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Allow Myself to Introduce … Myself

As it states on the cover, my name is Richard Botto. My friends, however, call me RB, and since you’ve spent your hard earned money to buy this book and will now invest your invaluable time reading it, and seeing how we’re going to be spending the next 300 pages together, I consider you a friend. So … I’m RB, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.

I am a screenwriter, producer, actor and voice actor. I’m also an entrepreneur. The combination of these pursuits led me to create Stage 32 (www.stage32.com), the world’s largest online networking and educational platform for creatives working in film, television and theater. More on that down the road.

My interest in film started at a very young age. No one in my family is exactly sure where this passion originated. Though my parents and grandparents enjoyed movies as a source of entertainment, none of them would qualify as avid students of the medium. For them, like most filmgoers, movies represented entertainment and escapism. And in my earliest years, that’s what they represented to me as well. I remember all too well rushing down the stairs on a cold, East Coast winter morning, opening our front door and braving the blast of frigid Staten Island wind, anxiously retrieving our copy of the Daily News and fervently flipping pages until I landed in the section with the movie advertisements. What films were opening this weekend? Were they playing near us? Where? What time?

As I approached my teenage years, I found myself not only compiling a list of favorite films, but favorite actors and directors as well. Eventually those lists included cinematographers and producers. I was a passionate baseball card collector at the time and trust me when I tell you, if they would have printed cards for film directors, I would have had 2,000 Scorseses and Spielbergs (I might have unloaded a few of those Spielbergs for some Coens and P.T. Andersons today, but I digress).

Early on, I could find merit in just about any film—“I have to tell ya, I think the narrative arc in Revenge of the Nerds III certainly surpasses that of Nerds II”—but over time, my tastes sharpened and my senses honed. I became aware of the classics. But more importantly, I awakened to the art and the craft of filmmaking. While people formed lines around the corner at my local video shop, anxiously awaiting to shell out three bucks or more for the latest hit movie release, I was slipping in and paying one slim dollar to rent the VHS tapes gathering dust in the corner: genius works by Welles, Kurosawa, Fellini, Hitchcock, Chaplin and Hawks. Slowly, my passion for all things cinema morphed into an obsession. I craved backstories, histories, on-set tales—anything that would add color to what formed the creative process of a particular artist or how a particular film came together. This was pre-internet, of course, so information was at a premium. There were no director’s commentaries or bonus content on VHS tapes. Instead I used my allowance to head to my local Borders, where I would buy every book and biography related to film I could get my hands on. If I happened to find myself in Manhattan, I would beg to be taken to the nearest newsstand so I could grab a copy of Variety or The Hollywood Reporter.

I can remember sitting at a Mets game with a friend of mine and during a lull in the action offering, “You know … I’m a little concerned that Francis Ford Coppola is losing his passion for cinema.”

I was 13.

My overarching desire was to be a director. I studied the greats of the past and those who had captured the imaginations of millions during my childhood. In photos they always looked so reflective, learned and creative. They commanded respect. They had the ear of all involved. On a semi-related note, I also swore that if I became a director, I would revolutionize director’s sartorial sensibilities by wearing something besides khaki pants, safari jackets and bad hats. But, that’s a story for another book or perhaps over a cocktail or ten.

Directors, to me, seemed to have it all. I loved that the best of the best were called “auteurs.” So regal. So perfectly pompous. I was obsessed with framing, lighting, camera angles and editing choices. Even then, it wasn’t beyond me to watch a film twice in a row, once as a fan and once as a student.

Since I didn’t have a camera (camcorders were ridiculously expensive and weighed roughly the same amount as a’74 Buick Skylark back in those days), I began writing short scripts, with no idea of format, I should add, and visualizing the scenes in my head. And then a funny thing happened—I discovered I not only enjoyed the writing process, but I had a knack for it. It came fairly easy. The tales flowed, the suspense built, the characters arced. In no time, I was pumping out short stories, novellas, plays and more short (still brutally formatted) screenplays.

I would gather some open minded kids (no small task) from the neighborhood to act out my scenes. Having attended an acting camp one summer, sometimes I would insert myself as the lead, defending my choice with a mighty “Hell, Welles did it!”, which, of course, endeared me to just about everyone (he said with a healthy dose of sarcasm). I came to realize that I enjoyed acting almost as much as I enjoyed creating the characters. Soon, I started putting on plays for the neighborhood, serving as actor, writer and director (move over, Orson!). I was a true triple threat. Occasionally, I would even put my ego aside and magnanimously act in someone else’s play or student film. I was gaining confidence. Each effort garnered more attention and accolades. My star, as they say, was rising. And then I did what any aspiring and thriving actor, screenwriter and filmmaker would do …

I went to pharmacy school.

Yep.

My preference, as you might imagine, was to go to film school. I applied to a few and was accepted by a couple. But my dad made some compelling arguments why pharmacy school would be a more logical choice. For starters, he and my brother were pharmacists, so I was around pills my entire life.

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Let me try again.

I had exposure to pharmaceuticals, since I was a kid.

Hold on.

Let’s just say by virtue of being a son and brother to two pharmacists, I knew my stuff. Plus, I was already working in a pharmacy, filling prescriptions as a tech three years before I was legally of age to do so. Don’t worry, everyone lived. Then there was the fact that, while a senior in high school, I sat in on my brother’s 5th year pharmacology final and scored an 86.

The logic became this: Pharmacy school would be a walk for me. The five years would fly by. I would all but be guaranteed a job when I graduated, and a high paying job at that. The world needed more pharmacists. Plus, and finally, if I went to film school, I would most likely party my ever-loving ass off.

I couldn’t argue any of these points, especially the last one.

So, it came to pass that a few short months later at 7am on a bright and sunny fall morning, I found myself in a lab at the Fulton Street Campus of Long Island University Pharmacy School in downtown Brooklyn with half a buttered poppy seed bagel clenched between my teeth while I surgically extracted the kidneys of a fetal pig. Was my mind still on film? I’ll let the fact that I had created an elaborate backstory for the mother of this fetal pig (damn you, creators of Babe) serve as an answer. At the midpoint of semester one, I had a 4.0 average. None of it had been earned with a lick of passion.

Clarity, rescue and salvation came in the form of a diminutive English Composition teacher whose visage was a cross of Mr. Magoo and George Carlin. This was a man for whom being called cantankerous would serve as the highest of compliments to him and an understatement to anyone who had ever served time in his class. This was a man who introduced himself on the first day of class not by mentioning his name and welcoming us, but by sitting down and staring at us for seven solid minutes before stating, “Let’s get one thing clear. You’re pharmacy students. This is an English class. I know you chose this as an elective because you think you’re gonna coast. Well, let me tell you geniuses something, I’ve been teaching here for 25 years and I’ve given 3 As. Chew on that. I’ll give you some time to digest.” He then proceeded to kick his feet up on his desk and eat an egg salad sandwich while thumbing through The Sun Also Rises.

Sixty percent of the class did not return for day two.

But I did. There was something about the guy. He had a mad creative genius sort of vibe. When it came to dissecting great literature and a passion for inspired writing, he suffered no fools. He didn’t pity them either. In fact, I would say the word pity only existed in his vocabulary as a vehicle to spray spittle on the ignorant. His insults were so creative— “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you, Mr. Johnson. I didn’t realize until this moment that English is clearly your second language. I have no idea what your first is, but clearly English is your second.” “Miss Clark, I was wondering if I could take you out for a drink this weekend and introduce you to my dear friend, The Comma.”—I imagined he spent time working the material in his bathroom vanity mirror the night before. Slowly, I had to come to terms with the fact that I might just have a masochistic side, or at the very least should seek professional help, as I found myself actually looking forward to his class.

There were even fleeting moments where I thought I was winning him over or, at the very least, had crossed a pinkie toe over to his good side. But, even when you did something right, he left room for doubt.

Toward the mid-term break, we were tasked with writing a 30-page story on something that had a profound impact on our lives: An event that had rattled our cages, to be written in non-linear fashion. I had been an altar boy when I was younger (a fact that, to the people who know me well, elicits much gut-rolling laughter). During this time, there was a priest, Father Hicks, who became a very good friend of my family. Outwardly, he was a progressive, sometimes brash soul. Although he certainly took his vows seriously, much of his outward bravado was just an act. He loved the theatrics for which his position allowed. His Sunday sermons were not just fire and brimstone, but accompanied by booming acoustics and dramatic lighting.

Once, prior to a High Mass ceremony, he asked me to show him how much charcoal I had put in the thurible, a metal censer designed to burn incense. At a certain point during the ceremony, I would present the thurible to him and he would add the incense, take the thurible from me and swing it to and from, blessing the altar and the parishioners.

Minutes before Mass was to begin, he did some quality control—bass, lights, thurible. His nod the cue, I opened the thurible, revealing three small round pieces of charcoal. It should be noted, most priests required only one. But I knew Father Hicks liked a lot of smoke. Three was more than enough to do the job.

He glanced at the three pieces of charcoal with disdain and began to slowly, menacingly fold at the waist, tilting his head until he was inches from my face. He then gazed down his nose at me, and in a voice that would have made Darth Vader shiver said, “More fire.”

I added three more charcoals.

When the time came to present the thurible to him, the metal chain attached to it was scalding to the touch. I had to use rubber padding to handle the vessel. I opened the top and Father Hicks and he proceeded to drop a heaping spoon of incense inside, resulting in a “whoosh” sound so loud, it reverberated through the church. Although I couldn’t make out anything an inch in front of me, I’m pretty sure I saw my eyelashes tumble through the instant and enveloping mushroom cloud.

He took the thurible from me and began swinging it. At the altar, around the altar and toward the congregation. Then he proceeded down the steps of the altar and walked around the entire church until the smoke was so thick, I expected to hear a foghorn.

I just stood in place. Eventually, he emerged from the thick cloud like a magician who just nailed his signature trick. He handed me back the thurible, smiled the most devious smile and whispered, “Big fire.” Then he gave me a wink.

That was him. Serious with a wink and a smile. Underneath it all, and the people who knew him best were well aware of it, he had a heart of pure gold. When tragedy struck the family of my best friend, he was there. When I struggled in school, he was there. In fact, when anyone suffered difficult times, he was always there. In short, he was a great man, cut from a cloth you don’t see much of any longer.

Days before I was to begin writing the paper, I learned that he had passed. Although I hadn’t seen him in well over a decade, his death had a profound impact on me. Whether it was the sudden removal of a significant part of my life that was so profoundly formative, the soft amber glow of nostalgia or something else entirely, I don’t know. But I knew one thing. I had to write about him. And so I did. And I kept writing, the words flowing so naturally and effortlessly. Forty-two pages later, I was done. I had no idea if it was any good, I just knew it had poured out of me and contained everything I needed to say. I submitted it without any edits.

About a week later, I was summoned to my professor’s office. As I sat in the outside lobby, awaiting my fate and making note of the emergency exits, one of my fellow classmates emerged, the blood flushed from his face.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He asked if I thought it might be possible for me to suck less.”

I noticed him clutching his paper in his hand.

“What did you get?”

“A four.”

“What do you mean, a four? He only gives out letter grades.”

“He said there was no appropriate letter.”

At that point, the receptionist informed me that “the hangman” would see me now. My classmate gave me a nice-knowing-you pat on the shoulder and a soulful nod. I trudged on.

I entered my professor’s office, a cramped space with thousands of books, papers, magazines and other paper materials stacked perilously on top of one another. I found him at his desk, clutching a thick tipped red marker, furiously swiping and scribbling through some poor sap’s work. Without looking up, he waved for me to sit down. Without picking up his head, he said, “Why the fuck are you in pharmacy school?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Now he stopped. He craned his neck, nudged his thick framed eyeglasses down to the tip of his nose and said, “Oh God, don’t tell me you’ve been deaf this entire time.” He began pantomiming sign language to me with his hands while saying with measure, “Why. The. Fuck. Are. You. In. Pharmacy. School?”

“Well, sir, you see, my father was a pharmacist and my brother was a …”

He began to violently shuffle through papers on his desk. Finally, he found what he was looking for and tossed it at me. It was my story. There was a big black “A” on top. He had used something beside the red marker!

“That’s the best paper I’ve read in 25 years,” he said. “I’ll take it one step further. You’re the best writer I’ve had in 25 years.”

I don’t think it would surprise you to learn I was stunned. I managed to stammer, “Thank you, sir.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too big a head. After all, I teach nothing but fucking pharmacy students.”

And then the biggest surprise of all—he smiled. Well, more likely, his lips shifted to an angle which could be interpreted as a smirk or it could very well have been gas, but, I’m telling this story and I say his smile rivaled that of the Cheshire Cat.

“Listen,” he said, his voice now softer, “you’re wasting your life. A guy with your talents shouldn’t be taking pills from a big bottle and transferring them to a smaller bottle for a living. You need to go create. You’re good enough that maybe you’ll even be one of the few to make money doing it someday. Then you can buy your father and brother a pharmacy.”

Two weeks later, I transferred out of the school, but not before visiting with my professor and thanking him for the impact he had on my life. We promised to keep in touch, and we did for a short while. And then life being life, those occurrences happened less and less until they happened no more. Recently, I looked him up again and thanks to the magic of the internet, I found him. And guess what? I learned something new. Not only is he a former International Table Tennis Federation Vice-President, a former three-term President of the United States Table Tennis Association (now USA Table Tennis), and a former Secretary of the Association, but he also was a member of the 1971 US “Ping-Pong Diplomacy” Team that opened the door to China. Since then, he has attended, as an official or journalist, more than 25 World and International Championships. In 1975 he captained the US Team to the World Table Tennis Championships in Calcutta. He’s also been a US World Singles and Doubles table tennis champion at some point in every decade from his 40s through his 70s.¹

This man changed the course of my life. I will remain grateful to the day I die. All creatives need champions, and he was one of my earliest.

Over the next few years, I took every acting, writing and filmmaking course I could fit into the schedule. I acted in student films and plays, my passion for the discipline growing. I wrote some articles as a freelance journalist and even banged out the obligatory, unpublished Great American Novel. I worked to creating my own opportunities, and I embraced every single one that came my way.

In my early 20s, I decided I was going to move to Hollywood to pursue being a filmmaker. I was going to grab that fleeting entity, Life, by the throat. But then Life slowly and kindly removed my hand from his windpipe, sat me down for a beer and reminded me in no uncertain terms that I had no money and no contacts.

So, I got a part-time job. And that job led to my first full time job. And that job led me to working at an office in a skyscraper on Wall Street, doing the ol’ 9 to 5. And that job made me realize that I didn’t like being a number and not having my opinions heard. Also, quite candidly, I didn’t like answering to a boss. So, I started my own business. I promised myself I would commit to finding time to learning about filmmaking, writing and continuing to hone my acting. I would get up early or stay up late. A half hour here, an hour there, a weekend sacrifice when possible. Discipline and commitment would be the name of the game.

Didn’t happen.

In fact, nothing on the non-business creative side of things moved forward until I began publishing and editing a national men’s lifestyle magazine called RAZOR. Instantly, I was propelled into the Hollywood scene, hanging with actors, screenwriters, producers and directors. I found myself hanging on the sets of top television shows and major motion pictures. During set up, which could last for hours, I would sit in the trailers of A-List stars listening to their remarkable journeys from no one to someone (hanging with James Caan on the day of Marlon Brando’s funeral a definite highlight). I became friends with many accomplished people in the business and, over dinner, drinks or both, would be regaled with the tales of their latest meeting, audition, job, success or failure. Further, I was giving assignments to and then shaping and editing the works of top-level journalists and authors. Every day I was surrounded and enveloped by creativity. It was all wonderful, amazing and exhilarating except for one thing …

None of this creativity was being born by my hand.

When RAZOR was no longer, I took some time to collect myself and recalibrate my dreams and desires. I decided I wanted to learn more about the business side of putting a film together, so I looked for a project to produce. Additionally, I knew I wanted to try my hand at screen-writing, so I read a couple of articles, some highly regarded screenplays, and bought myself a copy of Final Draft. Finally, although producing and writing appealed to me more, I wanted to revive the dead nerves of my acting instincts, so I sought out some reputable teachers and revived my studies.

Now, mere years later, I’ve worked as a producer on an award winning Sundance film, a number of shorts and a documentary we’re planning to take to the major festivals. I’ve also managed to wrangle a top Hollywood literary manager, sold a screenplay and have a number of projects in various stages of development. I continue to take acting classes and have begun once again receiving offers for roles. And, as a result of committing to learning the business side of the film industry along with the relationships I’ve made on the creative side, I was able to live the experiences that would ultimately place me in a position to create Stage 32 and be asked to write this book.

Note

1 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ELrUgZc7YOUH4A1J0zQ8I6sPm5IEEppWH4rnNCwiSeo/edit