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| Tucker (Directed by Francis Ford Coppola) |
Arnold Schulman began his career as a budding playwright, studying form and structure with playwrights such as Robert Anderson and Clifford Odets. He learnt to write in workshops while also studying the Method in his spare time with Lee Strasberg, who directed his debut play, My Fiddle Has Three Strings. He then worked on teleplays as a writer for live television.
Schulman was first enticed to Hollywood by director George Cukor and producer Hal Wallis when his debut play flopped. He subsequently authored the script for Frank Capra's feature film A Hole in the Head, based on his own Broadway play, starring Frank Sinatra.
Schulman's Hollywood peak was the 1960s; Schulman got hired to do film adaptations, including the film version of Philip Roth’s “Goodbye, Columbus.”
Despite his successes, his career faded in the 1970s; only for an unlikely comeback in the 1980s firstly with A Chorus Line, based on the original stage play about hopefuls who audition for a part in a new musical before a demanding director, played by Michael Douglas; and Tucker: The Man and His Dream based on the true tale of automotive innovator Preston Tucker.
Originally a long cherished Coppola project, the script was written by Arnold Schulman and David Seidler. The picture may be the director's most personal project and begins in 1945, when Tucker, played with verve by Jeff Bridges, is building an advanced tank turret for the war effort in a barn next to his family's home in Michigan, and sets in motion a bold plan to design, build, and market an entirely new kind of car—one that will be better than, and compete with, the ones made in Detroit.
He hires Abe Karatz (Martin Landau), a New York investment banker, to handle the business side; he has a team of dedicated and innovative engineers (Mako, Elias Koteas, and Frederic Forrest) working with him; and he has family members working with him as well—his wife, Vera (Joan Allen), and his son, Preston, Jr. (Christian Slater).
Vittorio Storaro's cinematography is opulent and infinitely innovative, featuring a dramatic use of transitions between scenes, shot with all the brightness and colours of a 1940s billboard.
Coppola ignores the darker undertones inherent in its story of thwarted ambition and the little man being crushed by large corporations. However, it is a beautiful and engaging portrayal of both a fascinating era and a little-known American dreamer.
In the following extract Schulman discusses with Pat McGilligan his experience of working with director Francis Ford Coppola on Tucker, his biopic about forward-thinking automotive designer Preston Thomas Tucker.
PM: How were you brought in on Tucker?
AS: Curiously, I got a phone call from Francis Coppola, who I had met only once on an airplane. He told me all about [the 1940s automobile visionary Preston] Tucker, whom I had never heard of. I told him I hated cars. ‘I would like to work with you, Francis,’ I said, ‘but I really hate cars.’ He said, ‘Will you meet with me and George Lucas, and talk about it?’
PM: Why was Coppola so insistent about having you?
AS: I don’t know. I assume it is because I had worked with Frank Capra, and he wanted it to be a Capraesque picture. George said, ‘The film is not about cars. It's about Francis. Why don't you go live with Francis in Napa for a few weeks and then let me know?’ I did that, and then I realized of course the film was about Francis, and told them I’d love to do it. I had to endure all the car bullshit for the character—who was Francis...
PM: Did Coppola, himself an excellent writer, make script contributions?
AS: Extremely valuable contributions. [He might say,] ‘There's a hole here, we need to fill this in ...,’ or ‘I've found this actual Tucker promo; see if you can weave it in...’
PM: In a way, Coppola makes modernist movies, but on the other hand, he’s a throwback to an old-fashioned way of screen storytelling.
AS: Absolutely. He’s a wonderful person. It drives me crazy that the idealists willing to take risks get knocked on their asses, while the safe guys—who do the movies that make all the money, and who have all the power—get none of the aggravation.
Tucker was a wonderful experience. Suddenly, it was back to the old days, working closely with Francis and being on the set, watching him direct and talking about scenes. Not a line was changed. I was there for rehearsals and had to leave for a while; then I came back when he was shooting; I tiptoed up to the script supervisor, because Francis is so notorious for improvising, and said, ‘Just break it to me gently—what did he do with the script?’ She said, ‘I've been working with him for x number of pictures, and I’ve never seen this happen before. An actor will ask, ‘Can I try the line this way?’ and he’ll think for a minute, then answer, ‘Well, why don’t you do it the way it’s written?’’ I went up to Francis and said, ‘Francis, you’re ruining your reputation. Why are you doing this?’ I’m sorry, this sounds self-serving—I should have told it in a different way—but he said something to me that not many people in this town understand: ‘A hundred hacks can rewrite another hack, and nobody’ll know the difference; but one good writer cannot rewrite another good writer because their rhythms are different.’
They don’t know that in Hollywood. They don’t know about rhythms. They know how it says on page 26 of all these books about how to write a screenplay that you have to have a turning point. I myself don’t know what the hell a turning point is. When I heard about a turning point in a meeting for the first time, I said, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ They told me that in the books on how to write a screenplay, they all say that on page 26, or whatever, you have to have a turning point.
The making of Tucker was marvelous. I loved what Francis did with the script. We knew it was a gamble—that a lot of people wouldn’t get it; that we were doing some things deliberately, bad thirties acting and speeded-up [action]. But it is exactly what we set out to do. I love that movie.
PM: I’m struck by how few writers who were here when you first came to Hollywood, in 1956, are
still around and active.
AS: Almost none. I don’t know why. There's no sense of community out here, at least for me. I don't know if there ever was in Hollywood that marvelous sense of community which there was in New York when I was starting out. I miss that terribly. Probably it's me. I don't belong anywhere. I have not integrated myself into the movie community or the theater community or the writer community. I don't stay put long enough, I guess. I have realized only recently that everybody here in California thinks I live in New York, and everybody in New York thinks I live in California. Usually I’m not in either place. I’ve got this house mainly as a home for my books.
PM: You never actually moved to California?
AS: Never. At first I always lived in the East. I’d come out here to do the work and go back. Now I do the work and head for another country.
PM: You made the decision to work in movies, but—
AS: I still didn’t want to live here.
PM: Why is that?
AS: The usual answer. I prefer cities where I can walk on the streets and see people. Where, if I feel like going out at three in the morning for a sandwich, I can do that. All the cliché reasons. And when I'm not working, I’m traveling. That’s my other life. As a consequence, I really have become the outsider—that little boy who didn’t have patches on his overalls. I realized not long ago that my life has come full circle.
– Arnold Schulman: Nothing but Regrets. Interview by Pat McGilligan in Backstory 3
PM: How were you brought in on Tucker?
AS: Curiously, I got a phone call from Francis Coppola, who I had met only once on an airplane. He told me all about [the 1940s automobile visionary Preston] Tucker, whom I had never heard of. I told him I hated cars. ‘I would like to work with you, Francis,’ I said, ‘but I really hate cars.’ He said, ‘Will you meet with me and George Lucas, and talk about it?’
PM: Why was Coppola so insistent about having you?
AS: I don’t know. I assume it is because I had worked with Frank Capra, and he wanted it to be a Capraesque picture. George said, ‘The film is not about cars. It's about Francis. Why don't you go live with Francis in Napa for a few weeks and then let me know?’ I did that, and then I realized of course the film was about Francis, and told them I’d love to do it. I had to endure all the car bullshit for the character—who was Francis...
PM: Did Coppola, himself an excellent writer, make script contributions?
AS: Extremely valuable contributions. [He might say,] ‘There's a hole here, we need to fill this in ...,’ or ‘I've found this actual Tucker promo; see if you can weave it in...’
PM: In a way, Coppola makes modernist movies, but on the other hand, he’s a throwback to an old-fashioned way of screen storytelling.
AS: Absolutely. He’s a wonderful person. It drives me crazy that the idealists willing to take risks get knocked on their asses, while the safe guys—who do the movies that make all the money, and who have all the power—get none of the aggravation.
Tucker was a wonderful experience. Suddenly, it was back to the old days, working closely with Francis and being on the set, watching him direct and talking about scenes. Not a line was changed. I was there for rehearsals and had to leave for a while; then I came back when he was shooting; I tiptoed up to the script supervisor, because Francis is so notorious for improvising, and said, ‘Just break it to me gently—what did he do with the script?’ She said, ‘I've been working with him for x number of pictures, and I’ve never seen this happen before. An actor will ask, ‘Can I try the line this way?’ and he’ll think for a minute, then answer, ‘Well, why don’t you do it the way it’s written?’’ I went up to Francis and said, ‘Francis, you’re ruining your reputation. Why are you doing this?’ I’m sorry, this sounds self-serving—I should have told it in a different way—but he said something to me that not many people in this town understand: ‘A hundred hacks can rewrite another hack, and nobody’ll know the difference; but one good writer cannot rewrite another good writer because their rhythms are different.’
They don’t know that in Hollywood. They don’t know about rhythms. They know how it says on page 26 of all these books about how to write a screenplay that you have to have a turning point. I myself don’t know what the hell a turning point is. When I heard about a turning point in a meeting for the first time, I said, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ They told me that in the books on how to write a screenplay, they all say that on page 26, or whatever, you have to have a turning point.
The making of Tucker was marvelous. I loved what Francis did with the script. We knew it was a gamble—that a lot of people wouldn’t get it; that we were doing some things deliberately, bad thirties acting and speeded-up [action]. But it is exactly what we set out to do. I love that movie.
PM: I’m struck by how few writers who were here when you first came to Hollywood, in 1956, are
still around and active.
AS: Almost none. I don’t know why. There's no sense of community out here, at least for me. I don't know if there ever was in Hollywood that marvelous sense of community which there was in New York when I was starting out. I miss that terribly. Probably it's me. I don't belong anywhere. I have not integrated myself into the movie community or the theater community or the writer community. I don't stay put long enough, I guess. I have realized only recently that everybody here in California thinks I live in New York, and everybody in New York thinks I live in California. Usually I’m not in either place. I’ve got this house mainly as a home for my books.
PM: You never actually moved to California?
AS: Never. At first I always lived in the East. I’d come out here to do the work and go back. Now I do the work and head for another country.
PM: You made the decision to work in movies, but—
AS: I still didn’t want to live here.
PM: Why is that?
AS: The usual answer. I prefer cities where I can walk on the streets and see people. Where, if I feel like going out at three in the morning for a sandwich, I can do that. All the cliché reasons. And when I'm not working, I’m traveling. That’s my other life. As a consequence, I really have become the outsider—that little boy who didn’t have patches on his overalls. I realized not long ago that my life has come full circle.
– Arnold Schulman: Nothing but Regrets. Interview by Pat McGilligan in Backstory 3
