, and is ostensibly about a dinner conversation with Andre Royo, was actually just that–a dinner conversation? What if the storyline was simply about a struggling actress who goes from New York to Baltimore to talk with an established actor over dinner. Straightforward, yet very much like Louis Malle’s My Dinner with Andre in which a struggling playwright and actor has dinner with an eccentric and acclaimed theater director, and what ensues is a deeply engaging and enlightening conversation.

As this basic premise began to form in my mind, I started thinking that the narrative could stay close to the actual conditions under which the interview with Andre was obtained, and that the film could unfold like a documentary. In so doing, we would be straddling the boundary between fiction and reality: the film would depict a real interview involving a dinner conversation between two people who are themselves, but since the footage was shot for an altogether different film, our narrative would essentially be constructed after the fact with a new intention, premise and storyline. The result, I imagined, would be a hybrid of documentary reality with fictional storytelling technique and an editorial process akin to making a film with found footage. Thinking in this way got me excited again, and soon a rough storyline started to emerge. The beginning would show Isabel’s journey from New York to Baltimore setting up the premise of the film, the middle would be the actual dinner conversation with Andre, and the end…well, that wasn’t quite clear. But having arrived at this point now feeling creatively reinvigorated, I was confident that if I followed my intuition the rest of the story would fall into place.

I put together a rough assembly of the opening using b-roll footage to create a visual montage of the drive from New York to Baltimore. Then I began to think about how to approach the body of the film since we had footage of Andre in three different locations: an interview in his trailer on the set of The Wire where he is in character as Bubbles, another interview in the makeup trailer while the Bubbles makeup is removed and Andre begins to change back into himself, and finally a much longer interview over dinner where Andre is well-dressed and groomed, and looks completely like himself. Thinking about how best to use the interviews, I contemplated all the different structural possibilities: Should I intercut between the three locations? Should it all be presented in chronological order–trailer interview, then makeup removal, then the dinner? Or should it all be mixed up but organized by the subject of conversation? If so, then what would motivate the cut from one location to another?

For a day, I did nothing except think about these questions and visualize different ways of structuring the story. Since it had taken some time and unexpected inspiration to pull myself out of serious creative difficulties at the start of the project, I wanted to be careful not to fall back into the quicksand of assembling things only to scrap them and begin again repeatedly. I went to sleep that night without any clear answers. Sure enough, as is the case with creative ideas and the mysterious workings of the unconscious mind, the answer came to me at the inconvenient hour of 5 AM. In a state of hypnopompic semi-consciousness, I realized that a chronological approach would be the strongest structural choice, beginning with the journey from New York to Baltimore (which would include opening titles and a voiceover narration to set up the story), and unfolding with seeing Andre, at first, as Bubbles in his trailer, then witnessing the transition from the character to the actor, and finally the dinner where he is completely himself and opens up to Isabel’s questions. Title cards could be used throughout the dinner sequence as a formal device to structure the different topics of conversation. At the end, we would take the journey back to New York accompanied with another narration by Isabel that reflects on what she experienced that day. It seemed simple, almost too simple, and yet perhaps the point I needed to learn (and embrace) was that simplicity can sometimes be a refreshing way to tell a story, and that complexity and ambitiousness can be hurdles, not merely in storytelling but in thinking too.

“It seemed simple, almost too simple, and yet perhaps the point I needed to learn (and embrace) was that simplicity can sometimes be a refreshing way to tell a story, and that complexity and ambitiousness can be hurdles, not merely in storytelling but in thinking too.”

With this new creative direction, I watched all of the footage again and selected the parts that would best fit the story, choosing clips that jumped out at me as being interesting, humorous, honest, poignant, or revealing. At the end of this first pass, I had an assembly that was an hour and fifty minutes long culled from 4 hours of total interview footage. Then I decided that I should meet up with Isabel and share news of the exciting breakthrough.

As an aside, I must mention here that Isabel is one of the best creative partners I have worked with. When we began editing Be Seen & Be Heard, we agreed to take an intuitive approach towards the editorial process–we would look at the material and allow it to tell us what it wanted to become, rather than impose some sort of external structure upon it. Agreeing to let the process evolve organically, we followed as it unfolded, and gave ourselves the flexibility to take breaks when feeling stuck or change course as needed. We were almost always on the same page creatively, and the editorial experience was such that we began to read each other’s minds after a while. When Be Seen & Be Heard did not pan out, Isabel was disappointed and depressed but she remained open to the possibility of a new film. When I told her how stuck and burned out I was, she gave me the space and time to do whatever I needed, and reassured me of her faith and support through encouraging text messages.

Like any creative endeavor, editing in the early stages is a fragile process that’s introverted and unarticulable. When you begin, you frequently feel like you’re groping about in the dark: you can’t see clearly using the logical abilities of your left brain, but feel and sense and make your way often not knowing where exactly you’re going. Perhaps other editors don’t have the same experience, but I’m constantly insecure and unsure of what I’m doing in the beginning, and don’t know if anything I do will actually amount to something (although somehow it always does). When I first started editing, I used to think something was wrong with me, that I was emotionally imbalanced or unable to handle the creative pressures. With experience I learned that this is all a natural and healthy part of the creative process, for me at least. I have grown accustomed to the insecurities and uncertainties, and have come to see them as my friends because they let me know at the beginning of a project that I’m on the right track. As the process evolves, those feelings are replaced by a resounding sense of confidence in what I’m doing and the final stages of the work take on a teleological import, as if the end result was always the ultimate purpose. For some rational-minded individuals, or those who are either not process oriented or uncomfortable with their own emotional world, this approach would seem alien and unintelligible. But perhaps because Isabel is an actress and the process of acting involves a similar journey, or because, like me, she is comfortable with an intuitive way of working, she was always understanding and supportive.

“Instinctively, I’ve always felt that film editing is very close to music composition because an editor manipulates time and deals with intangible things like tone, rhythm and pacing, all of which are felt on an unconscious level and exert an undeniably powerful influence on the viewer.”

When we met for coffee and I told her the idea–I wasn’t yet ready to show anything because it was too long and too rough–Isabel responded enthusiastically. She liked the simplicity of the approach and, after reflecting on it, thought it could be a real strength because it would allow Andre to show different sides of himself: raw, honest, emotional, humorous. With Isabel now on board conceptually, I took another pass at the assembly to bring it down to half its current length. Hoping to find some suitable music for the film, I auditioned a number of music tracks from two CDs that Isabel owned the rights to. Finding music and being inspired by the tempo, melodies and beats always inspires me when I’m editing. It’s something visceral; I feel the music in my body and use my hands to harmonize sound and image, or work to set them contrapuntally against one another, or play them off each other in interesting ways. Instinctively, I’ve always felt that film editing is very close to music composition because an editor manipulates time and deals with intangible things like tone, rhythm and pacing, all of which are felt on an unconscious level and exert an undeniably powerful influence on the viewer. Having found a nice track for the opening, I recut the intro montage to the pace of the music and then worked my way through the rest of the assembly. I inserted title cards in the dinner interview to break it up thematically, going from Andre’s early life to discussions about family, fear, success and typecasting. The ending of the film still eluded me, but I managed to whittle down the edit to 54 minutes in length, no easy feat considering that I had seen the footage so much that at times I struggled to remain fresh.

Next came the moment of truth: a much needed check that I was on the right track. I screened the 54 minute edit for both Isabel and my girlfriend, Erica, who had been an observer and frequent participant, creative consultant and sounding board for us during Be Seen & Be Heard. Even though Erica had witnessed first hand my struggles with the material and heard about my difficulties, she had not yet seen what I had been doing with My Dinner with Andre Royo. When I screened the cut, It felt like a long 54 minutes–partly because I felt like the film should be around the 30 minute length and partly because, after being in my own head with the material for so long, I was excited for some feedback. The response was favorable and both of them agreed that we finally had something creatively interesting. They both also thought it was too long and, since this first rough cut had no voiceover or clips from The Wire, it felt a little heavy on talking heads. Clearly, it had a ways to go before it would feel like a real film.

But the important thing was that despite the difficulties at the start–or perhaps because of them–we finally had something that we could fashion into a story. For me it was also about learning the importance of cultivating beginner’s mind, and keeping that foremost when working. It’s one thing to read words in a book or adopt a concept or theory; and another to practice in real time, to remove mental obstacles that prevent you from seeing clearly, and to create with the abandon of a beginner.

Coming Soon: Part IV: From Rough Cut to Finished Film

At the start of a project I’m usually fresh and energetic, and approach the edit as if it were a blank slate. I’m eager to look carefully at all the footage, objective in my assessment of its strengths and weaknesses, open to ideas and connections as they arise, and excited to think about possible themes and storylines. Beyond that, there’s the simple joy of discovering a whole new world I don’t usually know much about, and finding, in the mass of material that passes before my eyes, images which can be beautiful and poetic, meaningful and thought-provoking, when juxtaposed with one another in creative and interesting ways.

However, when I began editing My Dinner with Andre Royo in May 2007, I was thoroughly burned out. Having spent the previous four and half months on the now defunct Be Seen & Be Heard, I had looked at the footage of Andre’s interview so much that I was unable to see it with fresh eyes. Although I felt intuitively that something could be made out of it, my mind was conditioned to seeing it as part of Be Seen & Be Heard, with all of the themes, hopes and ambitions which accompanied that film. Every time I sat down at the computer and looked at the footage, I felt like running away: Nothing looked interesting, everything seemed stale and lifeless, every word Andre uttered I already knew verbatim. I found it hard to watch, to make cuts, to distinguish between what could be good thematically and what was not. I would begin to assemble something, only to scrap it and then start over. I felt like the stereotypical writer struck with writer’s block, the one in the movies who types a line, rips out the piece of paper from the typewriter, crumples it up, throws it way and then begins again, and again, and again. Additionally, I felt the pressures I always feel when starting a new project: a desire to do something great, or at least good, something worthy of my abilities as a an editor, a filmmaker, an artist; something that will make my collaborators happy and audiences respond in a positive way to the story and characters. Overcome with all of this anxiety, and sensing that I was quickly descending into a creative morass, I decided to take some much needed time off. I needed to reflect on the project and, if possible, find the inspiration to begin anew.

A week later, after taking walks in the park to clear my head and watching a number of movies to forget that I had to make one myself, I found inspiration still sorely lacking. Quickly exhausting a variety of avenues for insight, I decided randomly to turn to my bookshelves to see if something might catch my eye. As I glanced at the titles, one suddenly jumped out: Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind: Informal Talks on Zen Meditation and Practice by Shunryu Suzuki. I had never read this book but the way it came to be a part of my library was itself an interesting story.

Many years ago, during an in-between stage in my life (before I moved to New York City to be a film editor and filmmaker), I worked at a cafe. One evening, when cleaning up, I was about to throw some things away when I noticed a book in the trash can. Pulling it out, I discovered Zen Mind, Beginners Mind. The book was well-worn, with bent corners, creases and a tearing spine, but not soiled or damaged to the point of being rendered unreadable. It looked as if it had already lived one life, and its worn state gave it character in much the same way that leather acquires after years of use. Perhaps someone interested in Zen practice decided it wasn’t worth the effort after all, or maybe after years of practicing that person had given up the way and made a clean break by throwing the book in the trash. Maybe it was associated with a romantic relationship that had turned sour and now had to be expunged just like the former lover. Regardless of why it was discarded, I felt compelled to keep the book; filled with potentially enlightening material, I couldn’t possibly let it go to the landfill. So I kept it but for some reason never got around to reading it. Years later, when I brought a number of books with me to New York from California, it was among them. Now I was staring at it in my hands.

I began reading and the prologue alone shattered my whole approach to the project, and to editing and creativity:

People say that practicing Zen is difficult, but there is a misunderstanding as to why. It is not difficult because it is hard to sit in the cross-legged position, or to attain enlightenment. It is difficult because it is hard to keep our mind pure and our practice pure in its fundamental sense…

In Japan we have the phrase shoshin, which means “beginner’s mind.” The goal of practice is always to keep our beginner’s mind. Suppose you recite the Prajna Paramita Sutra only once. It might be a very good recitation. But what would happen to you if you recited it twice, three times, four times or more? You might easily lose your original attitude towards it. The same thing will happen in your other Zen practices. For a while you will keep your beginner’s mind, but if you continue to practice one, two, three years or more, although you may improve some, you are liable to lose the limitless meaning of original mind.

For Zen students the most important thing is not to be dualistic. Our “original mind” includes everything within itself. It is always rich and sufficient within itself. You should not lose your self-sufficient state of of mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few…

“For Zen students the most important thing is not to be dualistic.                Our ‘original mind’ includes everything within itself. It is always rich and sufficient within itself. You should not lose your self-sufficient state of of mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few…”

In the beginner’s mind there is no thought, “I have attained something.” All self-centered thoughts limit our vast mind. When we have no thought of achievement, no thought of self, we are true beginners. Then we can really learn something. The beginner’s mind is the mind of compassion. When our mind is compassionate, it is boundless…

So the most difficult thing is always to keep your beginner’s mind. There is no need to have a deep understanding of Zen. Even though you read much Zen literature, you must read each sentence with a fresh mind. You should not say “I know what Zen is,” or “I have attained enlightenment.” This is also the real secret of the arts: always be a beginner…(p. 21-22).

I realized immediately that I had lost my “beginner’s mind.” I had looked at the footage so much and taken so many passes at it that my original attitude, my freshness and objectivity were completely gone. I was carrying the baggage of Be Seen & Be Heard, and burdening myself further with my own expectations and desires–the desire to make something great, something meaningful, to “attain something.” In the process, I was losing myself in the quagmire of my own discrimination, imposing limits on myself without realizing it. Having lived with the footage for so long, I had unwittingly become the “expert” who sees few possibilities. If I was to continue, I needed to become a beginner again, to have an empty mind that is ready for anything and open to everything.

I decided to remove any expectations I had and to see if my mind could again be a blank slate. If I had no experience editing, no history with this project, if I was seeing this footage for the very first time with no particular goal or outcome in mind, how would I approach it?

I would start…at the very beginning.

Next: Part III: From Nothing to Something