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Later, we asked him could we give a play every assembly; we had formed a little theater group called "The Acme Company" I stayed involved with theater all through high school and into college (and I refer to it in the introduction to
Quick Billy,
Part Four). Then when I was alone, I thought, well, now that I'm without all these guys, I'll do it on the big screen. I went to the University of Minnesota. A professor there recommended I go to the London School of Film Technique, which was just starting: it was a small operation and they didn't have much equipment, but there were several very good teachers.
MacDonald:
This is when?
Baillie:
1958 or 1959. We were an international group of university graduates, ambitious, impatient, and mostly poor, except for the Arabs, who lived in Chelsea hotels and who had numerous English and German girlfriends. We couldn't do much there and were very discouraged. I was sick: the London fog and the poor food made me weak. So I just left in the middle of the term. I went down to Yugoslavia, where I remember seeing a sculpture by the best-known Yugoslavian sculptor: a relief depicting the cycle of life circling a traditional well in the Austro-Hungarian center of Zagreb, where people came for water and to meet each other and gossip. I thought, "This relief is at the source; it's an essential part of everyday life." I liked that, and decided I wanted to do something similar with film.
I came back and thought, "Well, I'll just figure out how to make films." By then I was in San Francisco. I tried to figure out how sound got onto film. I couldn't. There weren't any manuals on it. And nobody could tell me! Finally, I met Marvin Becker, who was making travel and educational films. He was a real expert in 16mm (35mm, too) and had a big studio in San Francisco. He'd hire a few free-lance people for big jobs. I told him, "I'll work eight hours a day, for as long as my unemployment laststhree more monthsand without salary." So he says, "Well, you can't beat that! When can you start?" I parked my '49 Chevy under the Bay Bridge every day, after the long drive from Canyon, where I lived with Kikuko Kawasaki, who was one of my real mentors and a dearly beloved. I got the Chevy from a wrecker for twenty-five dollars; it had to have its brake fluid refilled for every crossing of the bridge!
Marvin started me out rolling up sound film outs that were lying all over the studio. I'd play them through a little sound reader and label them with a grease pencil. So I got acquainted with how film feels and how it works. Later, a free-lance editor was splicing the track for a film for the Horseless Carriage Clubs, and I hung around behind him and saw how he organized footage, cut and spliced it with Mylar tape. Then I got to go out and shoot with another man, from Bechtel Associates, as