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Pamela Malouf

Tail Pop

Why Fox Nearly Pulled the Plug On the Original ‘Star Wars,’ the Biggest Space Epic of All Time

by Pamela Malouf
written by Pamela Malouf 4 minutes read

By Pam Malouf

Along time ago (1976)… in a place f ar, far away (Van Nuys)… I was working at the very first ILM facility on “Star Wars,” in what we called “film control.” Back then, there was no digital, no CGI. Physical models were made of each spaceship, a star field was designed and physically built, a glowing engine required a separate camera pass, every laser was hand-animated. When a shot was completed, I’d put the negative of each element in a box and take it downstairs to the optical department to be composited together. I was also, as needed, the dailies projectionist (miniatures and 2nd unit elements).

One day I had all the movie’s color work-print reels (plus a B&W dupe) at ILM. I knew that no one was supposed to screen more than a reel at a time (because of secrecy and/or concern about early bad press?). I also knew that if we screened the color print and damaged it, then not only would I be busted but quickly terminated. Still… all of us working at ILM knew very little about what the actual movie looked like and we were dying of curiosity to see what we’d been toiling on for months.

The print and dupe would be gone the next day, so a clandestine viewing was now or never. New to the business (blissfully naive about politics and full of derring-do at age 20), I planned a “secret” screening. The “boss” of ILM, Jim Nelson, preferring to know nothing about the screening, and conveniently left early. That evening, I threaded up the 35mm B&W picture and magnetic track (dupe) as ILM model makers, miniature and optical effects cameramen, animators, optical printer operators, storyboard artists, illustrators, etc., filled our upstairs screening room.

In excited anticipation we held our collective breath to watch “Star Wars” for the first time. Imagine — no R2D2 beeps, no spaceship or gun lasers, no Foley, no music, no sound effects to speak of; the Millennium Falcon chess set was an empty board (the stop-motion “critters” weren’t done yet), spaceship cockpits had blue-screen backgrounds, the big space battle sequence had airplane war footage subbing for X-wings, Y-wings and various space ships; there was no James Earl Jones Darth Vader voice— and it was all viewed in B&W, no less.

The lights came on… Shock. Silence. “Oh man, we’re just working on a schlock low-budget Roger Corman sci-fi,” we thought.

Disappointed… but not deterred. We were all young, enthusiastic and excited about our futures in the entertainment industry! At the time, even the “old folks” were young — writer/director George Lucas was just 32 and special-effects genius John Dykstra was just 29. We were all goal-oriented and wanted to do the best we could do. We soldiered on.

Nonetheless, by late November 1976, it had become clear that we (ILM) could not finish the visual effects in time for the set release date of Memorial Day 1977. It was determined that we could have everything done by Labor Day — could Fox delay the release date?

Early December, I was told that we might be laid off and the movie canceled. My understanding was that we had gone over budget, that it would cost another $5 million to complete, so Fox might just cut their losses. Thanks to Alan Ladd, Fox decided to go for it.

They raised the budget but insisted on the Memorial Day release. From that moment on, ILM operated 24 hours a day. Perhaps naively, the entire ILM team of artists felt that whatever needed to be accomplished could be done or solved. Failure was not an option, was not even on our radar. We were too young to know any better.

Those long, difficult days in the trenches are part of why everyone at that first ILM, bonded, like family. We’ve had several reunions, including a 40th in 2017.

Obviously I didn’t get laid off. We made the deadline… and the rest is history.

Pamela Malouf, ACE, is a picture editor who has edited over 30 TV movies, multiple pilots, comedy, drama series and more. A DGA member, two-time Emmy and one-time ACE nominee, Pam retired with a 40-year IATSE Gold card. She can be reached at: 0709pamedit@gmail.com.

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ColumnsOP / EDIT

AE: Acrimony Over an Acronym

by Pamela Malouf
written by Pamela Malouf 11 minutes read

by Pamela Malouf, ACE

The first time I heard my assistant editor referred to as an “AE,” the hairs on my back went up! I felt it was disrespectful and unbecoming — but why? After all, we call production assistants PAs without offense, so why not call assistant editors AEs? Well, for starters, PAs fetch coffee and deliver scripts, whereas assistant editors perform highly skilled creative and technical work in an artistic craft.

Still, as an old-time editor (having started assisting and cutting on film), I thought maybe I was overly sensitive and just not hip to the new slang. Yet, at industry mixers and Hollywood events, other editors echoed my sentiments. Past Editors Guild President Daniel Cahn, ACE, says, “Can we all please agree to call the assistant editor an assistant editor and not an AE?” Editor Chris Willingham, ACE, declares, “I hate the term AE; it’s degrading! I don’t know who termed it or why. Perhaps it’s an offshoot of AD [for assistant director], but that’s been around for decades — and it doesn’t make AE right.”

On the other side of the coin, assistant editor Jeff Cenkner says, “For me, what it really boils down to is: What’s in a name? Assistant editor or AE…does it make a difference? We work in a fast-paced creative industry where time is money. And any assistant editor worth his or her salt knows that if something can be done faster and more efficiently with the same results, it’s worth its weight in gold.”

It’s apparent that many assistant editors — particularly those who’ve entered the business in the last decade — do not mind the AE title because they think “assistants” get coffee, and that the term doesn’t matter because it’s their work that defines them, not their title.

Another assistant editor, who does not wish to be identified, tells me, “I’d rather be called an AE than an assistant. People need to get over it. I never heard an AD or DP [for director of photography] complain about initials instead of their full title.” Cenkner adds, “Hey, if you can describe my job in two syllables as opposed to six, why not? It  works for DPs and ADs.”

Ah, but does it work for those job titles? Because the moniker DP is widely used, most people assume that directors of photography (aka cinematographers) happily accept it, but this is not quite true. According to Rachel Bosley, managing director of the American Society of Cinematographers’ ASC Online, legendary society member Stanley Cortez, ASC, who started as a camera assistant in the 1920s, always objected to its use on the grounds that DP was the term for “displaced persons” — a reference to the refugees in World War I and II. Cortez died in 1997, but out of deference to him, American Cinematographer magazine has continued the practice of avoiding this term in its pages; even if someone uses it in a direct quote, it is changed to “cinematographer” or “director of photography.” The society’s president Richard Crudo, ASC, adds that, out of respect for Cortez, the organization does not use the term DP inside the ASC clubhouse. Nonetheless, the acronym has stuck and cinematographers accept it, lest they appear to have a bad attitude; plus, they’ve been called it now for so many years that most of them don’t mind.

Nor do assistant directors want to be called ADs, because that title puts them one step further away from the title of director — a job to which many of them aspire. As an associate director member of the Directors Guild of America, I can also personally tell you that assistant directors also dislike the abbreviation of their title, mainly because it doesn’t differentiate them from their fellow DGA classification: associate director — which is a totally different job. In addition, AD is also the initials for an art director. Conversations on the Members of the DGA Facebook page reflect this attitude. Assistant directors have just grown to accept the initialized moniker, but that doesn’t mean they like it.

“The association of the term AE with reality television seems to be where it started. Assistant editors have always been referred to — both contractually and in working relationships — as assistant editors; ‘editor’ being the operative word. The term AE serves to divide the assistant editor from the editor.

While the title “assistant director” obviously dates back to the pre-cinema era of theatre, the origins of its acronym are still somewhat murky. The entertainment industry trade publication Variety, which has been coining its own distinctive “slanguage” soon after it debuted in 1905 — likely as a means of fitting long words into limited space for headlines when type was still set by hand — includes a dictionary of its famous (or infamous) made-up terms on www.variety.com. Among them is “a.d.” (in lower-case letters and with periods), meaning assistant director. This connection may be far from conclusive, but it’s a fair bet that this abbreviation to mean an assistant film director (the term’s not really used in the stage world) was born as a last resort of a space-challenged copy editor trying to squeeze a headline onto a page in the early days of the trade paper. For what it’s worth, “d.p.” is also included in Variety’s slanguage dictionary.

Now, however, in 2015, I think that we (fellow picture editors and assistants, reality or scripted, union or non-union) are at a crossroads with the relatively new term AE. And we have an opportunity to stop it, or it too will become “stuck.”

So, what do we prefer? I worked in scripted television for 27 years and yet it was not until working on my first reality show in 2004 that I heard an assistant editor referred to as an AE. “The association of the term AE with reality television seems to be where it started,” says sound editor F. Hudson Miller, MPSE. “In the 75-plus years of the Editors Guild’s history, assistant editors have always been referred to — both contractually and in working relationships — as assistant editors; ‘editor’ being the operative word. The term AE serves to divide the assistant editor from the editor. For the past dozen years or so, one of the Guild’s big concerns has been that assistant editors are no longer being mentored into the editor’s chair. This moniker serves to stress the difference, and not the similarity, of the jobs.”

“If you want a cause to champion, it should be dropping assistant from the name and changing it to something that doesn’t make producers think it is okay to ask you to get coffee,” comments the anonymous assistant editor. “The mentoring thing is an issue, but it has absolutely nothing to do with initializing someone’s title. If assistant editors have an issue with people giving them an initialed title — just like that given to a creative department head like the DP — then they need to check their egos at the door.”

Editor Maureen O’Connell makes an interesting counterpoint: “I believe that there are people in certain segments of our industry who are invested in designating assistant editors — verbally and on paper — as AEs.” This is very much technology-speak, intentionally moving away from the arts and into engineering or near-military terminology, and is just as dehumanizing. It reminds me of why we formed, and still need, our Guild. Guilds are siblinghoods of artists, learning their art, craft and trade in a journeyman structure, and apprenticed to be able to move up the creative ladder. Assistant editors are editors, as are apprentices. They just have not yet attained the highest level of their art.

If assistant editors have an issue with people giving them an initialed title — just like that given to a creative department head like the DP — then they need to check their egos at the door.”

“To refer to them by initials rather than their Guild-conferred artistic title is to allow management to define them,” she continues. “And I cannot possibly convey how eager management is to disempower us all.” To which Miller adds, “Removal of the word editor from the title is just another attempt to reduce post jobs to technical rather than creative positions.”

In my opinion, the AE title sounds less important, like the title “digitizer,” who could know nothing else (that’s the implication), versus an assistant editor, who assists the editor in all facets of the film or television program — from dailies to special effects to turnover, including sound and music. The editor is a department head; the editor’s assistant is a job title worthy of embracing. Offers Cahn: “An AE sounds like someone who can be replaced; an assistant editor does not.”

“In my mind, the value of our jobs isn’t determined by an abbreviated title,” counters Cenkner. “It’s determined by the quality of our work and the equal respect we’re given by other members of our team in any given situation. And as long as that integrity and respect is maintained, by all means, call me an AE for brevity’s sake.”

“To refer to assistant editors by initials rather than their Guild-conferred artistic title is to allow management to define them. And I cannot possibly convey how eager management is to disempower us all.”

It’s apparent that many assistant editors — particularly those who’ve entered the business in the last decade — do not mind the AE title because they think “assistants” get coffee, and that the term doesn’t matter because it’s their work that defines them, not their title. “I’m not promoting the title AE; in fact, I couldn’t care less — which is actually my point,” opines the unidentified assistant editor. “My self-worth is not determined by whether someone decides to use my full title or its initials. People respect me and my position not because of my title, but because of my experience, my knowledge and the quality of my work…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The American Cinema Editors, together with the Editors Guild, is fighting to gain picture editors recognition in awards categories at film festivals worldwide (all the other comparable disciplines are already represented), through the Petition for Editors Recognition (see www.editorspetition.com). We need all the help we can get. Respect is a cumulative effect, just like every edit and every frame is a cumulative effect; that’s why one or two frames do make a difference. And yes, a title does matter. Why do you think people make Deal Memos prioritizing and guaranteeing their titles?

What do you think would happen if everyone started calling directors “DTs?” Except that would never happen; everyone has too much respect for the craft to dare call a director by such an abbreviation. Let’s have too much respect for our craft to call an assistant editor an AE and perhaps — just perhaps — cumulatively, assistant editors can get more respect and that may lead to better pay. Let’s not refer to them in the same manner as we do unskilled production assistants.

The value of our jobs isn’t determined by an abbreviated title. It’s determined by the quality of our work and the equal respect we’re given by other members of our team in any given situation. And as long as that integrity and respect is maintained, by all means, call me an AE for brevity’s sake.”

I have jeopardized several jobs fighting for my assistant editor (in more ways than one) and, when addressing studio heads or producers, I always refer to my assistant with a title that represents him or her in the most favorable light. And trust me; it’s not, “my AE.”

“Editorial is a very old profession that has its own traditions,” says Miller. “When we join the brotherhood/sisterhood, we adopt those traditions. There are lots of old-fashioned terms that are the traditional lingua franca of our trade; ‘assistant editor’ is one of them.”

Upon considering this, the anonymous dissenter concedes, “AE is just lazy speech. But if that’s your cause, more power to you. I’m tired of the inevitable corrective responses if I utter those two heinous letters. So yes, I acquiesce; let’s all stop using AE so I can stop hearing people incessantly complain about it. Agreed?”

Agreed. Now…can we start to discuss how to utilize our journeyman structure to help assistant editors and new editors climb the creative ladder to attain the highest level of their art?

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Book Reviews

A Fantasy of Editing Reality

by Pamela Malouf
written by Pamela Malouf 5 minutes read

by Pamela Malouf, A.C.E.

Perchance an editing job on one of the lower-rent reality shows is “easily accessible,” but chances are that any accomplished reality editors who’ve spent time honing their skills will find this book’s subhead offensive. As for the “job that nobody knows about,” the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences added reality to its award categories in 2003. That same year, IATSE and picture editors fought to unionize unscripted television and scored a huge victory with the series Big Brother. Some eight years ago, the forerunner to this publication published an in-depth article on editing reality TV (“Confession of a ‘Preditor’: What Goes on Behind Reality TV’s Cutting Room Door,” Editors Guild Magazine MAR-APR 05). While it’s true that a book should not be judged by its cover, the very title of this tome makes its basic premise dubious.

Author Jeff Dawson graduated from NYU film school in 1999 with a youthful delusion that fantastic opportunities of money and power in the motion picture industry would be his overnight. He tells about trying his hand at writing, directing and even acting, but the powers-that-be in Hollywood didn’t recognize him as the newest wunderkind he imagined himself to be. His “last desperate attempt at living the dream” was when he got his first decent-paying job — as an assistant editor on a reality show.

By his own account, the author had limited entry-level exposure to scripted shows, yet he quickly surmised that all scripted people “posture and patronize with self-obsessed Hollywood arrogance.” Dawson’s partiality bobs to the surface in the book, with pronouncements such as that all the people working in reality TV are nice compared to the “superficial, self-important” old-school Hollywood types. As a veteran editor with reasonable success in both realms, I can tell you that the scripted medium does not have exclusivity on unpleasant people, nor does unscripted have only likeable employers.

Other declarations may give pause: Dawson claims that the introduction of nonlinear video editing was in the mid-1990s. The very first nonlinear system, the CMX600, was introduced in 1971! In 1983, Herb Dow, A.C.E., cut Still the Beaver on the nonlinear Ediflex system and the following year, the editors of Knots Landing, Falcon Crest and Dallas followed suit. The Montage Picture Processor and EditDroid debuted in 1984. In fact, Ediflex (Cinedco) won the 1985 Technical Emmy for the Design and Implementation of Nonlinear Editing for Filmed Programs.

Like its scripted predecessors, reality has continued booming while simultaneously signing union contracts on some of the biggest and highest-rated reality programs.

Broad generalizations aside, there is some useful information about reality for a scripted editor who wants a lay of the land or an assistant seeking an editing break. Common reality terms such as “radio cut,” “bites” and “frankenbites” are described in detail. There are quizzes at the end of each chapter and “watch and learn” assignments (some may find these annoying). Much of the picture and music editing tips — such as don’t take music and just “slap it under some picture” or “use the best stuff” — are standard fare for any editor worth his or her salt. But if all you’re looking for are the fundamentals of editing a reality show from start to finish, then this book will deliver some insight.

To become successful in unscripted editing, Dawson professes that you don’t need to go to film school, get an agent or “serve coffee to self-obsessed Hollywood jerks.” He also suggests that becoming proficient on an editing system isn’t necessary because you can do that on-the-job. He ignores the fact that in any complex organization or craft, there are entry-level positions and a process for learning the trade with time, experience and mentoring. By oversimplifying this, Dawson has done a disservice to the reader.

In the second part of the book, the author starts to redeem himself. It could be its own book: How to Break into Hollywood Without Knowing Anything, and if high school or college graduates do as Dawson instructs, their odds at breaking in will greatly improve. He nails the steps succinctly and even explains how to learn the basics of the Avid while working in a position such as a production assistant.

Dawson asserts that the reality genre is here to stay but, alas, he disappoints by pretentiously citing the non-union aspect as a reason, and infers that it’s a positive factor. Sure, the industry always seeks the cheapest way to get the highest return, but non-union labor is not a huge part of that. One should keep in mind that motion pictures and television were both non-union at their inception, yet both exploded in popularity while becoming unionized.

Like its scripted predecessors, reality has continued booming while simultaneously signing union contracts on some of the biggest and highest-rated reality programs: The Voice, Dancing with the Stars, America’s Got Talent, etc. Companies like ShineAmerica, Endemol and Freemantle have all recently become union signatories and the list is constantly growing. As this trend continues, forward-thinking reality editors are looking beyond just the “easily accessible” jobs. We’re creating the possibility for sustainable, long-term careers editing unscripted TV, with safeguards for our working conditions, our health and our future retirement.

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Union Made

UNION MADE: Persistence Has Its Rewards

by Pamela Malouf
written by Pamela Malouf 5 minutes read

by Pamela Malouf, A.C.E.

Pamela Malouf.

When I was seven years old, I performed in a play––The Emperor’s New Clothes––and from that time on, I wanted to be an actress when I grew up.  Throughout school, I participated in various plays, attended the Shakespeare Festival and the California State University Northridge Teenage Drama Workshop.  Over time, I discovered that acting made me feel uncomfortable and self-conscious.  So, my second summer at the CSUN workshop, I became stage manager on a play––and loved it!  Working behind the scenes was for me.

By the time I enrolled in college, my father––ever the skeptic––had convinced me that I had no chance of ever making it in the film industry, so I majored in law.  After a full four days of hating all my classes, I threw caution to the wind and decided that if others could make it in the industry, then so could I.  I changed all of my classes and became a cinema major.

I got my first paying job as a make-up artist on a low-budget commercial.  Then I did make-up and PA work on a low-budget feature.  I quickly realized that dealing with the egos and insecurities of actors about how they looked was less than rewarding.  The budget was so low that the film editor had no assistant, so I asked her if I could assist for free.  Of course she said yes.

Meanwhile, my high school-through-college job at Gelson’s supermarket had promoted me from “box-girl” to “checker,” which paid enough for me to support myself while working part time.  Every spare minute I spent in the cutting room learning the ins and outs of 35mm.  I had always been somewhat analytical, meticulous and self-motivated, so I fell in love with editing; I had found my career path!
After I got my AA degree, the editor with whom I had been working (for free) asked me to assist her for a salary on her next project.  I decided to continue my on-the-job training instead of continuing college.  I worked Monday through Friday in the cutting room, and weekends at Gelson’s (my father’s cautions had trained me to cover my bases, so I kept my “real” job).

Well, on that “real job” is where I met Academy Award-winning editor Donn Cambern, ACE, who would come through my line (his son was a box-boy) and we would chit chat.  When I asked Donn how to get into the business, he said three words: “Persistence, determination and optimism.”  One day, after my constant prodding, Donn told me that they were looking for people to help in the non-union film department of a feature called Star Wars.  I remember asking, “Star what?”

I got into editing and never looked back.  Hard work, gallons of coffee and personal integrity have kept the jobs coming.

I interviewed with the associate producer and got a job as a film librarian.  Before I knew it, I was working at the first Industrial Light and Magic (ILM) in Van Nuys on what, without visual effects or sound mixing, seemed like some cheesy, Roger Corman-type of sci-fi film.  History showed how foolish that assumption was.  When ILM went union, I happily became a member of the Editors Guild.

After that movie, with much door-knocking, I landed on the multi-camera sitcom Rhoda, assisting editor Larry Heath, who became an invaluable mentor.  He taught me editing tricks and secrets and showed me how to make changes. The next year, on Angie, he arranged for me to cut my first episode!  However, union rules of that time required five years in the Guild before allowing a screen credit for “Editing.”

After a dozen more assistant gigs, including more mentoring from Academy Award winner Paul Hirsch, ACE, I accepted a job as post-production coordinator.  This led to three years in post management, including one year at Paramount Studios.  One day, in my pleated pants and low pumps, I looked up from my desk and there were a dozen finely sharpened pencils.  Horrified, I thought, “Oh my God, I’ve become a pencil pusher!”   I decided immediately to flee for my life and soul and get back into the cutting room.

After editing promos for a year, I used that, plus my management experience, to plead my way onto the Paramount series MacGyver––with the promise that when they needed a third editor, I would get the bump up.  It didn’t take long and soon I had my first official editing gig!

About this time, 35mm film started to disappear, and it was a tough time for editors because if you didn’t know the latest editing system, then you didn’t work!  I faked or fibbed my way, training on the new systems nights, weekends and on the job.  I edited shows on the Montage (17 Beta decks), the Ediflex (12 VHS decks), LaserEdit (laserdiscs), then Ediflex Digital and, finally in 1994, Avid.

I got into editing and never looked back.  Hard work, gallons of coffee and personal integrity have kept the jobs coming and I will forever remember Donn Cambern’s advice over 30 years ago in that grocery store: “Persistence, determination and optimism.”

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Union Made

UNION MADE: When Bruce was Still Green: Bruce Green

by Pamela Malouf
written by Pamela Malouf 4 minutes read

by Pam Malouf

Growing up in a New York suburb, Bruce Green, ACE, never dreamed of becoming a film editor of features such as Runaway Bride or Freaky Friday—but he did have a suspicion that he would never become an accountant or salesman.  Following his instincts and the call of creativity, he enrolled at Bard College as an art major.  While there, irresistible cosmic forces began his inevitable migration into motion pictures, and he made his first foray into cinema by animating a short film.  But college at Bard was short-lived; travel and adventure beckoned.

It was the hippie days and Green found himself hitchhiking around the United States to satisfy his wanderlust. Ultimately he landed in warm Southern California at California Institute for the Arts (Cal Arts).  His animated film from Bard opened the doors to him and he enrolled as an animation major. But the cosmic forces once again whispered and he soon changed his major to live action.

Three years later, Green graduated with a BFA and, after endless interviews, landed his first job in the entertainment industry as a PA on an industrial film involving horses. This glamorous film job was literally to shovel manure out of a corral where the horses would be filmed.

Moving on, he wound up at a small film lab in Hollywood to be trained as a color timer on the night shift.  A friend from Cal Arts was also working there and they decided to get into some freelance special effects work, so they started passing out business cards. Enough work was generated to buy their own optical printer, and soon they began designing title sequences and montages on movies such as The Trial of Billy Jack. After a year or so of this, the forces of destiny exerted themselves again and it was time to move on.  Green’s quest for knowledge next took him down the road to cinematography.

One day Bruce Green was told that he would be a member of the Motion Picture Editors Guild; the next week his paycheck had doubled.

He ended up working for Haskell Wexler on commercials, learning and helping with cameras.

But Green wanted to work on features and soon got a job as a nonunion camera assistant on a film called Cannonball. Every morning he delivered the film to the cutting room and, when the shooting was over, he was offered a job as an apprentice film editor.  This was a flashpoint in Green’s career, as his winding journey had deposited him at the front door—and ground floor—of the editorial world.

Those were the magic days, when special effects were undergoing a renaissance. So, when George Lucas decided to start a new company, ILM (Industrial Light and Magic), to create the Star Wars special effects, his company recruited many Cal Arts alumni—including Green, who coordinated opticals from outside vendors. He remembers the producer of Star Wars, Gary Kurtz, encouragingly telling him, “This film could be as big as Planet of the Apes!”

While Green was at ILM, the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE) organized the company and one day he was told that he would be a member of the Motion Picture Editors Guild; the next week his paycheck had doubled.

Bruce Green today.

Star Wars was indeed a huge hit and Green discovered that his association with it opened a lot of new doors. He soon wound up getting a series of jobs as an assistant editor, eagerly learning from each new experience. By the time editor Michael Kahn, ACE, was looking for a new assistant for the upcoming Raiders of the Lost Ark feature, Green had gained the experience and recommendations to land the job.

Through a recommendation from Kahn, Green’s first editing break came on Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning. After a few more low-budget movies and another lead from Kahn, he landed Punchline (starring Tom Hanks and Sally Field), which catapulted him into an A-list movie career.

Looking back at the milestones in his career, Green is grateful that Kahn got satisfaction and pleasure from teaching others and that he, himself, was a recipient of that generosity.  He talks of how the veteran editor showed him how to mold and shape material—and taught him that editing is a process that comes from the heart, the brain and the gut.

Green feels that this mentorship was the key to his successful career and hopes that all editors and assistants take enough of an interest in someone to mentor him or her.  He cites the unique camaraderie of—and the education from—Editors Guild members as an important part of his career.

In the 1980s, Green became very involved in the Guild and was elected as an assistant editor representative on the Board at Directors and, later, Vice President. In 1981, he also reactivated the dormant Editors Guild Newsletter (the predecessor of this magazine).

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Tail Pop

Elliot Silverstein’s ‘Cat Ballou’ (1965)

by Pamela Malouf
written by Pamela Malouf 4 minutes read

by Pam Malouf

Forty years ago, Los Angeles had the Watts uprising, Lyndon Johnson was the US President, black voting-rights demonstrators led by Martin Luther King, Jr., were gassed and whipped by Alabama State Police and more than 180,000 troops were deployed to Vietnam by the end of the year. But as a little girl, my only concern was whether or not Billy Mumy would be rescued from Lost in Space.

Barbra Streisand was on Broadway in Funny Girl, Gemini space missions made me dream about men going to the moon, and the miniskirt (which I would later wear as a teen) lit up runways. On television was Gidget, starring my idol Sally Field, and Beatles records blasted from the bedroom of my older sister. In those days I would dance around the house pretending I was Audrey Hepburn singing “I Could Have Danced All Night” from My Fair Lady.

My dad loved Jane Fonda—who was at the height of her sex-kitten days—so he took us kids to see her in the sleeper hit Cat Ballou. I didn’t know it at the time, but the movie would change my life. At the beginning of the film, the Columbia Pictures logo lady tosses away her torch and toga and morphs into a cowgirl shooting with both barrels! This is your first clue that it’s a Western like no other!

Yep, it’s a comedy/sex/Western spoof with one-of-a-kind performances from Fonda and Lee Marvin, who has two roles—drunken former gunslinger Kid Shelleen and his twin brother Strawn, a cold, noseless assassin. Marvin, in one of his finest film performances, steals the movie and won himself an Oscar for his fabulous work.

The bold courage and willingness to stand up to authority displayed by Cat showed me that all it takes is guts for anyone [including women] to stand up for her rights.

To our amusing surprise, there are also wandering minstrels (Nat King Cole and Stubby Kaye) who sing: “The Ballad of Cat Ballou” (Academy Award nominee for Best Song). “It’s hanging day in 1894… She killed a man, it’s true, and that’s why they’re hanging Cat Ballou.” We first see the sweet young thing-turned-outlaw, Catherine “Cat” Ballou (Fonda), in prison wearing a sexy slip as she prepares to be hanged. (Isn’t that standard garb for all prisoners?) Then the minstrels (who frame the picture like a Shakespearean chorus) sing, “How come they’re now gonna hang you and how did you begin?” as the movie flashes back to tell Cat’s story.

Innocent schoolteacher Cat Ballou returns home to find that her father won’t sell the water rights to his farm, and that his life is being threatened. Cat assembles two petty criminals: a wisecracking ranch hand and a hired killer, Kid Shelleen, to protect her father. But in spite of their best efforts, gun-toting assassin Strawn murders him. At that moment, Cat shows more strength than every man in the movie when she rides after the killer and confronts him in town with the sheriff.

Ah, but the sheriff (Jay Flippen) provides an alibi for the guilty gunfighter and lies directly to Cat’s face! We watch her innocence melt right before our eyes as the minstrels sing, “There are teardrops in her heart, but they can’t make her cry.” Seeking revenge, Cat embarks on a life of crime. When Kid Shelleen learns that Strawn threatened to kill Cat, he decides to sober up and, in an excellent series of scenes, transforms from a drunken slob into a genuine gunfighter. Director Elliot Silverstein shot these scenes with a metro-nome and the timing and editing is impeccable.

Forty years later, I still find myself thinking about Cat Ballou. I lost my innocence right alongside Cat that day when the sheriff lied about her daddy’s death. The bold courage and willingness to stand up to authority displayed by Cat showed me that all it takes is guts for anyone (including women) to stand up for her rights. If a young, innocent girl could ride fearlessly after a noseless killer, then nothing could stop me! Cat Ballou was an inspiration to throw caution to the wind and fight for what I believe in. This 1965 parody of Westerns, which received five Academy Award nominations, including Best Editing (Charles Nelson), hasn’t lost any of its humor or fun with the passing of time. Fonda stars in one of her most playful roles and Lee Marvin alone makes this movie worth viewing.

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