Q&A WITH AARON SCHIMBERG

Q. A Different Man manages to balance heartfelt sincerity with a dark comedic edge. How do you think these two, seemingly opposite, emotions relate?

A. Before I start writing any script, I agonize and procrastinate for a month, if not a year, mostly worrying about tone. I wonder: “What is the right approach for this? What is it going to look like?”

And every time I write a script, it’s always the same. Once I finally decide to sit down and write a scene, the tone is always the same — it’s already laid out for me. It’s almost like it’s not up to me, or maybe I have no versatility. It just is what it is, as in this is what I’m able to do.

Every film that I make comes from some kind of personal pain and I know that sounds ridiculous. Some filmmakers think more politically and others more about joy and happiness — some want to create children’s movies. And, I mean, I have a child. I wish that I could write a movie for her — for a six-year-old to enjoy. But the things that drive me are part of some pain that I put under the microscope in a real effort to heal. That seems to be the reason that I do it.

At the same time, I think of all my films as comedies. I’m starting from a dark place, but I’m not wallowing in that. Maybe there is some design behind that because I want them to function both as tragedies and comedies, but I don’t know how I create that.

Q. You recently programmed Abel Ferrara’s The Driller Killer at BAM and called it one of “the best New York films.” With A Different Man, you’re adding to a lineage of independent NYC-filmmaking. Is there a specific era of independent filmmaking in New York that you feel especially connected to?

A. I love Speedy, a great New York film from the ‘20s, and I love a lot of noirs, like Pickup on South Street and The Naked City. I like New York films from all eras, but I’m most drawn to the ‘70s, which I know many people are. I was born in the ‘70s, so it’s probably something that feels extremely familiar to me. It was the way the world was supposed to be until Miami Vice came along and all the earth tones got replaced by neons and pinks. Armani jackets and t-shirts took over, and the world got ruined because Michael Mann came along. And I like Michael Mann, but aesthetically, he ruined the way the world was supposed to be, according to somebody born in the ‘70s.

In terms of The Driller Killer, I’m drawn to films that are rough around the edges, not necessarily films made by perfectionists. I respect that and I certainly like 2001, but I’m always drawn to films that seem like a bunch of friends got together and made a movie. The Driller Killer is a good example of that. It seems like they could have made it in a week, or on nights and weekends. And yet, I think it’s a very profound film and one that has left a lasting impression on me.

In my previous films — because I had no budget — my first concession was to say everything was in one location. Go Down Death (2013) was all shot in a warehouse in Brooklyn, and then I made Chained for Life (2018), which was designed to take place in a hospital because locations cost a lot of money. Even though I’ve lived in New York while I made all of these films, I wasn’t really using the city, because the city is very expensive.

This time, I tried to cast aside those restrictions and told myself: “I’m going to write it as if I had all the money in the world.” Yet, in the back of my mind, I also thought that I would never get to make it, so I was writing the film with the idea that I would have to shoot it in Toronto, Minneapolis, or wherever. When we got funding, I said to the producers: “I know we’re not going to get to shoot in New York and I’m willing to get a back up.” And they all said, “No, this is a New York movie. We have to shoot in New York.” They fought for it.

I don’t know what I was thinking imagining that I could have shot this anywhere else, because it ended up being a very realistic portrait of New York. The very first thing we shot was a scene outside of Birdy’s, underneath the M-train. It was so fucking loud — horns blaring. It was my first time shooting on the street and shooting exteriors. It was so noisy that I just said, “Okay, I see what this movie is. I have to just embrace this.” So it became a very noisy movie.

It reminds people of a ’70s film, but I never thought about it that way. Although it’s definitely in my DNA and I’m not denying that; certainly, in terms of color schemes and color palettes. There are also not a lot of cell phones. But that’s more an expression of who I am and less a conscious effort to suppress the modern world. It’s more about how my subconscious thinks the world is.

Q. A Different Man and Chained for Life both deal with disfigurement, albeit from different perspectives. What draws you to this topic as a filmmaker?

A. I was born with a cleft palate and I think that it’s just how I identify. I mean, I don’t go around identifying with this, but it’s self-evident and it has affected me. It affected everything about me and I’m still dealing with it. Not only having a cleft palate, but having as many surgeries as I did, and having my face change over time. The face that I have is not really the face I was born with. Of course, the face I was born with had a hole in it. My parents are very normal and attractive people and I wonder, “Was I supposed to look like them?”

I’m just writing about myself. I’m writing about my experience and I’m trying to make sense of it. I never felt that any movie that dealt with the subject spoke to me, or if it spoke to me, it only confirmed what I feared that everybody was thinking about me was true. That this is the way the world views disfigured people and this is the way the world views me.

In the case of this film, I worked with Adam Pearson, who I’d worked with before. He’s someone who doesn’t seem to let his disfigurement define him. Meeting him and seeing that threw me into a kind of identity crisis. I really wondered, “Does my social anxiety and the way I am come from having a cleft palate, or is that something I had always assumed?” Meeting Adam, I thought: “Did it have to be this way? Is this not how I’m supposed to act? Even today, could I change? Could I become a different person? Do I want to become a different person? Have I leaned on this like a crutch?” I brought up all sorts of questions for me.

Q. What’s the first movie that ever scared you?

A. When I was really little, I kept coming into my parents’ room. I kept coming into their room and screaming that “The man with the ax is coming.” It went on for so long that they had to take me to a therapist. It turned out that I had seen the trailer for The Shining on television.

Q. Who is usually the first person you show your film to?

A. I don’t show anybody anything, partly because I’m so disorganized that if anybody saw a work-in-progress they would think I was illiterate. Once I polish it off and get a sort of readable version, I show it to my wife Vanessa, who is also my producer. And then, if she likes it — and she has every time so far — I’ll show it to Jon Dieringer, from Screen Slate. He’s always second.

Q. Is there anyone in particular whom you’d love to work with?

A. I’d like to work with Michael J. Fox.

Q. If you could choose to organize one retrospective, whose would it be?

A. I’d like to see every Ozu film on 35mm.

Q. Lastly, is there an image you’d like to end this interview on?

A. Edvard Munch’s Jealousy.