complaining about the film’s lack of direction to the director himself wandering aimlessly in Central Park, a caricature of cluelessness. Then after the onscreen confrontation, after Greaves inspirationally explains to production manager Robert Rosen how “the impor- tant thing is that we surface from this production experience with something that is entirely exciting and creative as a result of our collective efforts,” he cuts to two actors absurdly, unmotivatedly singing their lines. Greaves looks on, attentive and intent, puppetmaster and poker-faced master thespian to the end. “As soon as you turn the camera on he turns on,” observes cam- eraman Terrence McCartney-Filgate earlier in the film. “He’s like a bad actor. And he doesn’t turn off into his natural self until the camera stops.”
Ultimately, despite the fascinatingly diverse reactions of the crew, despite the subtle dismantling of acting
methodology—useless, it would seem, in the face of horrid writing—despite the priceless documentary footage of city life gathered at the margins, Greaves’s biggest get, his biggest gotcha, is himself. In seventy- five swift minutes, the director fully deconstructs the role of the director, demystifying the notion that he has all the (or any) answers, any business communi- cating with actors, any knowledge of the technical aspects of film, any right to whatever reputation or respect that preceded him. I don’t know that a film- maker has ever allowed his own abilities, his very qualifications, to be so interrogated in his own film. The endgame may have been to prove that great things could be achieved without such a godhead, but the great paradox of Symbiopscyhotaxiplasm— and of most grand theories of collectivity, for that matter—is that the proof comes thanks to the genius of a man with a plan.
in t e r view with jonathan gordon
ERIC HYNES: Where were you coming from before Symbiopsychotaxiplasm?
JONATHAN GORDON, sound recordist and on-screen participant, Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: I was working at the time for an outfit that made its living mostly by doing public service announcements. I think it was on West 54th St., which was the center of film rental and developing houses and stuff like that. It was a fairly small community, so a lot of people knew a lot of people. Someone would need a camera and
they would call someone up. Bill [Greaves, the direc- tor] was kind of a popular guy. He had been running something called Black Journal [a news program for public television]. When he decided to do this film, he just called up the people he knew. Everyone said yes because Bill was a well-liked man. So he got us there in the park, and the film unfolded.
EH: At several points in the film someone asks you if you’ve read the concept, and you reply no. I’m curious as to why you didn’t.
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