Disaster control
Michael Almereyda's behind-the-scenes take on The Late Henry Moss fascinates.

By Dennis Harvey

NONFICTION FILMS ABOUT the making of theater number far fewer than those about moviemaking, no doubt because most moviegoers don't care much about live theater – unless there are movie stars involved. Which is, naturally, one significant draw of This So-Called Disaster: Sam Shepard Directs "The Late Henry Moss," a documentary opening this week at the Roxie Cinema. Not particularly renowned for being articulate or open about his creative processes (one funny scene here has him squirming through a journalist's pat questions), Shepard agreed to this vérité scrutiny after playing the dead king in Michael Almereyda's modern-corporate update of Hamlet.

It was one of the rare occasions when Shepard actually seemed engaged by a screen role, so something must have clicked between the sometime actor and his director. It led to the former inviting the latter to document the making of Henry Moss. (A less fortunate consequence was Shepard's asking Ethan Hawke, that otherwise worthy film's disastrous lead Dane, to take the Sean Penn part in Henry Moss's subsequent New York City staging.) The result may appear puzzlingly conventional in form to fans of the interesting but erratic Almereyda (Twister, Nadja, Another Girl Another Planet). As pure observation, however, it's the solid success he's never quite managed elsewhere.

The Late Henry Moss was probably San Francisco's biggest live theater "event," from a news standpoint, in decades. There was local history involved: it was produced by the Magic Theatre, where Shepard had been resident playwright during his richest, late '70s-early '80s period, although it was staged off-site at downtown's larger Theatre on the Square. But the main attraction for ticket buyers and media was his very starry cast, which included Nick Nolte, Penn, Woody Harrelson, and Cheech Marin, along with the lesser-famed James Gammon and Sheila Tousey.

As it turned out, their combined marquee weight both flattered and overwhelmed the rambling, unfocused, ultimately minor play. But art is always more interesting when you know the artist, or have otherwise been privy to inside information about its making. This So-Called Disaster is compelling enough to make me want to see the production again – well, almost. Following the premiere production's fall 2000 path from rehearsal to previews and opening night, Disaster intersperses views of the general process with bits of individual insight. Each principal player notes how he got into acting: Nolte describes reading Stanislavsky after a nervous breakdown in his early 20s, Penn cites a high school visit from Anthony Zerbe, and Shepard recalls simply liking the way Burt Lancaster acted with his mile-wide teeth in Vera Cruz.

Surprisingly, the camera's presence doesn't appear to faze anyone except Penn, who seems guarded as a general rule. A major point of discussion after Henry Moss opened was how its mostly cinema-trained cast did or didn't adjust to the different demands of live performance. The movie renders that scorecard more explicable by showing how everyone applies themselves to the work.

For a man who's been a reputed train wreck so often off-screen, Nolte's dedication is remarkable: he's almost always fully in character, even turning Shepard's request for an out-loud speed read at one point into a sort of performance. Harrelson approaches everything as play, seeming so jokey and casual that the documentary doesn't really hint at the inspired end product of his slapstick performance. Marin is a pro whose line readings are effortlessly comic yet natural.

The guy having trouble here – as he did in subsequent public performances – is Penn. Defending him after tepid reviews, one costar later said, "If you were up there [onstage] with him, there was a lot going on" – suggesting Penn was still acting as if for the big screen, crafting details too intimate for a 740-seat house. But viewed in actual close-up, Penn seems just as uncomfortable and uncommitted as he did at the Square. Despite the angsty-prodigal-son part's seemingly perfect fit, he never connects to text or fellow actors. (Even from 25 rows back, it was obvious how little eye contact he gave them.) Far from assigning blame, This So-Called Disaster only underlines how this kind of failed effort is just as mysterious in cause as the alchemy that creates an artistic triumph.

What's most endearing and unexpected about the movie, however, is how much it reveals about Shepard. Uncharacteristically relaxed throughout, he's a patient, purposeful actor's director. Filmed after the play ended, on a prairie-cabin porch, he speaks with abashed honesty about his late father, who clearly was the impetus behind Henry Moss. Shepard Sr. was a military man, a Fulbright scholar, a falling-down belligerent drunk who died stumbling into highway traffic. That the play ultimately didn't convey the pain and poignance in their relationship seems less important in Shepard's presence – his manner suggests a lifetime could (and probably will) be spent working out that problem.

This So-Called Disaster ends with a series of black-and-white photos from the early '60s showing the lanky, handsome playwright striking various Young Turk postures in New York, black turtleneck and all. These images of high creative hope lend the preceding 90 minutes of big-name, fallible art-making a bittersweet aftertaste – reminding how exhilarating, yet unreliable, following one's muse can be.

'This So-Called Disaster: Sam Shepard Directs "The Late Henry Moss" ' opens Fri/7, Roxie Cinema, 3117 16th St., S.F. $4-$8. (415) 863-1087. See Rep Clock, in Film listings for show times.