Sandbox, 9/4

When Rick says goodbye to Ilsa in "Casablanca," he rounds off the tryst with the line: "here’s looking at you, kid." As he falls into a psychosis in "Taxi Driver," Travis Bickle preaches his infamous line, "you talking to me?" into the mirror. A dying Roy declares to Deckard that his memories will be lost, "like tears in the rain" in "Blade Runner."

If there were a Canton for movie lines, these three would be first ballot Hall of Famers.

Their resonance in Hollywood is unquestioned. In the AFI list of the greatest movie quotes of all time the first two rank in the top 10. But Rick’s affectionate line to Isla, Travis’s adversarial chant in the face of his isolation and Roy’s disclosure in his final moments all have one thing in common: they are unscripted.

They brought a definition and a legacy to three hallmark moments of cinema. They were in the moment, true to the story and, most importantly, a product of collaboration. Those lines were not personal strokes of genius from the actors, but an end result of a collaborative process that was as much reliant on the gaffers, best boys, foleys, wranglers and all the other seemingly nonsensical job titles that litter the movie credits, as it is to the stars, directors and writers that spearhead any film.

Now, I’m not knocking the preparation that comes with moviemaking. What I’m here to say is that the best of preparation leads to that most sought-after feature of cinema: that intangible, elusive and somewhat pretentious desire to be "in the moment"; to bring a story from the page in order to make it real. That’s what entices us, it makes us laugh and it makes us cry, but, too often, we misallocate the acclaim.

Actors tweet, Instagram and iconicize themselves to the never-ending appraisal of their international fan base. Directors wax philosophy in auditoriums and interview rooms while producers are wined and dined on LA rooftops. There is no limit to the admiration bestowed on Spielberg, Coppola, Polanski and Scorsese – and rightfully so. These men are the living, breathing legends that have stylised the movie industry over the last 40 years. If there were a Canton for filmmakers, this lot would surely be in there. But the fact of the matter is, their appraisal is hollow without the recognition of their support group.

Much has been made of the debate in literature and art of where ownership resides. Is The Hunger Games the property of Suzanne Collins or the thousands of readers that devour her book? What right does JK Rowling have to say that Dumbledore is gay any more than I do? Who gives Ai WeiWei any more power to shatter an ancient vase than the man on the street that comes into his exhibit and does the same? For so many forms of art, the question is in direct relation to the artist and the consumer. The same is true for film–the only difference is that the "artist" invariably refers to a collection of tens or hundreds of individuals.

I was lucky enough to direct a short film I wrote this summer. It had basic production value, employing three different locations and a three-and-a-half day shooting schedule, but with a cast and crew over twenty. A few weeks after filming had wrapped, a friend said to me, "it must be great to see your film come to life." The comment lingered after they had left and I couldn’t work out what troubled me about it. I was excited certainly, and there really was something incredibly organic about the process that made the "coming to life" sentiment suitable. But the problem was in the possessive. Your. There was nothing individual about it. As soon as the words had left the page, into the mouths of the actors, the story was collective. It meandered, twisting and turning, rambling and drifting with every character concession and production decision. The responsibility swelled far beyond my control–and thankfully so.