Film Production and Distribution

III

Distribution

Although far less glamorous than film production, and rarely discussed outside the industry, distribution is in many ways the key element in the whole process. No matter how brilliant a film, if it fails to get distribution it might as well have not been made; if its distribution is restricted, or ineptly handled, it is likely to be branded—initially at least—a flop. The debut film of Orson Welles, Citizen Kane (1941), which was widely viewed as a thinly veiled, unflattering depiction of the newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst, was denied the distribution it deserved thanks to the machinations of the Hearst press, and despite enthusiastic reviews failed to recoup its costs; this commercial failure lastingly blighted Welles’s career. By contrast, a film released with the full weight of a major distribution campaign behind it will almost inevitably do well, no matter what its quality—witness The Da Vinci Code (2006). Whether or not a British film performs well at the US box-office, as did Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994) and Bend It Like Beckham (2002), often depends less on its inherent quality than on a shrewdly negotiated distribution deal.

In the earliest days of cinema, distributors were simply middlemen who marketed films to individual cinema owners, arranged for their delivery, and took a percentage of the box office. As the industry became organized, the major producing studios took control of the distribution of their films, often exerting pressure over the exhibitors to accept “block bookings” of a number of films at once as an indivisible package. In the United States, independent producers, such as David O. Selznick, signed distribution deals with one or other of the major studios. Less powerful figures than Selznick often opted for United Artists, reputed to be more sympathetic to struggling independents.

The decline of the studios led to the rise of independent distributors such as Orion, Miramax, and Castle Rock, many of them exerting comparable power and creative control to the erstwhile Hollywood majors. Frequently, independent productions are financed through “distribution deals”, whereby the distributor puts up a sizeable portion of the budget in return for distribution rights in some or all markets. As a result, the distribution company may feel entitled to dictate changes in casting, script, creative personnel, and final cut. This can be a positive influence: Frank Darabont has spoken of the “generous and wise” support given by Castle Rock to his debut film, The Shawshank Redemption (1994). By contrast, Miramax became notorious for putting pressure on film-makers to conform to its demands and for its sometimes merciless editing in post-production.

Lavish distribution may not always be in a film’s best interests. A minority-interest film can be harmed by opening “too wide”—in a large number of cinemas where each theatre’s box-office returns are too low to defray the cost of striking and distributing multiple prints. Such a film may be better served by giving it a limited release in a small number of cinemas, then gradually broadening out into more outlets as its word-of-mouth reputation grows. However, if the initial release is too narrow, the film may fail to attract its destined audience in the first place. Such calculations require experience and very fine judgement.

Definitions of “wide” and “narrow” openings of course vary: but a “wide” opening may mean simultaneous release on upwards of 3,000 screens in the United States, or 1,200 in the United Kingdom. (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2007) was given a worldwide opening on 9,000 screens—probably an all-time record.) A “narrow” opening could be anything from a single screen—as happened to Christopher Nolan’s feature debut Following (1998) in the UK—to 100 in the US, or 40 in the UK. Timing of a release is no less crucial. The classic pattern is for the majors to release their “summer blockbusters” during the summer holidays and “family pictures” in the run-up to Christmas. Oscar-hopefuls are often sneaked in during the final days of the year in order to qualify for the next year’s voting. The so-called “graveyard-slot” of January and February, traditionally shunned by the major producing companies, may be ideal for niche arthouse films likely to appeal to audiences starved of intellectual sustenance during the “kiddie-pic” season.

Distribution patterns have become increasingly complex as new technologies have entered the field. In the early years of cinema it was widely assumed that films had a viable life of a year or two at best—which is why so many silent films are no longer extant, all negatives and prints having being junked for their silver nitrate content. Gradually it was realized that a film could have an afterlife—all the more so once the studios began leasing their back catalogues to television. Since the advent of VHS video, and then DVD, the return on a film’s cinematic release may be only a small percentage of its earning potential. The situation is further complicated by Internet download, a technology with which the industry is still grappling.

IV

The Film Business

While the image of the film factory—the large film studios such as Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM), Paramount, 20th Century-Fox, RKO, and Columbia, all producing a hundred or more films each year—still dominates the imagination of many writers, production has been transformed since the 1950s and films are set up and financed in different and complex ways. Apart from the web of financial interests mentioned above, other consortiums may have a financial interest. In Europe, for example, international co-productions are increasingly sought to create a large domestic market that can compete with the United States. Global communication has also altered the ways in which films are produced: they are frequently shot on location, with different crews used in different countries. A well-documented example of classic studio production is that of Anthony Adverse (1936). Studio control, both artistic and financial, was effectively achieved throughout its making by its producer Hal Wallis, and there were few adjustments needed at the post-production stage.

Since the ending of the studio system, however, production-line, genre film-making has come to an end virtually everywhere except in India, and the tension between commercial and artistic control of film production has become more pronounced. Conflicting financial interests among investors have to be carefully negotiated by independent producer/directors who do not want to compromise their artistic integrity. The director/producer John Boorman has described the production process during the making of The Emerald Forest (1985) in detail. Negotiations with lawyers, studios, financiers, and ego-driven personalities took place over 18 months of pre-production. Finally, a budget of US$14 million was agreed, followed by a relatively brief and relaxed period when the film was in production. A crew of 120 was reduced to only 8 in post-production, during which time special effects were produced and a music score composed. Finally, all the sound was mixed together, and the film was guided and controlled through the laboratories. It was only after previews in Washington, Dallas, and San Diego, and more adjustments, that the film was finally completed.

On the other hand, Apocalypse Now, directed by Francis Ford Coppola, which was shot in the Philippines, far away from the dictates of financial control, ran considerably over its budgeted US$12 million, was in production for 238 days, and finally cost US$31 million. Michael Cimino, the director of Heaven's Gate, similarly overspent by US$35 million and brought its distributor and financier United Artists to financial ruin. Even these figures pale in the face of the US$180 million that Waterworld (1995) reputedly cost.

These financially chaotic productions seriously damaged—and in the case of Cimino, virtually killed—their directors’ careers. A slightly different example would be Kathryn Bigelow’s ambitious futuristic thriller Strange Days (1995). Although in her case the film did not go seriously over-budget, for a cost of US$42 million it returned only some US$10 million. Bigelow’s career has yet fully to recover, which may suggest that women directors are given less leeway to fail than their male counterparts.

With spiralling costs, production has become even more risky in recent years. But even the most meticulous costing and control during shooting cannot stave off disaster. A film may go wildly over-budget, as did Titanic (1997) by James Cameron, where the director forewent his US$8 million salary and his percentage of the gross to placate the alarmed studio, yet still reap a massive profit. The most scrupulously controlled shoot may come in on time and under budget and nonetheless prove a commercial disaster. Caution never guarantees success, and seemingly reckless decisions may pay off: the US production company New Line took a huge gamble in giving Peter Jackson the go-ahead to make all three films in the Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001-2003) when, for all they knew, the first one might have been a flop.

Film-making has always been an unpredictable business—to cite the much-quoted dictum by screenwriter William Goldman, “Nobody knows anything”. Despite this, studio executives will always seek the elusive “sure thing”; hence the unceasing glut of sequels, remakes, franchises, and films adapted from bestselling novels. Directors and writers—or some of them, at any rate—prefer to strive after originality, giving rise to the perennial clash between the “creatives” and the front office. This conflict can be creatively productive, as it was with the audacious Terry Gilliam film Brazil (1985), or crippling, as in the case of the same director’s The Brothers Grimm (2005).

The growing sophistication of CGI (computer-generated imagery), like all new technology—sound, colour, widescreen—presents great opportunities but also dangers. CGI can create stunning effects that would have been unattainable 20 years ago, but at the same time is widely mistrusted as an invitation to shallow, flashy film-making. Studio bosses, meantime, are seduced by the possibilities of “cyberthespians”—digitally created “actors”, practically indistinguishable from the real thing, who will never throw tantrums, demand ever-vaster salaries, or turn in a bad performance. Downloaded films may prove impossible to control or to charge for. As cinema nervously confronts the uncharted potential of the digital age, the future of the industry looks as uncertain, unnerving, and exciting as ever.