Issue link: https://digital.copcomm.com/i/1124770
63 Q2 2019 / CINEMONTAGE * * * I first encountered Blackie [Malkin] at a sneak of Gordon Willis' directorial debut, Windows in Los Angeles in 1980. I was introduced to Blackie, who quickly impressed me with his poker-faced calm, even when the film broke 10 minutes into the screening, resuming only after a half hour of rhythmic clapping and catcalls. The studio guys were ashen; Blackie showed no more emotion than a medical examiner making his rounds. For me, it was love at first sight — this was my kind of guy. We did four movies together and he was never any different. Whether in the cutting room, the ADR studio or the final mix, he maintained an amazing professional calm and constantly balanced my mood swings. He would dampen my elation and shrug away my despair, particularly after those death marches know as "the assemblage." The first cut of The Freshman (1990) was particularly awful, the film lumbering by like a 200- car freight train, with Marlon Brando pausing for what seemed hours at a time. When it finally and mercifully ended, I pushed myself out of my seat at Magno's Screening Room and just stared at Barry, waiting for his judgment, which was, "Lunch?" He reacted no differently to more bearable first cuts, because he knew it was all a process, that the end result was miles away and there was always so much one could accomplish in post. One could not, as Lyndon Johnson famously said, "make chicken salad out of chicken shit," but one could garnish it so it resembled something edible. And what I learned from that first cut of The Freshman, the first film we did together, was to give my scripts to Blackie months before shooting, so he could trim the fat before we rolled a foot of film. After eliminating six of the first nine scenes in The Freshman, I realized that if Blackie said, "We'll never use it," that meant we'd never use it, and would save days of aggravation and piles of money. Andrew Bergman * * * I had the great fortune of being one of Barry's assistant editors in the early '80s. My older daughter once sadly remarked upon hearing about this period of my life before I had children by saying, "Wow, mom, I guess you peaked early." I guess she was right. Little did we know at the time, but many of us in the room tonight had the pleasure of assisting with one of the — if not the — best and most talented generation of film editors working in New York, away from the prying eyes of Hollywood studio executives, on a body of movies unparalleled in their uniqueness and artistry that will forever define a particular style and singularity of vision rarely seen in theatres today. Barry Malkin epitomized that generation for his character, intelligence, humor, irreverence, diligence and devotion to his family, friends and fellow filmmakers — and for his steadfast refusal to give up on this city he dearly loved. He ensured that a culture of post-production continued to flourish in New York well after the demise of the institution where many of us forged those PASSAGES Boy Now, 1966). So it made sense that Barry and I should work together on a new film that I planned to make while traveling across the USA. With an editing room in an RV trailer, Barry joined this cross-country adventure of The Rain People (1969), editing it as we went along our way. It was a great adventure and was followed by a lifetime of collaboration on many movies. He was the one person from those early teenage years who was to span an entire lifetime working in film, and a collaborator on much of the work I did. Also, Barry edited many films of director friends of mine, but always remained an important and trusted collaborator throughout both of our careers. His instincts and talent were a big influence and his skill was amazing. After the first preview of The Godfather: Part II (1974) to lackluster results in San Francisco, I made 120 changes to the film — which had to be ready in two days for another preview in San Diego. I watched as Barry executed those changes on picture and sound of a finished film (without code numbers) through the night, a feat that was essentially impossible. But Barry did it, and the subsequent San Diego preview effectively reversed that film's fate. Barry was always his own man; he never really accepted any opinion with which he didn't personally agree and, for that reason, was a truly valuable artistic collaborator. He had his own style, his own sense of humor and his own integrity. Rarely in life nowadays do we have childhood friendships that span a lifetime — which is all the more why the passing of this dear friend and collaborator is of such importance to me. Goodbye, dear friend, and may this rest now be as fine and complete as was the work you accomplished during your time with us. Francis Ford Coppola Barry Malkin with Francis Ford Coppola in 1983, during the mixing of Rumblefish.