By Joseph Geha
By Jonathan Kiefer
By Katie Tandy
By Mollie McWilliams
By Jennifer Baires
By Jonathan Curiel
By Sherilyn Connelly
Two weeks ago, it would have been possible to use the name of the man interviewed below; indeed, it would have been expected, as he is no mere "spokesman," the only identifier by which he is to be referred. Two weeks ago, it would have been possible to point out the specific location of his headquarters, USC's Institute for Creative Technologies; indeed, until last week, a detailed map and directions were provided on a Web site. But that was before the October 8 issue of Daily Varietyhit newsstands, before the Hollywood trade publication "broke" the news that military intelligence specialists were "secretly" meeting at the institute with Hollywood filmmakers to discuss "terrorist scenarios." It was before Army brass met with ICT officials and strongly suggested they adhere to military protocol when speaking with the media -- meaning, no last names are to be used. It was before media from around the world vied for interviews with ICT officials, clogging the phones lines at the institute and its Los Angeles-based publicity firm.
In short, it was before all hell broke loose.
The Varietystory, written by Claude Brodesser, suggested a sinister collaboration between the government and filmmakers -- "a reversal of roles," Brodesser wrote in a story that contained no sources save for one "USC insider." He mentioned that among the moviemakers assembled by the military were those with "obvious connections to the terrorist pic milieu," among them Die Hard's Steven De Souza, Delta Force Oneand Missing in Action director Joseph Zito, and "more mainstream suspense helmers" such as Fight Club's David Fincher, Being John Malkovich's Spike Jonze...and Grease's Randal Kleiser.
Brodesser failed to mention that Kleiser has been working with ICT for more than a year and that his being named as creative consultant on July 7, 2000, was accompanied by a widely circulated press release. He also neglected to mention that other filmmakers have been part of the ICT fold almost since its inception two years ago, among them Apocalypse Nowwriter John Milius, and Paul Debevec, who created computer-graphics software used in The Matrix. He also failed to mention that ICT's pairing of government and entertainment was old news -- two years old, in fact, long enough for the copious articles written about the venture to grow yellow and stale.
"The relationship with the entertainment people has been the whole reason why the ICT was established," says the ICT spokesman, a former studio exec about whom we shall, for now, say no more. "That's the whole reason why it sits in L.A. -- to have access to the people from the entertainment industry. And Hollywood people have been working with the ICT since its inception. The humorous "discovery' that "Oh, my God, Hollywood people are helping the military' is two years old, and it's not a one-shot. It's continuing.
"Initially, people in entertainment had a raised eyebrow. I did, quite frankly, when I was approached two years ago. There was a certain level of skepticism: "Wait a minute. I'm gonna get involved with the military? Do I really wanna do that?' And then as people have come and seen what the projects are -- this is totally nonclassified -- and seen that we're really challenging their creativity, that attitude has changed."
Still, within hours of its publication, the Varietystory was picked up by every media outlet in the country; most glared at it suspiciously, as though it heralded an unholy alliance. Headlines like "Hollywood Helping Out Pentagon?!" were the norm; one would have thought it was the second coming of Watergate. For a while, it even became one of the war-related items scrolling at the bottom of the networks' news broadcasts. Such attention made it difficult for ICT officials to do their jobs. They were swamped with calls and furious that filmmakers who had volunteered their services out of a sense of duty had been identified without warning or permission.
"Frankly, I think we all owe a debt to them that they would take time from their schedules, rearrange their lives to do this -- and do it totally free," says the spokesman. "I think it's about respecting their privacy. They're not doing this because they wanted the press. They did this because they thought maybe they could make a contribution."
Even after the September 11 attacks, the ICT conducted its business out in the open. It was no secret that Hollywood executives and video-game creators had paired up with the military to create lifelike, virtual-reality simulations intended to help soldiers train for combat on foreign soil. In August 1999 the institute opened its sliding doors -- designed by Herman Zimmerman, who had art-directed five Star Trekfilms and three Trek TV series -- and did so in grand style. On hand for the opening-day press conference were political leaders and entertainment executives, among them USC president Steven Sample, then-Secretary of the Army Louis Caldera and Motion Picture Association of America President Jack Valenti; Governor Gray Davis even popped in, via enormous-screen television, to express his good wishes.
They all spoke of their grand vision for ICT, which had received a five-year, $45 million grant from the Army to develop technology the likes of which had been seen only in the movies. No longer would the military merely use simulators to teach soldiers how to fire weapons and fly helicopters; now, they would be able to rehearse actual missions. Now, they could step onto, say, Afghan soil without ever leaving Southern California. They could "interact" with the locals; they could "respond" to a crisis as it unfolded; they could "feel" the situation before taking action. And if they screwed up, well, there's always a reset button nearby.