Best Possible Place, Worst Possible Time
True Stories from a Career in Hollywood
by Barry Sonnenfeld
Hachette, 332 pp., $25

AS A LONGTIME DIRECTOR and cinematographer, Barry Sonnenfeld understands the importance of introducing characters quickly and succinctly. You see this principle of characterization in action throughout his latest memoir, Best Possible Place, Worst Possible Time, via the manner with which his famous interlocutors address him.

For instance, when Sonnenfeld meets the dulcet-toned Delroy Lindo on the set of Get Shorty, we learn the following: “By the end of the show, it was common for Delroy’s vocal exercises to illicit cow mooing sounds from the crew. Delroy insisted on calling me BARRY SONNENFELD. [All caps in original.] Perhaps he learned this in acting school along with his ‘Uuuuuuummmmmaaaahhhhhh’ vocalizations.”

And, indeed, Delroy Lindo is seen throughout the rest of the chapter thusly addressing his director, as when he makes the case for carrying a briefcase throughout a scene: “Barry Sonnenfeld. I would not, my character would not, let go of this money. It is my whole raison d’être.” Lindo’s intonation of Sonnenfeld’s name here is practically audible off the page; it’s nearly lyrical. The syllables roll together, and anyone who has heard the actor pronounce “sesame cake” will pick up on it instantly.

Sometimes it’s a matter of punctuation, as when Sonnenfeld recounts running into Martin Scorsese. They hadn’t seen each other in 30 years, since Sonnenfeld shot the last two weeks of Goodfellas for the patron saint of gangster movies, and he wasn’t sure if Scorsese would remember his well-dressed self. Writes Sonnenfeld: “He came over to our table, took a look at me, and said, ‘Barry. Where’s your tie?’” Again, it helps that we know who Scorsese is and how he talks, but the clipped intonation here is key to visualizing Scorsese’s rapid-fire patter.

“Mr. Barry” is how Number One, as the director is told to call his star, addresses Sonnenfeld. “Mr. Barry. Can we do it tomorrow,” Number One begs, nervous about shooting his Men in Black II cameo. “Mr. Barry. This is my dream. From the time I was a little boy—to be an agent of Men in Black.” But it was time to shoot and movie sets run on tight schedules and if Number One couldn’t do it, well, so be it. Next shot, we’re moving on. Unless, of course, the producer steps in, as Amy Pascal did when she got wind that Barry Sonnenfeld had just told the King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson, that they were going to move on without him. Then you find a way to make it work.

While discussing the inclusion of a pivotal plot point in Men in Black III, Sonnenfeld hears from two bold-faced names. The backstory: Sonnenfeld and script doctor David Koepp (Jurassic Park, Spider-Man, and several dozen more movies that have grossed several billion dollars, combined) want to insert a MacGuffin that will help characters understand the time travel plot at the heart of the film. Producer (and general pain-in-Barry’s ass) Walter Parkes hates the idea and demands it not be shot, threatening to go over everyone’s head if Sonnenfeld persists. The director decides to shoot it both ways so they can choose which to use.

Star Will Smith shakes his head.

“You’re the director, Baz. I’m going to do it one way only. What do you want because that’s the only version I’ll do.”

The “Baz” diminutive is an interesting one: both familiar and friendly sounding, yet (as best as I can tell, not having an electronic version of this book to search) unique to Will Smith, almost inarguably one of the two or three biggest stars in the world during their working relationship. Which, naturally, gives it a different heft. On the one hand, Smith is technically deferring to Sonnenfeld: “I’m only going to do the thing you want to do.” On the other, it’s an ultimatum: “I’m only going to do one thing, Baz.”

Sonnenfeld shoots the MacGuffin, which leads to the other bold-faced name getting in touch: “Hey, Barry. What’s up with the chocolate milk?” The questioner is Steven Spielberg, and that cadence is all him. The disarming “Hey,” the directness of the question. You can almost see the half-smile as he’s asking it, brows furrowed just a hair, dipping them under the signature eyeglasses. (I imagine he’s wearing an Indiana Jones hat, but pick whatever dome-topper you want.)

This theory of introductory labeling is not foolproof; at various points, John Turturro (who Sonnenfeld worked with on Miller’s Crossing), Rob Reiner (Misery, When Harry Met Sally), and Danny DeVito (Throw Momma From the Train) all refer to Sonnefeld as “Ba.” And none of this should distract from the fact that Sonnenfeld is telling hilarious stories spanning four-plus decades with brilliant actors like Tommy Lee Jones, visionary directors like the Coen brothers, and minor monsters such as Scott Rudin. (Indeed, the story of Rudin accidentally getting a free rewrite out of the Coens is like something out of a Coen brothers movie.)

His work as a cinematographer doesn’t get a ton of play in this book, but he was crucial to the look and feel of both Blood Simple and Raising Arizona, two early masterpieces that cemented the fraternal directing duo’s placement in the pantheon. It’s always amusing to be reminded that he, the Coens, and horror visionary Sam Raimi all ran in the same circles during this period. (Indeed, a key shot in Raising Arizona owes its existence to Raimi’s The Evil Dead.) I would read a whole book about Sonnenfeld’s theory of cinematography; his discussion of film stocks and screening rooms and projector brightness is endlessly fascinating and explained in such a way that even a layman like myself can grok it.

All of which is to say that I emphasize the name thing not to diminish his work or reduce it to a series of silly anecdotes; rather, I hope to highlight for you that Sonnenfeld is a masterful storyteller, one who sets the tone with remarkable efficiency throughout. Yes, it helps that we know many of his subjects already. But you work with what you’ve got, and he’s had a career filled with remarkable work.

Share