BEING HAUNTED: The Making of a Low Budget Film (House of Dreams, 1968 from Bleeding Skull)
This article was written by Robert Berry in February, 1993 for publication in Filmfax. It was never printed. Bleeding Skull is thrilled to present the article here for the first time ever.
House of Dreams is unique and one of the first of its kind... a feature-length film made for less than $10,000.
It was while watching a pathetically-made Mexican horror film on television in late 1961 that I decided: "I can do that. And I can do it better!"
So began the strange but wonderful odyssey of shooting a low-budget film from scratch. At the time I was a junior at Indiana University majoring in theatre and the little money I made working in the dormitory kitchen barely allowed for spending money, let alone launching a feature film production. But through the generosity of my mother, friends, neighbors and general film enthusiasts, I began the quest to conceive, produce, and distribute a full-length motion picture.
At twenty-one, I possessed some skills as an actor and short story writer and felt secure in being able to write a screenplay which would entice millions to the box office and overwhelm the film reviewers. I failed on both counts. Money-or rather lack of money-unfortunately governed the pre-planning phase. I targeted the summer of 1962 for the shooting and decided my hometown of Decker, Indiana (Pop. 205) would serve as principal location. On an abandoned piece of property my mother owned stood an old house which, to me, rivaled Hitchcock's Bate's house in Psycho. I decided to concoct a story utilizing the old house as central character. The house already had the reputation of being haunted because of alleged sightings over the years of a young girl in an evening gown who stood holding a candle in one of the upper windows. It seems that a young girl did die there back in the '30's and the story and sightings grew over the years.
House of Dreams tells the story of a mystery novelist who is so obsessed with the writing of his novel that he ignores his alcoholic wife. At this same time he begins having a series of terrifying nightmares. In the first nightmare, he witnesses the death of his brother (which comes true). In the second nightmare, he opens a closet and finds his wife swaying ever so gently from the end of a rope (which comes true). And in the third he sees... Let me stop here. Part of the reason I'm writing this piece is to create suspense so the reader will feel compelled to buy a dozen or so VHS copies!
The cast of four principals was chosen from the Indiana University Theatre Department. At the audition, I introduced myself as the writer-director-producer and proceeded to do my Otto Preminger imitation as I listened to a group of eager actors who were already visualizing their names on marquees throughout the country. Most stayed for the entire audition-even when I told them that, if cast, they would receive no compensation. On top of that, it would be up to the actor to supply his or her own meals and transportation to southern Indiana.
The first three cast members chosen included Charlene Bradley (partly because she bore striking resemblance to Marilyn Monroe), Lance Bird (partly because he owned a sleek Jaguar which I could envision in the film), and Pauline Elliott (who spoke with a British accent and reminded me of Julie Harris). I was holding the role of the mystery novelist for a Chicago actor who had mailed me his 8x10 glossy and resume. I was particularly impressed because he claimed to have appeared in the epic motion picture The Big Fisherman. Alas, when we met and he found out that I could pay nothing for his services, he left. Stuck with the prospect of having no leading man, I decided to play the role of the novelist myself. So, at the age of twenty-two, I tried to double my age by growing a beard and slouching a lot. I stopped listening to rock and roll and tried to desperately cultivate a taste for Chopin and Beethoven. I began smoking a pipe and abandoned my trusty blue jeans and scuffed boots for wing-tips and white shirts. I truly felt that adulthood had finally arrived. Little did I know how much I would really age in the next few months!
Although the show was now cast and the script written, one problem remained: I had no film equipment. Through the generosity of my mother, I had $1,100 to use for equipment purchases. Obviously, Panavision was out of the question. So I decided to shoot on 16mm and blow up to 35mm later for theatrical release.
Purchasing the camera and sound equipment proved that I had a true genius and mastery of human psychology. I found that a man in central Indiana possessed a sound-on-film 16mm Auricon camera with an accompanying sound system. It seems he had purchased the equipment from the now defunct TV series You Asked For It. I was determined to get the equipment from him even if it meant committing a criminal offense. He was very old, so I figured that my hands around his throat could do the deed if necessary. The first time I met him I took my mother's checkbook and was prepared to wheel-and-deal. Wrong! He would not be swayed by my initial offer of $800. He was holding out for $1,700. Instead of crying, I valiantly offered all I had: a check for $1,100. Again, he shook his head negatively. I couldn't quite bring myself to go for his throat, so I left in a deep depression.
By this time, the script was ready. The cast was set. Early publicity-"DECKER BECOMES HOOSIER HOLLYWOOD"-was already generated in local newspapers. And I was growing older fast! So I gambled....
My next trip to see the old man was the following week and I had remembered two words of wisdom once spoken by my grandfather: "Money talks!" Remembering that the man had pooh-poohed my $1,100 check earlier, I stopped by the bank and withdrew $1,100 in five and ten dollar bills. Then I stuffed them into two large grocery bags and headed for the old man's house.
Mr. Scrooge was sitting at his desk when I was ushered in. I stood before him trembling slightly because I knew my Hollywood career was at his mercy. Again, I pleaded my case, telling him that I was a poor college student (I was) who was trying to make a feature film against tremendous odds. I think I teared up at this point. I continued and said that I needed the camera "more than I needed life itself." He was not impressed and re-stated his $1,700 figure.
As planned, I slowly began taking handfuls of fives and tens from the bags and began making a pile of currency on his desk. He said nothing at first-merely watched. Then I heard him clear his throat and he said: "You have $1,100 there?"
"Yes, sir," I replied.
"You are really serious about this, aren't you?"
I called upon my method acting skills at this point and mumbled something. I put my hand over my eyes as if emotionally drained. He bought it. And I bought it! I was suddenly the proud owner of one 16mm Auricon camera with a 200-foot magazine and a beat-up sound system. Now all I had to do was shoot the movie.
Filming began in June, 1962. The two female cast members were housed at my aunt's home in Decker, while Lance Bird and I camped out at my mother's. Interiors at my mother's house were shot first. I opted for as much sound-on-film as we could get, even though I realized that an optical track would be inferior. Since my mother's house was on the main street of Decker, I soon realized a problem with traffic noises. Cars, trucks, tractors, children, and barking dogs made life miserable. I now knew why sound stages were so important in Tinseltown. Our only recourse was to shoot all interior scenes very late at night when the townspeople, farmers, and dogs were asleep.
So began our brush with the rumor mill and negative publicity. You see, in Decker, Indiana, in 1962, no one was up-let alone working-after ten pm. No one had their house ablaze with flood or spotlights. No one put black paper over their windows. And certainly no one wore make-up and fancy clothes in the wee hours! Some rumors circulated that we were establishing a cult of some sort-"devil worship" and such. It wasn't until we had some positive publicity from a nearby newspaper that the gossip finally subsided.
Throughout the filming of House of Dreams, I did my best not to exceed a 4:1 shooting ratio. For the most part, I succeeded even though I had to do twenty-some takes of myself trying to get out the now-famous line: "Elaine, I don't know what's gotten into you." For some reason, I could never keep a straight face-even though I had written the line!
One of the worst production decisions I made was to shoot 16mm Kodak Tri-X film. This caused more than one scene to appear grainy-especially when blown up to 35mm. My rationale at the time was that we could afford few lights and many of the scenes in the mansion would be dark and therefore would need the faster film. I am pleased at the way the nightmare sequences turned out, but there are obvious grainy patches elsewhere in the film.
When you have no money, you find ways to make do with what you have. I am proud of the tricks and gimmicks we used throughout the film. Numerous "favors" were handed out to those eager to participate in the project. For example, we needed a casket for a dream sequence and we needed it to be subjected to abuse while filming. Fortunately, I had made the acquaintance of an IU student whose father owned a mortuary. As my luck would have it, my friend was also working at a beauty parlor. So naturally, she became our hair stylist on the film and brought the casket in her station wagon.
A further word about that casket. True story here....
It was a stormy, late afternoon when my hair-stylist friend backed up her station wagon to my garage. Four of us were on hand to unload the grey casket. It wasn't heavy. However, we were in for a bit of a shock.
"I'm sorry that my dad couldn't loan you a real casket," said the mortician's daughter.
"What do you mean? Looks like a casket to me," I replied.
"Dad calls it a 'shipping crate,'" she said, "It's only used to ship dead people from one location to another."
"Well, for our purposes it looks just fine. Just like the real thing," I said confidently.
I reached down and unfastened the lid, anxious to see the inside since my character in the film would have to lie in it. For the next thirty seconds we all stared in silence. Oh, there was no one in there, but there had been! A perfect indentation of a body was evident. You could clearly see where the head had lain, the buttocks, the balls of the feet!
Then Lance Bird had to chime in: "Try it out, Bob."
For an instant, I hated him. But I had to be macho, so I took off my shoes, tried to act as if I did this all the time, and climbed in. I fit perfectly! A prophetic start to my big-screen career. Fittingly, one of the climatic moments in House of Dreams is where I lie in the casket, apparently dead. Then I suddenly open my eyes and I rise up toward the person looking in. Good scene! Ever been in a pre-occupied casket? Try it sometime.
Primitive special effects were the order of the day in House of Dreams. An example was when the script called for a large rat to run across a fireplace mantle. I had no time to pursue the real thing so I borrowed a pet hamster and glued a piece of rubber band to his stub of a tail. We had our vicious-looking rat. Affectionately named "Benny," our star rodent may have looked the part, but he was short on motivation. He only had one scene where he was to scramble across the fireplace mantel in the old mansion. Unfortunately, when set on the mantel, he would merely stare at the camera. The problem was solved, however, with a gentle nudge from a straight pin.
In one nightmare sequence, a body is seen floating face down on top of the water in an abandoned well. We used a cavernous, thirty-foot deep well just behind the old mansion. Unfortunately, snakes, spiders, and other unknown crawling things inhabited the walls and the water below. So a volunteer to play the corpse and float face down in the murky water was nowhere to be found. Even I, as fearless director and leading man, would not put myself on the line in this case. So we traveled to a nearby town, promised some publicity to a leading department store, and borrowed a male mannequin for the weekend. Both female cast members agreed that he was the most handsome man in the film.
When dressed in my trench coat, the mannequin looked real enough. So we proceeded to set up for shooting the drowning scene. Since the mannequin's limbs and torso were hollow, I naturally figured that it would float. Wrong! On three attempts, our affectionately named mannequin "Herb" would float for five seconds, then silently slip beneath the surface. A life jacket appeared too bulky and our attempts at running wires beneath the torso didn't help. Herb always found a way to lose his balance and do his disappearing act. We finally postponed the drowning scene, feeling that if we waited until winter, we could float Herb on a chunk of ice-which we did the following January. It worked fine and Herb-aside from complaining of the cold--did not sink beneath the murky depths.
In another dream sequence, I wanted to show my character falling from the top story of the house to the bottom. For this shot, we completely tore out the floorboards of a room on the second floor, as well as the floor of the attic above. By shooting down from the attic and seeing my character barely holding on to a floor beam below, it gave an illusion of great height. The character begins losing his grip, of course, but wakes up from the nightmare just before crashing to the floor below.
A crisis had developed late in the shoot when Pauline Elliott, who played my wife, had to return home. There was still a bedroom scene between she and I which had to be re-shot, so I went looking for a body-double. Now, Pauline is short, slender and petite. I looked in vain at the people in Decker but saw no one who could, in a dimly lit scene, resemble Pauline in bed. That evening while Lance and I pondered our crisis, my short, slender and petite mother served us dinner. Aka! So the dimly-lit bedroom scene in the middle of the film shows me kissing Pauline. She turns over. Cut to a different angled two-shot.
Then, a shot of me talking to and placing my arm over the back of my mother, who is clad in her evening gown. And people wonder why I'm warped!
As the shooting progressed, we kept in touch with our labors by watching workprints of everything we shot. We probably averaged 200 feet of film a day-sometimes twice that amount. Continuity was a continual problem, as we shot out-of-sequence. Most dialogue interiors were shot first. Then came certain outdoor scenes when the weather cooperated. And finally, when all cast members had finished and gone home, Lance and I stayed behind to shoot the three nightmare sequences and the credits.
Without my friend Lance Bird, I doubt that this film could have been made. He was behind the camera for every scene in which I was involved as an actor, played his own role as a state trooper, and provided moral support throughout. A helluva nice guy and an invaluable friend. Lance is now one of the most respected documentary filmmakers in the U.S., and works and resides in New York City.
The good townsfolk of Decker, Indiana, served as extras in several scenes. I still chuckle at the funeral scene in front of the Methodist church. Many of my old friends and acquaintances were farmers and it was probably one of the few times I ever saw them in suit and tie. For them, as for me, it was a big occasion.
Some key bits of dialogue went to "celebrities" of the day. I needed the occasional help of real-life Sheriff Bob Warth, so I made sure he had a key line. He played a sheriff in the film and talked like Jimmy Stewart. Radio personality David Goodnow worked in a nearby station where commercials for House of Dreams would be airing, so I supplied David with this gem: "Sure ain't much of a house anymore...." I am sure that line got David to where he is today: evening anchor on CNN Headline News.
When the shooting had stopped I began editing the workprint. This three-month endeavor was one of the most exciting parts of the filmmaking process. It was magic watching two pieces of film shot days or weeks apart butting together forming continuity to the story line. When the rough-cut was completed, I wound up with a 2.5 hour epic-or so I thought. I knew I had to have the assistance of a professional editor to tighten the film, so I was referred to a Chicago cutter who was working on television documentaries. He agreed to take on my film and had me look over his shoulder while he did his magic on the Moviola. It was quite an education! I was even allowed to stay nights at his studio, which was perched high atop one of the taller buildings along Michigan Avenue. On nights with the whole floor to myself, I could look out at the dazzling glitter of Chicago and felt literally on top of the world. I knew that in a matter of weeks everyone would know my name and major studios would beg me to work for them.
However, one major hurdle existed: cleaning up the soundtrack. The optical sound was not of sufficient quality for amplification in theatres so I had to undertake the expensive task of dubbing three-fourths of the film. This, too, was done in Chicago at the studio cost of $100 an hour! To make matters worse, Pauline Elliott, who played my wife in the film, was not available for the dubbing sessions. So I used another actress-who also fortunately had an English accent-to lip sync. She did a beautiful job. Nine hours of studio time later and we had the audio dubbed.
The blow-up from 16mm to 35mm took place at a film lab in Gary, Indiana. I had only one 35mm release print made. The premiere of House of Dreams was set for September at the New Moon Theatre in Vincennes, Indiana, the nearest theatre to my hometown. We were given four days and the film played five times each day. I recouped a sizable portion of the film's total cost in those four days. During the first premiere showing I was not able to sit through the entire film. I knew it too well. Knew where there were weaknesses. Knew where there were downright embarrassing scenes.
Over the next few years, I carried the lone 35mm print by hand to drive-ins and indoor theatres. I picked up anywhere from $20 per screening to a percentage of the box office. If I accompanied the film, the theatre manager would frequently have me sign autographs near the concession stand during intermission. Talk about your ego-boosting experiences!
I tried in vain to seek a major distributor but was told that, "Your film has no named stars, has no sex scenes, and is in black and white...." In other words, I had not met Hollywood's standards.
The film has rested in its metal container for three decades as I went on to other ventures. Only recently was I approached by a video tape distributing company to make HOUSE OF DREAMS come to life again. As I reflect back on the making of the film, I smile to myself and feel a great sense of satisfaction. I, and those around me who helped bring the film to the big screen, did so with little experience and money, but lots of guts and ambition. The lessons we learned and the education we received make me proud. The entire adventure will forever bring me a warm chuckle or two.
Following the making of House of Dreams, Bob Berry went on to complete his Masters degree in theatre at Indiana University. He became a much sought-after actor in the midwest, playing leading roles on stage and appearing in numerous television commercials and documentary films. In 1990, he turned his talents to playwriting and is the author of two full-length plays entitled Audition and Noble Theft. He adds that making another film someday is "not out of the question." Bob now resides in Indianapolis, Indiana.
Comments