Tod Lippy: I know you’re planning to move back to New York, but you’ve been in L.A. for close to two years now. How does the city strike you?

David O. Russell: I’ll just start out by saying that, you know, there are ghosts in America. Cultural ghosts—just certain, very American ghosts. And in Los Angeles, they’re really strong—stronger than they are anyplace else.

Why is that?

Because this is their home territory. I’m talking about a particular American hopefulness and energetic-ness that translates into certain narrative conventions—like always requiring a narrative resolution. A certain narrative drive. Those ghosts are just really strong, and if you come out here, they will get into your cerebellum and you don’t even realize it. It’s like ether—you’re breathing it and suddenly it’s influencing you. Even if you’re making an irreverent or different or independent film, these narrative ghosts will still inhabit it.

And this is only in L.A.?

Well, it’s very potent here. I was watching a French movie last night, When the Cat’s Away. Have you seen that?

Yeah, it’s wonderful. That’s about to he remade, isn’t it?

Well, Miramax wants to do it; that’s why I was looking at it. I would do it, but what’s the point of a remake? I think there’s something fundamentally corrupt about them. Anyway, as I was watching that movie—which I thought was brilliant—I was thinking, “This movie doesn’t have any American ghosts in it.” Every single thing about it is so real, and upsetting, you know? The fact that the guy you think she’s going to get together with turns out not to be the right one. And the Arab who’s taking her around is not the right one. And her gay roommate’s not the right one. And his friend who comes to visit is not the right one. Everybody’s really lonely and disconnected in a very consistent way—there’s such a consis­tency of missed connection that’s so real. I think Americans find that unbearable. I was aware of my own anxiety while I was watching it. There is a terrible loneli­ness in America that we work really hard to deny through all kinds of luxurious, glossy entertainment, and theme parks, and Nike shoes.

Why did you come out to L.A. initially?

I came here to make Three Kings, which I just sort of stumbled into. After the film was over, we ended up staying to finish out the school year for our son, because we didn’t want to bounce him around so much.

What did you think of the city when you first arrived?

When we moved here, L.A. was this magical place to me. I think—probably like a lot of people who end up making films—I wanted to escape my home, and the emotional environment of my home as a kid, and L.A. became this very alluring place. You know, you watch movies and TV shows, and they look cool—you want to go be there with those people. Even when I visited here as an adult, it still had that quality to me. I would come here for short periods of time, and I would get to meet certain people at a studio, or certain movie stars, and it still had a magical quality to me. And then when we came here—I brought my wife and my son with me to make the movie, having cavalierly jumped into this endeavor without even thinking what it would be like to uproot us from New York—I was just willing to try it for a while. I don’t know, what can I tell you about L.A.? Number one, the car became all­-important. At first, that was a really nice thing. You have all your CDs in it, and you can talk to your friends on the phone—it’s this little traveling cocoon. And it’s a big purse which you can keep important personal stuff in, which you don’t really have in New York. But then it became extremely oppressive to me, and I realized if I did two or three things in a day I was spending four to five hours in a car. I felt like my legs were atrophying into these vestigial appendages. I wasn’t walking anywhere.
   That’s actually one of the major things I miss about New York, and when we went back for Christmas this year, I was struck by it so objectively for the first time. When you live there, you walk or ride your bike everywhere, at least I do, even in the winter. I don’t know how you quantify that, but all I can say is it’s something that I love. The secondary part about it is that you’re surrounded by humanity, and by life, by the city. All kinds of people, and all kinds of buildings—just swarming with life. You can be lonely in the middle of that, but it can also be com­forting in some strange way. You can engage somebody on the street, or walk into a store and talk to somebody, and it’s all different kinds of people. I miss that more than anything. It’s very alive. L.A., in comparison, is very isolated and ster­ile, in the sense that you’re either in your car, or in your house, or in somebody’s office. You’re never really in a public space. I’m not saying anything new, I just experienced it really intensely. Also, West L.A. is a very homogeneous colony—not a lot of diversity.
   You know what else I realized? When you’re in L.A., there’s a different percep­tion about how a film’s going to do. In New York, you have a colder, clearer sense of things, because you’re not swept up in the whole culture of it. Recently, there was some film that was coming out here, and I remember thinking, “Everybody in L.A. thinks this is going to be really huge, but it’s not.” If you were in New York, you would know, because it would barely register on your radar.
   There are certain cool things about L.A., though. For instance, because everybody here is in the business, they all understand what you go through when you’re writing something or making something—there’s a lot of kinship here. And a certain “hometown” rooting for you, which, as I said, can distort the potential of a movie.

Do you feel like you’re more accessible to the industry?

That’s something I like about it. And for some reason, I’ve found it really easy here to hook up with other directors and actors, so you can have a lot of fun evenings with people. I’ve become friends with other directors here. Then there’s the occasional celebrity evening—you find yourself at dinner with, or the private screening room of, some legend—it’s almost like Hollywood as theme park. Not something you’d want to do every night, but it’s an amazing experience to talk about—touching on history, in a way.

You didn’t find that in New York after Spanking the Monkey came out?

No, I didn’t really have that so much in New York. I got to meet Woody Allen there, for instance, but I’ve also seen him here, because his agent is out here. It didn’t happen that much for me there, and for some reason, it did here. You know, in a funny way, L.A. is more democratic than New York. New York is more hierarchical, more cliquish, whether it’s business, or art, or theater, film, pub­lishing. Here, just about anybody can go to any party. Everyone’s self-made here; you’ve all invented yourselves.

Would you say that in L.A. it’s more about money?

It’s about money, but it’s also about, you know, if you’re the guy who made an interesting independent film that got attention last week, even if you don’t have any money and you never will, you are somebody they’re interested in talking to at a party. Maybe only for a week, but it’s a good week. [Laughs.] But what I miss about New York, and why I want to move back there as soon as we can get a school for our son, is being very far away from the business, and being able to just create your own world.
   There are different ghosts in New York for me: the Italian and Russian relatives on both sides of my family. And then the long train of writers and film­makers who have always had at least one foot out of Hollywood.

Are you working on another project now?

Yeah.

Is it as easy to write out here as it is in New York?

Yeah, which means it’s equally excruciating and hateful. [Laughs.]

Are the ghosts infiltrating the writing process?

They’re there at the very inception of things. That’s why, if you’re conscious of them, you have to hire some ghostbusters. Sort of like one of those virus-search­ing programs you have on your computer. You have to run that every once in a while to make sure they haven’t crept in. Friends can help.

Did you find working for Miramax on Flirting with Disaster a good primer for making a studio film?

Miramax can in some ways be more intrusive than the average studio...that’s part of the power of Harvey’s personality. My experience with Warner Bros. on Three Kings was that they were not very intrusive at all.

You were quoted as saying that they were attempting to “sand down the edges” of Three Kings at certain points. I’m thinking, in particular, of the reference to Michael Jackson and “little boys” from the torturer’s monologue.

They always go after the craziest things—the things that they think are going to alienate a mass audience. That one was just a red flag to them, and when anything pops up like that they’re afraid. But anyway, I’ll work with Miramax again—the next couple of films I do could be for Miramax, or possibly financed out of Europe or something like that.

So you’re going back to a smaller budget again?

Absolutely.

Fifty million dollars is a lot of money—

It sure is.

Especially for a film that’s so subversive—that’s got to almost be a record. How much was Fight Club’s budget?

I think Fight Club was sixty-seven million dollars, and that film was ballsier in a way. But it had sex in it, and that always makes it more accessible. On the other hand, it was more relentlessly alienating. I liked most of it a great deal, and I think it’s impressive that it was made at that budget.

Why do you want to go back to a smaller-budgeted film?

I didn’t enjoy working with a big crew—it was over a hundred people at times. This is nothing new, either, but I’m trying to find a way to work with the tiniest crew possible—a skeletal crew—because it gives you so much more freedom. Basically, it should be about you, the script, and the actors. And the more people who get involved, the more you have to fight your way through all of that to keep it to you, the script, and the actors.
   And also, the crew on these big shoots is just doing a job. You know, your pic­ture is the one between Grumpier Old Men and Major League 3. And they just think you’re another loser on the train of crap that’s being generated. That can affect the creative environment.

Did the crew for Flirting with Disaster have a similar attitude?

No, not nearly as much. In New York, there’s a world of independent crews which you can’t find here, at least not that I’m aware of. In New York, there’s this whole subculture. Also, there’s the East Coast Council deal—a special union deal where under a certain budget you can make a union picture, but you can cut the rates. The only problem with shooting in New York is that it’s such a dense city, unlike Paris or L.A., where you can just grab a street. In Manhattan, you can’t do that—it’s harder to get locations. The script says 53rd Street, but you always find yourself up on 160th Street or something, saying to yourself, “How the hell did I end up here?”

In interviews around the time of Three Kings’ release, you talked about how your intention was to “disorient” and “destabilize” the audience with the film’s presentation of the subject matter. On a purely technical note, did you ever cross the eye-line? It looked like you did.

l don’t know. I know I didn’t give a shit, whereas on the first two movies the script supervisor, the DP and myself were constantly going off on some horrific, endless conversation about eye-lines. I know that this time I approached it in a much more reckless way. It was definitely supposed to feel like you’d driven into a chaotic landscape.

That feeling was compounded by those low-angle shots with only sky in the background, which made it even harder for the viewer to get his bearings.

Well, that’s what’s so beautiful about the desert.

I remember Kenneth Turan’s review of Three Kings talking about how the film resorted to a very “conventional” ending, which I actually disagree with. The film’s ending, however “happy,” is drenched in irony and cynicism. The only reason the prisoners are finally escorted to the border is because the gold these guys have recovered is literally “buying” the consciences of the commanding officers.

I agree with you about that. That was my original intention, to have the ending have the cynicism to it. But I think that the ghosts got me a little bit. Especially when it came time to score; I let the score get away from me. These were things that were imperceptible to me at that time—I think because of the air I was breathing, you know? Also, the producer on the picture—who is an excellent producer—had certain ideas about the film and encouraged me in that direction. Don’t get me wrong—I made all the choices, but I think that without my even recognizing it, something insidiously crept in, even at the writing stage. I was experimenting with genre—take a typical heist structure, and layer it with political and provocative ideas. I’m still not happy with the conventional aspects of it, so I wouldn’t want to try it again.
   But the fact that the film is still a “difficult” film is shown by the fact that it only did sixty million dollars—which is respectable, but it didn’t explode. I think what held it back was how difficult it was for mass consumption. This was a very idea­-driven movie, and it was driven in part by the fact that I thought the end of the Gulf War—our supposed “victory”—had never been examined in a big public way. And if you let things like that slide, a country can talk itself into doing some pretty bad things dressed up as honorable.

You spent a good deal of time before making films writing for Socialist papers like In These Times. Do you still consider yourself a Socialist? The film is from a pretty leftist point-of-view.

That’s a tough question. I think a managed economy is a good thing; does that mean I’m a Socialist? I mean, if some really smart people could figure out a way to direct capital without inhibiting it, I think that would be cool. Directing it towards certain things that are socially good. And it would avoid a lot of waste.

There’s a scene in the film where the reporter, played by Nora Dunn, visits a site where some dying birds are covered in oil. After pronouncing, “This story has been so done,” she bursts into tears. Do you think that somehow reflects the authorial voice of the movie—that sense of absolute cynicism combined with a sort of heartfelt humanism?

Yeah, yeah, that’s very good. That’s, in a nutshell, the movie’s approach to a lot of things that people feel numb to. And you can’t approach it without approaching the numbness in addition to the penetration of the experience and how real or how upsetting it may be. Unfortunately, the film sometimes gets too sentimental.

That humanism is even more evident when one compares several of Three Kings’ scenes to similar ones from other films. I was thinking, for instance, of the slow­ing down of bullets in the scene by the bunker in the film, and how that technique has an emotional weight—a quality of dread—that becomes all the more evident when it’s compared to something like The Matrix, which uses that same motif to a much poppier effect.

The depiction of violence interested me greatly, as something to do in a way that was re-sensitized. The other thing is, The Matrix is a world of fun and ideas, so when the bullets are going off, it’s more like a video game. It’s deeply stimulating, and really good filmmaking, but a different thing altogether.

And of course, you can compare Mark Wahlberg’s torture scene with the one in Reservoir Dogs...

Well, you know, in Reservoir Dogs, as good as that film is, that scene felt almost to me like an exercise in torturing the filmgoer.
   I have to say, that scene with Mark Wahlberg—especially when the oil is poured down his throat—was heavy-handed. We had that in, we had it out. I find some of the moralization in the movie a bit tedious—I think that’s something to move away from.

I love the way you play with the term “shoot,” a word used by both the troops and the news crews with equal abandon.

That wasn’t that intentional, but it just kind of naturally occurs because in that war the journalists were everywhere, and the fire-fighting was everywhere, and the Americans controlled both. Also, because the shooting seemed so strangely optional at the war’s end, “Which shooting are they talking about?” is a question more likely to be posed during the Gulf War than in any other war.

You used a lot of pop music—the Beach Boys, and Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now,” when Saddam’s Republican Guard is fleeing their bunker—to great effect in the film. Was that in any way a nod to Apocalypse Now?

I think Apocalypse Now was a good ghost, which was kind of floating over my head—good terrain travelled by good filmmakers helps you along your way. But again, I didn’t think of it consciously, like I was paying homage. I looked at all these journals from the war, and you’d read about all the music these guys were listening to on their CD Walkmans in their tanks as they went along, and so I just had to litter it with a lot of that.

Many people have commented on the fact that Three Kings is a kind of “infected” genre movie—it’s a war movie, but it’s also a political film, with certain strains of absurdist comedy. What draws you to a particular genre in the first place, and then, why you are you interested in subverting it? The same could be said of Flirting with Disaster.

Part of it is what Nora’s character says in the movie: “This story’s been so done.” It’s been done to death. Part of it is wanting to inhabit a genre, while at the same time growing it beyond the expectations. Also, part of it is some form of ADD on my part as a filmmaker. I think I would do better to try to unify my tone a little more—that’s something I feel I can be very frank with you about, although I can already imagine my own words being used against me by some critic.

You’ve talked in the past about how the postproduction on your films is always rather protracted—I recall that you spent something like a year in post with Flirting with Disaster. Was there a similarly long period with Three Kings?

With Three Kings, we had to make a release date. What happens with these films is that you’re jockeying for a date against other big films, so we had to have three editors going at the same time. I’d go from room to room. I liked it, actually, because it’s a nicer space at Warner Hollywood than you’d get, you know, in the Brill building, for instance. And Spike [Jonze] was editing Being John Malkovich on the same lot, so we could visit each other while we were both editing. So yeah, it was a long process, but the process was shorter than with Flirting with Disaster, because there was no deadline on that—we were able to just keep going for, like, nine months. Three Kings took, I think, five months, which is not that long for a movie of that size.

Did you get involved in the marketing of the film at all?

Yeah.

What was that like?

I think that, in retrospect, the film may have been mis-marketed. Marketing departments in general can be frustrating, because even when they’re trying to be accommodating—and they do try to be accommodating and inclusive—they’re doing a whole slate of movies. They’re a machine. I think it’s hard for them to step out of that and look at the market and the film in a fresh way. Especially when you’re in the fifty-million-dollar range. They just want to hit the broadest target possible, and I can’t blame them—they want to make their money back. But from the very first time I saw the materials they produced for ShoWest, the marketing seemed too “rock ’n’ roll” to me. There’s a more poetic stance that could have been struck, that had the absurdity in it and the poignancy in it rather than the rock ’n’ roll and the big, big emotion. They kind of went for the broadest stuff. And I participated in those decisions.
   But again, you get sucked up in that. There’s this insidious process—you don’t like what they’ve done, but you can only talk to them in their own language, so you end up compromising more than you realize.

Do you think because of that marketing strategy the film completely missed a certain demographic, or do you just think the audience drawn into it didn’t respond well to it or recommend it to others?

I have to admit, I don’t think it’s the easiest film in the world to market. Harvey Weinstein said to me that the film should have been presented from the get-go as a Very Special Undertaking. The studio wouldn’t want to do that, of course, because they’re afraid of freaking people out and alienating a mass audience, but I think what he had in mind was to present it as an amazingly special film of great quality. I think the studio was terrified to do that. It’s very hard to say if the film could have done better.

It was definitely being sold as an action movie, I assume to attract the teenage male population...

Yeah, that’s who they were selling to really hard, but they never got that audience. The studio people thought that was because at some point we went off that mes­sage too much and into the weird and emotional stuff, but I wonder if they would have been better off to never have gone after that demographic. Women were the ones who it tested the highest with, ironically. Maybe because of George, and the more human approach to action.

I remember an interview with you right after Spanking the Monkey came out­—you talked about how Gus van Sant’s Mala Noche had such an impact on you, because it spurred you on to look into the dark recesses of your own life for dramatic material. Has that continued with your other films?

There has been some degree of that in every film. But Three Kings wasn’t a personal experience.

Can you recognize when you’re hitting that point in your writing?

It feels a little queasy in general. It feels uncomfortable. But I have to say I’m still completely learning what it is to be a good writer. I’m not totally sure how to answer that otherwise.

Who are you learning from?

From working. Talking to friends, watching other filmmakers I respect a lot. Right now I’m mostly struck by how there are these two different kinds of movies—of course there are many kinds, but there are two that I’m very struck by. There are movies that say, “We’re going to hang out with these people for a while,” and the story’s not particularly compelling. It’s more like Raging Bull or Rushmore, where you’re just going to hang out in a world. And then there’s Being John Malkovich or Election, which is like a Swiss watch. There’s nothing there that isn’t propelling the story one step forward.

You wouldn’t put Flirting with Disaster in that latter category?

It’s in that direction. I’ve been told by people that it’s actually used in structure classes in film schools, but I don’t think it’s nearly as tight as Election.

Were you aware of the fact that male characters are often referred to as “bitches” or “bitch-boys” in your movies? Nora Dunn calls Jamie Kennedy’s character “bitch” in Three Kings and David Patrick Kelly’s character refers to Ben Stiller as a “bitch-boy” in Flirting with Disaster ...

I don’t think it’s in Spanking, though.

Not in the film, but there’s actually an interview with you where you refer to the character as a “bitch-boy.”

[Laughs.] Let me think what I could say about that. The only thing I could say is that it’s directly out of the house where I grew up—the psychological jousting that used to go on in my house between the mother/father/son/sister kind of a thing.

Right around the time Flirting with Disaster came out, you said, “Being a director is kind of like being a pimp.” You were talking about your attempts to convince Mary Tyler Moore to—

Get down to her skivvies. Fortunately, for me, most of the actors I’ve worked with are eager to be in the films I make and are willing to try anything. But even then, actors are putting themselves out there, and there’s usually a negotiation that has to go on. How much are they going to show? Are they really going to be able to do that? I had this whole thing with Mark Wahlberg—and God bless him, he was willing to try it—where his character sings all of these Beach Boys songs whenever he’s anxious. It was in the script—there’s really horrible things going on and he’s singing these Beach Boys songs. Ultimately, it just seemed too psychotic, but it was the kind of thing that I wanted to try. And Mark was willing to do it, which meant learning all these songs—and it wasn’t like he loved the Beach Boys in the first place. We actually went to see them at a concert of theirs in Phoenix when we were shooting, and we went backstage and hung out with them. It was funny. Maybe I should make a little compilation reel for Mark.

Speaking of actors, I know for the first three films you had some difficulty casting leads, based, I assume, on the off-center nature of the screenplays. Do you think that will always be an issue with the kind of films you’re writing?

A lot of casting is a matter of luck and timing. Who’s available when you’re shooting. I do feel that my choices are expanding, rather than shrinking, with actors. Also, I think now people will get my scripts more. It’s not like they’re extremely esoteric or anything, but a lot of times agents read them and they just don’t get it. Now they can see several of my films, and get the sensibility, and imagine what the next one will look like more.

So when are you coming back to New York?

We’re planning to come back this summer.

Are you going to shoot the next movie there?

Yeah, that’s what I want to do. The next one or two. One of the things I learned after making this desert movie is that I do want to make more films about the area of my life where I’m from, which is New York and the outskirts of New York. And I suppose I needed to depart from that before I realized it. Because there was something about it that felt well-trodden by other filmmakers, and conventional in its own way. I think having separated from New York for a while, I can see it in a more particular and personal way. I think I can do it in a way that I just couldn’t see a few years ago.