Fifty years after his screenwriting debut via Sydney Pollack’s The Yakuza and a mere forty-six since his directorial debut with Blue Collar, Paul Schrader is still at it. And he’s operating at a higher level than most. A household name for his Scorsese screenplays––Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, and The Last Temptation of Christ chief among them––Schrader made a compelling industry name for himself with his own projects by the late ’70s, cementing himself as one of cinema’s most divisive, most original, and most consistent directors by the late ’80s and early ’90s.
After a series of popular and critical duds from 2003-2016, Schrader re-emerged in fresh creativity with First Reformed in 2017, beginning a phase in his career with the first entry in his “Man in a Room” trilogy that would soon be filled out by The Card Counter and Master Gardener. But not before several health scares threatened to end his career full stop. Thematic trilogy and health issues now behind him, Schrader bowed at Cannes in May with yet another thinker: Oh, Canada.
By and about friend, novelist, and Affliction collaborator Russell Banks, Oh, Canada is a tender film that follows fictional iconic documentarian Leonard Fife (Richard Gere) onto the other side of the camera. Looking into the lens, Leonard is documented by a past student, Malcolm (Michael Imperioli), who hopes to capture the relatively untold tale of Leonard’s life from the horse’s mouth. As Leonard begrudgingly tells the camera his story, he reveals equal-parts secrets and shame, the film regularly flashing back to the past where Jacob Elordi depicts young Leonard, Schrader blending timelines in surprising, disarming ways.
On the eve of Oh, Canada’s New York Film Festival debut, Schrader and I sat down to talk about prayer, the film’s production, and thoughts on his own mortality.
The Film Stage: Of all the films you’ve written and directed, this feels among the most gentle. Where does that come from in this phase of your career?
Paul Schrader: I’ve heard a number of descriptions for this film; I’ve never heard “gentle” before. So I’m not quite sure what you mean by that.
There’s a softness and approachability to it. It feels like I could easily show it to my mom.
Yes, yes. The urge to make it was essentially a soft urge. Rather than a hard one. It was because my friend Russell had taken sick and he had written a book––an investigation of dying. He wrote it for himself and then, through the irony of life, he ended up dying very much the way he had written about. He wanted to call his book Oh, Canada. He was not allowed to because Richard Ford was releasing a book called Oh, Canada the same month. They’re both upstate New York writers. So it twisted to Foregone. After he got sick I said, “I think I’d like to do Foregone” and he said, “Well then, please use the title I wanted.”
And so we were able to correspond through the time I wrote the script. I’d go back and forth with him a lot––ideas on things, what did he really mean by this and that. He died about a week before I finished the script. So I guess that speaks to your point about being gentle. This sort of began as an act of homage and respect and appreciation for Russell. He’s a novelist, so he made the character a documentary filmmaker so it wouldn’t be so on-the-nose. But it’s quite an autobiographical book.
Was it difficult to direct a project that was about a friend who had recently passed? Did it change the way you directed at all?
No. Because very, very quickly those theoretical problems become logistical ones. “How are we gonna get the work done today? How are we gonna do this? How come Richard Gere doesn’t look old? Try to make him look older.”
Photo by Godlis, courtesy of the 62nd New York Film Festival.
That brings us to my next question. Between the flashbacks, Richard Gere always looking into the camera, breaking the fourth wall, the film within the film, the meta-text––it’s such a theory-heavy film for a spectator to chew on. And that’s obviously a world you’ve had a big impact on and spent a lot of time in. While you’re making the film, are you discussing theory much? Or does the practice of filmmaking not typically involve theorizing with your cast and crew?
I mean, obviously you’re open to suggestions. Across the board. But I do a lot of prep. You’ve done blocking and rehearsals; you’ve had acting rehearsals; you have a shot list for every scene. So you walk onto the floor with Plan A. It’s called Plan A for that reason––because you end up shooting Plan B––but there is a Plan A for every day. That’s the only way you can make these kinds of films on this kind of timeline. This was filmed in 17 days.
Oh, wow––that’s short.
I didn’t shoot a set-up that isn’t in the film.
What do you think changes about the spectator’s experience in the theater seat when they’re forced to look into the eyes of Leonard Fife, the storyteller?
In this case, it’s not really so artificial. I’ve done a few where it’s kind of artificial––where you look right into the lens––but here, both he and the interviewer are looking right at each other. So that’s the place you would look, so that, occasionally, Leonard Fife will look to the side and see the actual interviewer sitting there. But mostly he’s looking straight into Errol Morris’ “Interrotron.”
Is mortality on your mind often these days? Is it something you feel you have a kind of emotional control over? Or perhaps something you have a better existential understanding of at this stage?
Well, I’ve been making my last film for about ten years now. I’m hoping to make my last last film next. But while doing them, these last four films have always felt like, “If this is the last one, this is a good last film.” You know, I’d hate to be making a film saying, “I don’t want this to be my last film.” So yes: obviously I’m thinking about mortality. You know, as William Wyler once said, “When the wheels go, it’s time to retire.” And by that he meant the legs. Because you direct on your feet––you’re always moving––and at a certain point, mobility started to become an issue. And it’s not really an old man’s game in that way.
Do you feel comfortable openly discussing and making a film that grapples with mortality, knowing that people want your thoughts on it? Or is that difficult?
I have to have an opinion for myself first. You know, thinking about… [Pause] Well, I don’t even know whether it’s a passage or whether it’s an end. I was raised to believe it was a passage, but now I kinda feel it’s an end. But, you know, at any point in your life you have a theme that’s bouncing around: young-male hostility, infatuation, marital difficulties, mid-life crisis. You know, you go through all these phases and you try to find metaphors for the phase you’re in now. So my midlife crisis metaphor was a drug dealer––Light Sleeper. Now I’m in the phase where you start thinking about, “How will it end for me?”
I had a rough time with COVID. I was in the hospital three times––in the year––and pneumonia. And back when I was in there I said, “You know, maybe this is how it ends. I just get driven to the hospital one time and I don’t go out.” So I tried not to think about that. Fortunately I’ve gotten better. But I didn’t think I would work again after that year of COVID.
Do you see yourself in Leonard at all? Particularly thinking about his lack of interest in his own career––his reticence to look back on it. Or, at least, the way Russell portrays that in himself.
Yeah, you know, I think he dissembles a lot. I said to Russell’s widow Chase, at the memorial, “You know, I think Russell made himself out to be so much more of a shit than he actually was. Because he was more comfortable that way.” She laughed and said, “Exactly.”
Do you pray?
Um. [Long pause] I go to church. I don’t know what “prayer” quite means. To me, prayer and meditation pretty much overlap.
I feel the same.
Yeah, it’s quiet time. One of the appeals of going to church isn’t so much the theology. It’s just a quiet time. I mark it out on Sunday morning: go there, sit for an hour, listen to the music, zone out, and then that’s it. It’s the way I was raised. I don’t particularly think I’m a believer, but I am an appreciator of that kind of respite from the workaday week.
I read in another interview where you said that a lot of capable actors could’ve played the Richard Gere role and, in that sense, I’m curious why you went with Gere. Was this a long time coming after American Gigolo? Or was it just that he was available?
I was looking for buzz. Looking for top spin––something that would catch people’s imagination. You’ve seen Anthony Hopkins play this role. You’ve seen Jonathan Pryce play this role. You’ve seen Tommy Lee Jones play this role. There’s no buzz there. Richard’s never played old. I was thinking about it and said, “Richard is 75 now. He looks like he’s 60. He’s never played old. There’s buzz right there. Richard Gere: the dying gigolo!” So that was the primary factor in going to Richard. Just because it was a cool and interesting idea that would catch people by the ear.
Was it sentimental at all working with him again? Had you kept up through the years?
I kept up. I was sitting next to him at an awards ceremony where Ethan was getting an award for First Reformed and Richard leaned over to me and said, “How did you get him to do so little?” And when Richard agreed to do this I said, “Remember when you said that to me, Richard? Well, you’re gonna find out now.”
Photo by Colleen Sturtevant, courtesy of the 62nd New York Film Festival.
Thinking about Phosphorescent’s shoegazey score in the flashbacks: it’s very serene and feels nostalgic somehow, despite the modern indie-rock sounds. Was this a nostalgic project for you? Shooting the past, especially.
I’ve been a fan of Phosphorescent for a while and I’d seen him at Brooklyn Steel four or five years ago. And I always thought that’d be good. And then when this came around I thought, “You know, maybe…” Because I wanted to do a song cycle. That means I wanted to do a series of songs by the same artist, like I did with Michael Been for Light Sleeper. So now you’re talking about one artist doing a series of songs and the score. And I originally had thought Springsteen.
So I talked to Bruce and Bruce said, “Well, let me read it.” And then I thought about it and thought, “Wait a second. What I really want is an anti-anthemic score.” Bruce isn’t capable of doing anything anti-anthemic. He could do “Sally Go ‘Round the Roses,” he could do “Happy Birthday”––it will be an anthem if Bruce sings it! So how is he gonna do the Canadian national anthem in an anti-anthemic way? And everything Phosphorescent does is anti-anthemic. So that’s why I had to get back in touch with Bruce and say, “I think it’s just a bad fit.”
How did you land on the distinct coloring of the flashbacks?
When you go to multiple formats, it’s not because you wanna be complex. It’s because you wanna make things simpler and easier to understand. So you have the last day in sort-of Gordy Willis dove tones, 1:33. And then you have the trip from Richmond to Canada––bleached-out color, widescreen. Then you have the black-and-white flashbacks, which are random at 1:85. And then you have the Cornell section, which is all done in Bergman red-orange. So I have these four streams going. How do I differentiate from them? Same kind of logic I applied when doing Mishima. How do I separate these multi-facets of the story and the life and, you know? You come up with different color schemes, different kinds of sets. It wasn’t a desire to make it more complex; it was a desire to make it easier. The book is also a mosaic.
What’s the next film you’re working on?
Well, it’s called Non Compos Mentis. I hope to shoot by the end of January. We’re in the casting phase now. I think we have the money. You know, I’ve learned to be a little careful before. One way to kill a project is to say it’s a-go. Because then the next day it won’t be. [Laughs] But it looks good.
Oh, Canada enters a limited release on Friday, December 6.