An Hour with Robert Benton
by Matthew Tyler

I was a fan of Robert Benton’s writing even before I wanted to be a writer—back when my true calling was to be a superhero. I was six or so, and the only movie I ever wanted to rent from the video store was Superman The Movie. My tastes eventually branched out, and over the years I found new fascinations in Bonnie & Clyde, Kramer vs. Kramer, Bad Company, Places in the Heart. I loved each of these films individually, and it wasn’t until years later, when I began studying film seriously and writing movies of my own, that I realized that all of these films—Superman included—were written by the same man. And somewhere between those years jumping around the house in a homemade cape and my third year in graduate school I must have done something right, because last November I got a chance to meet him.

For our meeting, Mr. Benton invited me to his office in midtown—a modest space with little more than a desk and computer. He was in the midst of a new screenplay, the latest draft still open on his screen, but he had kindly blocked off an hour to chat with me. And though I arrived with the sort of nervous anticipation one would expect from a film student meeting a film legend, my anxieties were quickly washed away by Mr. Benton’s warm smile and soft-spoken demeanor. I noticed a DVD of my short, “After the Snow,” resting on his desk, and before we even sat down he began asking about the film—where the idea came from, etc. Columbia had sent him a copy, and I was honored to hear that he had watched it and even more honored to hear that he had liked it. He complimented my use of silence in the short, and we talked about our shared belief that film can find a power in silence like no other medium can. I told him that was precisely what I found so inspiring in Kramer vs. Kramer—where perhaps the most powerful exchanges between father and son are communicated without words. He asked about my other film influences, and the answers sparked a string of lively discussions—about the cornfield in North by Northwest, the spoken aria in Philadelphia, the breath-stopping long-takes in Children of Men. I asked him about the genesis of his first script, Bonnie & Clyde (still baffled at how a first-time screenwriter could produce such a masterpiece), and Mr. Benton, a former art director at Esquire, told me the story of how he and his first writing partner went from magazines to movies. He talked about the rewriting process and how a last-minute change in Bad Company resulted in one of my favorite cinematic moments—when the boys, outlaws but still children, throw rocks at each other while guns hang from their belts. He talked about letting go of the written page and how an improvised gesture by John Malkovich in rehearsal came to define one of the most astounding scenes in, what he referred to as, “a movie I made called Places in the Heart”—a masterpiece that earned Mr. Benton his third Oscar.

It was amazing, hearing the stories behind some of my favorite films from the man who made them. I wanted to stay for hours and hear about everything—what it was like working with such legendary directors as Peter Bogdanovich and Arthur Penn; what it was like to direct such legendary actors as Paul Newman, Dustin Hoffman, and Meryl Streep. But what struck me most about our conversation was how Mr. Benton, with such a long and remarkable career, was still very much a man of the present. He was excited about the new directions cinema was taking, about the ways in which modern technologies are changing how we make and watch movies. He talked about his plans for a film designed specifically for a cell phone, with its story and cinematography tailor-made for small screens. He asked about the projects I was working on, and when I described them his face lit up with the enthusiasm of a first-year film student. When I asked about the screenplay that was opened on his computer, he told me about the latest draft he was wrestling with, and we commiserated on the laborious, often tedious, process of writing and re-writing. It was somehow comforting to hear: that even after all those awards and all those years making movies, writing was still damn hard. Hearing this veteran screenwriter talk about facing the same struggles I do is something I’ll always remember, whenever I’m staring into a blank page.

My hour with Robert Benton flew by. But in that short time, I learned and shared so much that by the end I felt like I was catching up with an old friend. The conversation gave me a new perspective on this path I’ve chosen—this long, uncertain journey of the screenwriter. Of course, the work will always have its challenges, its fits of indecision and doubt. But a simple passion for ideas, for film, and for the craft of storytelling, I’m certain, will help find the way through the toughest revisions and the blankest pages. In Mr. Benton, even after four decades in the business, that passion remains, fierce and infectious. And after saying our goodbyes, he turned right back to his computer and continued writing.