Anne Wheeler - Taken by the Muse: On the Path to Becoming a Filmmaker

I WOKE UP in the middle of the night with a sense of urgency and a song my mother often played ringing in my head. Dont give me posies, when its shoesies that I need!

Knowing sleep would be impossible, I pulled on my parka, stepped into my winter boots, and trudged across the backyard through the deep snow, to my writing shack. The door was iced up, frozen shut, so it took a good strong yank to break it open.

It had been weeks since Id written anything. With two young sons to raise and a small film company to run, it had been hard to get beyond the practical tasks of each day. I needed these times of silence, of aloneness; I needed the mental space to be creative. Tonight, perhaps, the magic would spill out of me.

I turned on my spanking new Columbia computer and opened up the file for Bye Bye Blues. It seemed like I had been grinding away for years on this epic screenplay inspired by my mothers wartime years. I had already written six or eight drafts. Maybe more, Id lost count. They were all so mediocre just scratching the surface and revealing nothing of substance.

There I was, starting all over again at 2 a.m., shivering in the dim light, staring at the computer screen as it flickered into life.

Come on baby, I know its cold in here, but lets give this one last try.

Suddenly the phone rang. Who on earth could that be?

Thinking it had to be a wrong number, I answered with a curt Hello, ready to cut the caller off quickly.

There was a slight pause at the other end, then a smoky tone. Is this Anne Wheeler?

I could not place the voice it could be anyone. My name was in the phone book; my number was no secret. At this hour, it had to be a wrong number or someone weird.

Yes, it is, I stated flatly, offering no encouragement. Who is this?

Im sorry, did I wake you up?

Not exactly, no. But who are you? Its an odd hour to be calling.

Its Margaret Laurence.

Oh my God, I blurted. I didnt think Id ever hear from you!

Margaret Laurence was my all-time favourite writer and a literary giant! She was a three-time winner of the Governor Generals award; anyone who had taken high school English had studied her work.

Two years ago, Id had the privilege of adapting one of her short stories to film. To Set Our House in Order was semi-autobiographical; it was told in the first person by Vanessa MacLeod, who, like Margaret, grew up in a small prairie town and eventually left to become a writer. I accepted the assignment to write and direct the film with trepidation. How could I live up to Margarets genius and reputation especially when I knew that the book was essentially about her?

And this was a particularly difficult story to adapt. It traces the inner thoughts of Vanessa at the age of ten, when she and her family moved into her paternal grandmothers home. Miserably, she witnessed how Ewen, her father, a doctor, whom shed always idolized, was repeatedly humiliated by his own mother. With time, she learns that her father as a young man went off to war with his younger brother, but came back alone. His mother blames him for the loss. There was nothing he could do to win her forgiveness.

I didnt want to use a narrative voice-over, which I could have lifted from the book. Instead, I wanted to create some situations that would illuminate the girls insights. I asked the producers if I could please talk to Ms. Laurence so I could share my ideas with her before I began to write. They reported back that she did not want to talk to me, that I should go ahead and do my job. This was an unsettling response. After struggling through several drafts, fraught with self-doubt, I submitted a script with my innovations.

Again, I asked if I could talk to the author once she had read my screenplay. I had taken considerable licence and wanted to be sure it did not trouble her. I wanted to get it right. I wanted her approval. But again, she was absolutely clear: She had no desire to read the script. She didnt want to see a work in progress; she wanted to see the film once it was finished.

So I had no choice. We shot the film as I had written.

The little movie was finished with great care and a VHS tape was sent to Ms. Laurence immediately.

There was no response.

I thought perhaps she would watch it when it aired on CBC television and send me a message, any message, good or bad. The reviews were complimentary, the audience substantial, and, even though it was a short film, it garnered a few awards.

But I never heard from her.

Until now.

Here she is on the phone, more than a year since we sent her the package. I am choked up and can hardly think of what to say.

Well, ah ... its good to hear from you.

Yes, well, one of the producers gave me this phone number some time ago now. Im glad its still yours! What time is it there?

Two something, but no problem. Im up writing, kind of. Trying. My kids and husband are all sleeping.

Good for you. How many kids do you have?

Two. Boys. Twins.

Well, that was expedient of you! Her chuckle is low and friendly.

Yes, I got lucky I guess. Its after 4 a.m. your time isnt it?

Yes, I dont sleep much.

Ah. We have that in common. Im a night owl for sure.

There is a pause, and I am ready for anything. If she didnt like it, I will take it like a big girl and absorb the disappointment. Maybe Ill learn something.

So, I dont watch much TV, she confesses. Actually, I dont have one, and I dont have a video player either, but a friend brought one over last night and we watched the movie together.

Good, good, I manage to squeak out. My throat has gone tight.

Well. I loved it. I thought it was so good.

You did? Oh wow, I think Im going to cry.

Yes! I couldnt imagine how you would reveal the moment, the revelation, you know, that takes place inside her head theres not much to see, physically, in the book. But you created the perfect situation. It moved me to tears.

Oh my God, Im so relieved! I veered so far from what you wrote in order to say what I believed you were saying!

Thats it! Thats why I loved it. You understood my intention. You said it through the images and the performances. You didnt need a damn voice telling the audience what Vanessa was thinking and feeling. When she goes looking for her father and finds him, alone, weeping like a child, and then she puts her arms around him, like a mother ... that really undid me. It said it all.

I dont know what to say. I blurt, The actors were terrific, werent they?

Yes, yes. Perfect. I felt I knew them all. I did know them all! I was so relieved, I wanted to phone and tell you.

Thank you ... so much. I sit for a moment and absorb the affirmation. How many times had I beaten myself up, thinking I hadnt upheld the integrity of her work?

I hear a familiar tinkle of sound, a glass perhaps. It nudges me.

Are you drinking Scotch right now? I venture.

Yes, in fact. I have a single malt open, right here. Just about to pour myself another.

Would you mind if I run into my house and get mine? I think we should have a drink together.

She laughs. Thats a damn good idea. Go get it!

Warmed by the Scotch, we had a long and lingering talk. She explained that she had not participated in the film because she did not want to hinder me with her involvement. She didnt want me second-guessing her preferences while finding my own way to the heart of the story. She had come to know that, in order for an artist to do her best, whether she is a writer, singer, filmmaker, or whatever, she must feel free to explore for herself and then make choices based on her own instincts and wisdom. There are a million right ways and she wanted me to choose what was right for me.