Directing Great Television Sample PDF

DIRECTING
GREAT TELEVISION
INSIDE TV’S NEW GOLDEN AGE
DAN ATTIAS
M I C H A E L W I E S E P R O D U C T I O N S
Published by Michael Wiese Productions
12400 Ventura Blvd. #1111
Studio City, CA 91604
(818) 379-8799, (818) 986-3408 (FAX)
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Cover design by Johnny Ink. www.johnnyink.com

Copyediting by Karen Krumpak
Cover photos courtesy Alamy, Allstar Picture Library Ltd.

HBO, Claire Danes, Dominic West, Steve Schirripa,
Michael Imperioli, James Gandolfini, Steven Van Zandt,
and Tony Sirico
Manufactured in the United States of America
Copyright © 2021 by Dan Attias

First Printing 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means
without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations
in a review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Attias, Daniel, author.

Title: Directing great television : inside TVs new golden age / Dan Attias.
Description: Studio City, CA : Michael Wiese Productions, [2021] | Summary:

“Sharing his own process honed over a decades-long career,
Emmy-nominated director Dan Attias brings you into the actual experience
of directing series television. Whether it’s the high-stakes pressure of
solving a last-minute problem on set, or the joy of pulling off a
perfect shot by the skin of your teeth, Attias brings you right into the
director’s chair, sharing his knowledge and taking you through the
process one challenging episode at a time. Offering a fundamental focus
on story, and eschewing industry language for plain talk, Attias offers
in-depth guidance how best to work with actors, how to “speak” through
the camera, how to work with a showrunner, and how to be ready for the
many ways a director will be challenged, large and small. Directing
Great Television is a fascinating window into television’s best shows,
compelling to directors and non-directors alike. Attias’s book
transcends other filmmaking guides by detailing his journey to a
surprising place of self-discovery, one with applications beyond
entertainment”-- Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020056678 | ISBN 9781615933297 (trade paperback)
Subjects: LCSH: Television series--Production and direction.
Classification: LCC PN1992.75 .A88 2021 | DDC 791.4502/32--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020056678
Dedicated to:
The power of stories,
those willing to explore themselves through storytelling,
and my wife, Diana, who has immeasurably enriched my story

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Foreword by Alex Gansa�� ix
CHAPTER ONE: What’s Unique About Directing Series Television? ��1

CHAPTER TWO: The School of Hard Knocks��8
CHAPTER THREE: Creating the World of Your Story�� 28
CHAPTER FOUR: Making Meaning: Homeland �� 40
CHAPTER FIVE: What Story Are You Telling? �� 54
CHAPTER SIX: Getting the Performance�� 65
CHAPTER SEVEN: Staging the Scene�� 92
CHAPTER EIGHT: Rewriting the Subtext: The Americans�� 100
CHAPTER NINE: The Language of Camera�� 111
CHAPTER TEN: Making It Makeable: Snowfall �� 144
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Taking Risks: Manhattan�� 161
CHAPTER TWELVE: Finding the Bigger Picture: Good Girls Revolt �� 172
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Working with the Showrunner �� 180
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Inner States�� 189
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Wrapping Up�� 199
Afterword by Steph Green�� 201
Acknowledgments �� 203
About the Author �� 204
viii
FOREWORD
E very successful television show is a miracle . So many

forces conspire against its survival from the very start, and
so many hard choices must be made — narrative choices, casting
choices, staffing choices, programming choices — any one of
which can prove fatal. So it was hardly a surprise to me, walking
up the hill behind my house at 5:30 one morning, that everything
appeared to be going seriously sideways.
I had been the showrunner of Homeland for a little more than four
months, and the day before, I had fired exactly half my writing
staff, watched a staggeringly disjointed and disappointing cut of
the pilot, and learned that the director of the third episode had
just dropped out at the last minute. Head down, I was right in
the middle of plotting an escape from this train wreck of my own
making when I heard a voice:
“Hey, Alex.”
I looked up to find my neighbor, Jason Katims, Executive Producer

of the hit series Friday Night Lights and Parenthood. Seeing my
agitated state, he asked if I was okay. Well, I told him, not really:
“I’m exhausted, paralyzed by the workload, and clearly unfit for
the job of running a television show.”
ix
At this point, Jason offered the single best piece of advice I’ve ever
received in my career. And it was as ridiculously simple as it was
helpful. “Go home,” he said, “and get one thing done. Then go
into the office and get another thing done. Pretty soon, you’ll be
on a roll.”
So that’s what I did. I went straight home, hired Dan Attias to

direct the third episode, and — no joke — from that moment on,
never looked back.
Dan went on to direct seven more episodes of the show over the
next eight years, including “13 Hours in Islamabad” — one of
the most intense and emotional hours of Homeland ever. There
are action sequences in that episode that stand up to the biggest
budget feature films and that Dan shot in a single day!
I’ve often said I don’t envy episodic directors. It’s a helluva tough
job. You’re an itinerant laborer, moving from one show to another —
each with its own rules and requirements and difficult personalities.
You have to be immensely adaptable, relentlessly positive, and the
bearer of a very thick skin. Dan Attias is all those things and more;
he’s a showrunner’s dream. No one is better prepared, and no one’s
preparation better affords them the freedom to improvise on the
set. Aside from Dan’s technical gifts, which are prodigious, he is
especially successful for one reason: He loves his job. A magician
with actors and a painter with the camera, Dan has now written a
book that teaches us how he does it — an invaluable resource for
anyone who wants to be an episodic director, and a flat-out great
read for anyone interested in how television is actually made.
Alex Gansa
Showrunner of HOMELAND
x DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

C H A P T E R O N E
WHAT’S UNIQUE
ABOUT DIRECTING
SERIES TELEVISION?
I am a director of series television, having directed hundreds

of hours of shows you may have watched, from Miami Vice (1980s)
to Beverly Hills 90210 (1990s) to The Sopranos, The Wire, Deadwood,
and Six Feet Under (2000s), through Homeland, The Americans, The
Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and dozens more. When I was young and just
starting out, I was eager to make my mark in cinema. At that time,
people didn’t take series television very seriously as an artistic form.
The television work that came my way felt like practice — a chance
to keep active, maybe even learn a little something about directing
that I could apply when the next feature came along.
But the surprise for me has been that working in television is

where I came of age as a director. TV has offered innumerable
opportunities to master my craft and find my creative voice. I was
fortunate to be directing during the start of the second so-called
“golden age of television” in the late 1990s, a flowering of visually
sophisticated and thematically complex series unlike anything that
had come before. Thanks to shows like The Sopranos and The Wire,
1
high-end television now offers more challenges and room to grow
than most mass-market films.
Still, a lot of people who get into directing continue to think of

film as their goal, and of television as a placeholder until they join
directors like Martin Scorsese, Alfonso Cuarón, and Jane Campion
in the pantheon. But series television has evolved into its own
unique art form, combining the psychological depth of the novel
with the allure of the cinema. If you’re a director worth your salt,
you’ll approach the creation of an episode of television with the
same care and imagination you would your own film.
From my earliest assignments, I’ve been privileged to work on

many of the shows that helped change the way we see television.
In addition to the shows mentioned above, these include 21 Jump
Street, Northern Exposure, Party of Five, True Blood, Entourage, Big Love,
Treme, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, House, Friday Night Lights, Lost, Alias,
Masters of Sex, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, The Walking Dead,
Damages, Bloodline, Ray Donovan, True Detective, Seven Seconds, The
Killing, Get Shorty, Snowfall, Billions, and The Boys. As television has
evolved, it’s expanded to embrace characters, subjects, and sensi-
bilities that would have been unthinkable before. What we were
seeing starting with shows like The Sopranos, The Wire, and Six Feet
Under was the emergence of a new art form.
Television viewers have always enjoyed spending years with char-

acters they love, from Mary Tyler Moore, to the Bunkers, to Friends
and Jerry Seinfeld. Yet something happened in the late 1990s:
Writers and directors began to go deeper and approach their
narratives in a more novelistic way. The advantage that novels
have always enjoyed over visual forms of storytelling is the depth
made possible by the sheer number of hours that readers spend
2 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

with the characters, like Herman Melville’s Captain Ahab or Leo
Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. In the ’90s, writers and directors began
to expand beyond “one off ” episodes that kept the world of the
show fixed and unchallenged. This led to freedom not simply to
recreate the same old favorite character bits but instead to explore
characters and dramatic situations with new depth. And viewers
loved it. People expanded their conception of what they looked for
from television. Binge-watching was born.
In many senses, directing an episode of television and directing

a feature film are identical jobs. In both cases, the director bears
responsibility for the actors’ performances, determines the camera
angles, decides how much coverage to shoot, supervises the “direc-
tor’s cut,” and must answer innumerable questions from a variety
of creative departments. She approves locations and schedule,
has critical input on casting choices, and is responsible for taking
command of the set. Most importantly, the director in both
formats is the one assessing, moment to moment, how the story is
working and how best to tell it.
But there are differences. For one, the television script is a given,
as opposed to possibly being developed by the director in conjunc-
tion with the writer of a feature film. Input can occur, but there
generally isn’t time for significant changes, and the power balance
is heavily weighted toward the episode’s writer. This points to the
biggest difference between directing features and directing series
television: The director in episodic TV must blend his vision with
that of the showrunner’s, not vice versa. That showrunner, often
the writer who created the show, is the one in charge of guiding
the writing process, interacting with the network or streaming
service, and having significant authority on all creative decisions.
It’s generally understood that, while the director is empowered in
WHAT’S UNIQUE ABOUT DIRECTING SERIES TELEVISION? 3

many meaningful ways, the showrunner’s vision is the one that
everyone serves.
There are other significant differences between feature directing

and directing a television episode. Rather than telling a full story
from start to finish (and I’m speaking here of “serialized” shows
with an ongoing narrative), the episodic director is charged with
telling a certain portion of the story, one that needs to reflect on
past events and, possibly, foreshadow future ones. She inherits a
“visual language” and all the other conventions that have been
established by previous episodes. An audience is already invested
in the show’s story, and their expectations and assumptions must
be respected. Whatever deviations you choose to make are experi-
enced as deviations, which — if not intentional and done for specific
effect — will distract from the story you think you’re telling.
Also significant are the time limitations within which the material
must be realized. The script is often not given to the director until
the day before prep is to start. And television prep time is signifi-
cantly shorter than for feature films, where eight to fifteen weeks
of preparation are common before shooting a ninety-minute
to two-hour movie. In television, you get seven or eight days to
prepare for filming an hour-long episode. If the script is late, or
there are rewrites — or both — rarely is extra time afforded before
the train leaves the station. It needs to depart on time because
there is another episode following closely behind, and that one
can’t be delayed, either.
Within the time the director has to prepare for shooting the
episode, he is expected to fully absorb the script and develop a
vision that embraces the writer’s dreams for the material as well
as the director’s own specific take on it. He must then convey that

vision to a battalion of department heads, who may make sugges-
tions to modify or enhance it; however, they cannot properly
perform their own preparation without some guidance as to the
director’s evolving intentions. In addition, the episodic director
must offer assurances that she can accomplish everything that is
scripted within the time and with the resources available; either
that, or she must ask for cuts, more time to shoot, or alternative
ways to tell the story — all rolls-of-the-dice with severe conse-
quences if misjudged.
When filming starts, directors of both features and episodic tele-

vision must deal with the same variables that are part of any day
of shooting. (More on that later.) But the bottom line is that the
episodic director has far less time to tell the story than a feature
director does. And the kicker is that, on high-end television shows
these days, viewers expect an episode to look and feel as impressive
as those feature films.
As my career in episodic television has progressed, exposing me

to a vast range of stories, characters, and perspectives, I’m some-
times reminded of my brief experience in young adulthood as an
aspiring actor. Directing is, of course, very different from acting.
The director is responsible for telling the entire story, holding
the vision that will be realized moment to moment, and being
the arbiter, finally, of how it all gets shaped. The director has to
see the big picture and steer the journey so that it’s one worth
taking for the audience. But I can see now that the impulse that
led me to acting — to inhabit other roles and discover myself
within them — is similar to what appeals to me about directing a
wide range of stories and shows. An actor moves from the world
of one show to that of another, which means finding oneself in
circumstances defined by someone else and needing to accept

givens and limitations. Acting involves inhabiting different sensi-
bilities, fitting one’s contribution into a larger context, trusting
one’s instincts in the moment, and making choices. Actors in
“improv” companies are advised, when their scene partners intro-
duce new imaginary circumstances, just to say “yes.” That sense of
acceptance and forward movement with every circumstance that’s
thrown at you is what directing an episode of television can feel
like. Also, just as actors who play classic parts as varied as Lady
Macbeth, Willy Loman, and even Batman and Superman have
the potential to put their particular stamp on the role, episodic
directors are challenged to absorb a “language,” as it were, of
preexisting characters, environments, and visual cues, and to learn
to speak that language in their own voice.
When approached in this way, series directing is an opportunity

to enlarge one’s experience of life and to discover new depths
within oneself. If you’re lucky enough to work regularly, and do
good work, you’ll have the opportunity to immerse yourself in a
wide variety of imaginary worlds, discovering insights probably
unavailable to you anywhere else. And, because the process is so
collaborative, you will find others to contribute to your efforts and
inspire you in ways that enrich your work and your experience.
The episodic director often labors in obscurity, usually unrecog-

nized for the creative contributions she has made. But to do the
best job you’re capable of, you must take responsibility for the
storytelling, making the words on the page come alive. You must
accept all of the sometimes-onerous limitations, foreswear too
much whining about setbacks (even those for which you might
not have been responsible), and be okay with not getting the
ego strokes you’ll probably feel you deserve for a job well done.
But when you do pull it off and create something beautiful and

entertaining, it’s a fantastic feeling. In my experience, it does
not happen without frustration, roadblocks, fear of failure, and
confronting all of one’s own insecurities and self-doubts. The best
way through, for me, is to recognize that the master we must serve
is not our ego but the story, for we have an opportunity to connect
meaningfully with those viewers who will accompany us on the
journey of the tale.
As you may have guessed, episodic directing is an art form I have

grown to love and respect. If it’s something at which you hope to
excel, or even if it’s something you’re curious about because you
love the medium, I hope the insights I share in these pages will
give you a clear idea of what comes with the territory. This book is
my way of pointing you toward where issues may arise, how solu-
tions might reveal themselves, and how a mindset dedicated to
story can lead you to the truest expression of your vision.
This isn’t a traditional “how to” book. It’s not that I don’t have
pointers — I do. I have stories. I have battle scars. I’ve made
mistakes. I’ve had breakthroughs. I’ve seen what works and what
doesn’t. But more crucially, I’ve gotten to know what works best
for me in putting myself in service of story. I hope, through
reading about my experiences, you’ll find the tools that lead you
to discover your best directing self, too.
I’ve always appreciated what John Wells (who as showrunner of the

series E.R. spearheaded its groundbreaking first couple of seasons)
is said to have advised young directors about the job: “Make it feel
just like an episode of E.R., only better.” If that “only better” both
thrills you and keeps you up at night, you might just be cut out
for this job.

C H A P T E R T W O
THE SCHOOL OF
HARD KNOCKS
T here ’ s no real training for the experience of stepping

onto the hurtling train that is an episodic television show.
Neither film school, nor having written a script, nor anything
else I can think of really prepares you. You need a talent for story-
telling for sure, but in addition to that, you need to learn how to
deal with those times when you don’t know the answers. That will
involve collaborating with those who can help carry your unique
vision through the whole, difficult process, which at times may
feel like it’s conspiring against you. On top of all this, you’re called
upon to lead and have command.
If anyone has transitioned to this job seamlessly without making

errors of consequence, I’d like to meet them.
I learned a good deal about directing from getting an M.F.A. in

film production, then working as a trainee assistant director before
becoming second assistant director for Francis Coppola, Steven
Spielberg, and Wim Wenders, among others. My first opportunity
to direct professionally was a feature film, and I felt like I was on
8
my way to making my mark as a director. But it was not until I
actually started my directing career in series television that I appre-
ciated the unique challenges of this format. There is nothing quite
like showing up on your first shooting day and being responsible,
generally within the first fifteen or twenty minutes, for directing
the rehearsal, staging the scene, and working out the camera posi-
tions. Plus, you know that should you change your mind later
about the decisions you’re making, you will jeopardize completing
the rest of the day’s work.
You’re going to misstep, and you’re going to make mistakes. Not

only will there be errors of execution in which your choices create
production inefficiencies or story problems, you’ll also be likely to
stumble interpersonally, offending someone either by not under-
standing their process or by your own unconsciousness of how
you’re presenting yourself. Few situations require dealing with
such immediate and potentially challenging feedback as how you,
the one in command, relate to other people who are also trying
to survive and thrive in a competitive industry. Part of your own
learning curve will be developing an ability to express yourself
intelligently and responsibly amid the pressures of the moment.
Ready or not, you’re in a position of authority and have it in your
power to deeply impact other people and the project itself, posi-
tively or negatively, by acts of commission or omission.
In short, no one can really be prepared for all the personal

and professional challenges that this job involves without
having had some experience. Even then, no matter how much
experience you’ve had, there will always be new challenges
for which you won’t be prepared. Learning can be painful —
especially if you don’t accept the reality that missteps are part
of the journey.
THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 9

One of my first TV directing assignments was an episode in the
third season of Miami Vice entitled “Baby Blues.” I felt during it
(and after, frankly) like I’d received a pummeling. I was unpre-
pared for several things, some of which I couldn’t have foreseen
and others I should have.
I’d been hired for the job because I qualified as “a feature director,”
my first directing job having been the feature film Stephen King’s
Silver Bullet. It’s rare now for TV producers to automatically
assume that feature directors bring added value to an episode
of television. As I’ll explore later in these pages, there are some
different skills that are required of episodic directing, and at the
time, I certainly hadn’t developed them.
The creative force behind Miami Vice, the quintessential police

show of the mid-1980s, was Michael Mann, its executive producer.
At this point in the life of the series, Mann was more involved
with feature-film projects and was mostly absent from production,
though he retained ultimate oversight. This awkward configura-
tion led to some dysfunction in the decision-making process, as
Mann was consulted sometimes later than he should have been,
and his input could send the production team scrambling. As
events unfolded, I developed the distinct impression that nearly
everyone was looking for scapegoats to blame for any perceived
missteps. As an example of the sorts of problems that could
arise, the leading guest role we needed to cast was for an adop-
tion attorney, whose schtick in his televised advertisements was
to portray a bumbling and endearing clown. He would prance
and posture, promising to bring happiness to couples seeking to
adopt by providing them with children from around the world. In
a clever misdirect, he was also the central villain of the episode,
revealed as being a cynical and sociopathic kidnapper of babies

from third-world mothers. After an actor was found who could
credibly pull off the fumbling clown persona and we had begun
shooting, Mann belatedly mandated that this character, the
central adversary for the episode, should instead be a cool, slickly
villainous character. The script was hastily reconceived to erase
any mention of clowns, and I was stuck with an actor completely
wrong for the role.
Of more consequence was that the on-location producer with

me in Miami, to whom I’d been conveying my plans and inten-
tions, wasn’t communicating any of my concerns to the creative
team in Los Angeles. The first time I became aware of this was
after shooting the episode’s backstory in a scene establishing the
kidnapping of an infant from his Colombian mother. It had been
written to take place in a peasant village, ransacked by the attor-
ney’s henchmen, who chase down the mother and wrest away her
child. When it became clear that no such village existed anywhere
near Miami, and that the budget could not accommodate creating
an entire community, I suggested an alternative: We could have
the kidnapping take place on a country road, where we might
establish a ramshackle bus transporting Colombian peasants. The
kidnappers could create a roadblock and board the front of the
bus, while the child’s mother, clutching her baby, could sneak out
the rear exit and flee across a field. The kidnappers would give
chase and brutally snatch the child from her. The producer on
location approved, and we shot the sequence.
When the dailies were screened in Los Angeles the following

day, the altered staging was a surprise to the L.A. producers,
including the writer of the episode, who may well have been in
damage control after having disappointed Mann about the lead
villain. I gathered that he had now become alarmed that I was out

of my lane and would do further damage to his original concept,
perhaps further tarnishing him. At this point, I made a neophyte’s
mistake: I misread a detail that took place in a scene in which a
bound and gagged victim was transferred from the trunk of one
car to another. I mixed up the two vehicles from what the script
had indicated, so the transfer occurred in the opposite direction.
Though it made story sense in a different way from what the writer
intended, I admittedly hadn’t read the sequence carefully enough,
and my error made me a fair target for anyone looking to shift
blame in case the episode turned out to be disappointing.
Soon enough, I felt the vibe of being mistrusted, learning, for

example, that I had been criticized for a prop I selected for the
child who was snatched from his mother and who was now two
years old. The script required him to cry on cue to convey to his
birth mother (the Colombian peasant, who risks her life to come
in search of him in Miami) that heroically she ought to leave the
boy with his adoptive parents, who have now cared for him for
two years and to whom he is now completely attached. To prepare
for this moment, I had spent a weekend afternoon with the child
we’d cast and his real-life parents. They let me borrow his “tran-
sitional object,” a smallish white piece of material that I thought
might produce the desired emotional reaction if it were taken
from him at the moment of separation — which, if I remember
correctly, it did. I had been concerned with getting a performance
from a two-year-old, but the fact that the prop wasn’t more expen-
sive or colorful led to my taste becoming suspect in the eyes of
the producers.
My biggest challenge, however, was that I was still very new to “film
language” — not just the stylistic idiosyncrasies of this particular
show, but the basic grammar of film editing, including what shots

might be required to edit a scene effectively. I had made shot lists
reflecting my ideas for how most scenes would be edited, but when
lead actor Don Johnson — then known as the “King of Miami” and
famous for taking over the set — “suggested” changes to the way
I’d planned to shoot, I felt like a deer in the headlights. I was the
newcomer, both to the show and to the job itself. I’d felt unsure
of my plan to begin with, so usually I acceded to his ideas because,
frankly, I thought they were better. My self-esteem plummeted, I
felt unsupported from every quarter, and I asked myself why on
earth I would ever want to put myself in this position again.
My spirits lifted once I got into the editing room and saw the ways
my choices had worked, despite the lack of support or encour-
agement and my own battered confidence. The performances
were good, all the dramatic moments had been delivered, and my
camera angles effectively told the story. But I knew it was unlikely
I’d ever be rehabilitated in the eyes of the producers because I
had become a lightning rod for all their projected fears and an
easy scapegoat for anyone seeking cover. I later learned that the
writer of this episode, in his notes on my director’s cut, expressed
surprise that the show had worked as well as it had, particularly
since it must have succeeded in spite of the director. Self-serving
as his comment may have been, it also was an early lesson to me
that sometimes even writers have little idea of what the director
actually does.
When, several months later, I got my next job — again on a show

with good ratings and a substantial following — I was determined
to be better prepared and to communicate more effectively.
The show was Beauty and the Beast, a 1987 contemporary update
of the fairytale. By chance, the particular episode I was hired to
direct, entitled “Labyrinths,” dealt with subjects that touched me

personally. I had been reading about rites of passage into adult-
hood and had spent time with poet Robert Bly and mythologist
Michael Meade, who were exploring ways our culture has been
deficient in providing male initiation experiences for young men. I
don’t recall how it was that the showrunner knew of my interest in
those subjects, but, even before my prep period began, he engaged
with me animatedly about the episode and invited me to share
my thoughts and insights on how we might sharpen the episode’s
focus around those themes. He seemed truly happy for the dove-
tailing of his interests with mine.
I was a fan of the show and excited to work on it. But, because I
had been unsure of the visual choices I’d made on my last job and
had to endure the ignominy of being unable to defend them, I was
determined to create a plan and a visual scheme in which I could
fully believe. I wanted to be the authority on set, to tell the story
the way I saw it. The only way I could figure out how to do that
was to deepen myself as the storyteller, to fully immerse myself in
the story, and to find my own authentic response to the material.
One of the challenges in beginning a directing career is that there

really aren’t intermediate stages at which you take on some duties
before easing your way into others, the way in the restaurant world
people may ascend from prep cook, to line cook, to sous chef, to
chef de cuisine. With directing, you go from having none of the
responsibility to having all of it. With Miami Vice, I’d embraced
the concept of “fake it till you make it” when presenting myself to
the crew. In some situations in life, there’s logic to this strategy,
which can get you through turbulent times full of crisis and self-
doubt. But where it becomes dangerous is if you forget you’ve been
faking it when you should be figuring out the “making it” part.
On Miami Vice, I’d dealt with my shortcomings, inexperience, and

lack of confidence by simply hoping for the best. On this new job,
I was determined to be prepared when shooting began and admit
to myself how unprepared I felt on so many creative questions that
needed answers.
In the past, I’d treated my lack of expertise as a dirty little secret

that, to acknowledge, would be to subject myself to fierce judg-
ment (my own included). That approach was childish. But more
importantly, it was ineffective. The best directing is a creative act,
and creativity, I’ve come to understand, starts with curiosity, with
not knowing. Everyone, of course, has an ego and some concern
for how they appear to others. But if you lead with that, you will
cut yourself off from making discoveries and from your own
inner resources. Instead, you will protect your own, fragile self-
image either by making safe, predictable choices and not risking
mistakes or, as I had done on my previous job, by pretending even
to yourself that you know more than you do. The fact is that with
episodic directing, the end result will be judged on its merits. Your
best chance at success is to overcome self-deception and let curi-
osity lead you through the questions for which you need answers.
Thus my new strategy became to admit that, for many important
questions, I hadn’t a clue.
At another time, in another place, I had come upon a similar chal-

lenge, but without such pressure to perform. I was in graduate film
school in a critical-studies program, which I’d only enrolled in so
that I could take the acting classes the department offered. As part
of the curriculum, students had to make a short film. (In those
days, it was on Super 8 film stock.) I wrote a short script, gath-
ered some acting friends, directed it, then took the raw footage
to the editing room. I hadn’t much of an idea how to proceed,
but as I played with assembling the footage, I saw that joining

two pieces of film would create in me an immediate response.
The way I could know what story was getting communicated (and
what emotions or ideas were evoked) was by paying attention
to what was happening inside myself. I could shape the viewer’s
experience by carefully monitoring my own — piecing together
all the elements until they drew from me precisely the feelings or
thoughts I wanted the audience to have at each moment of the
storytelling. Yet somehow, years later, I had forgotten to rely on
my own sensitivities and had gotten lost in trying to look like I
knew what I was doing. The limitations of that approach had just
been made painfully clear to me.
On Beauty and the Beast, though I feared being regarded as a novice

who needed extra time to figure things out, I asked the production
staff if I might have access to the soundstage on the weekend. I
committed to staying with each problem and taking as long as
necessary to plan my staging and camera angles, even if it meant
working through the night. Because I was by myself, I felt no
pressure to have quick answers. I made it a point to absorb every
feature of the set environments, almost as if they had become char-
acters themselves in the story. I made it my intention to test each
visual idea using my own senses: How did a particular image strike
me? What feeling or subjective state was I experiencing? Staying
patient and curious, I noticed where my attention was drawn and
what images I felt invited to see. This began an inquiry that led to
camera moves, to key visual moments, and, at last, to a plan.
Through having trained as an actor, I already felt well-versed in

getting to the emotional and dramatic heart of a scene. But being
on the actual set, free of distractions, I imagined inhabiting each
role and developed ideas for movement based on character inten-
tion and what the location offered. If one part of the set had

greater visual interest than another, I thought about how things
might be staged to take advantage of that. My bias is always to
seek character-appropriate behavior, even if it means having to
sacrifice a particular visual image. But with a little imagination,
I found it not too difficult to have the best of both: compelling
visuals and appropriate action.
More questions arose: How could I frame a particular charac-

ter’s coverage to take advantage of a background that might give
context to their words and actions? Are they shy, avoiding stim-
ulation? If so, would it be better to see only a bare wall behind
them? Or are they fully engaged with the world, drawn to bustle
and excitement? A background vibrant with activity might be the
best choice for their angle so the audience can associate them with
those qualities. Interestingly, in real life, people drawn to activity,
or those who are shy, would likely choose to place themselves
in the opposite position so that they might look at what gives
them comfort. But in film language, it’s often more important to
consider what a visual cue might stimulate in the viewer.
I considered what I wanted to see as each beat of the story

unfolded. If I’d imagined an actor walking toward the lens and
away from her scene partner while he’s talking, I asked myself,
would I like her to approach into a strong, foreground close-
up, commanding focus? Or would it be better to frame her just
grazing the lens so that focus might be thrown back to the actor
speaking? Is it the listener’s response or the speaker we should be
interested in at that moment?
In identifying what was important to me, a visual plan began to

emerge for which I could take full responsibility, because it was
in service to the story I was telling. There was no “correct” camera

angle, there was only what I wanted to see, what subjective state
I wished my viewers to inhabit, and where I wanted to direct
their attention.
Camped out on the sets of Beauty and the Beast, I was reminded
of my early insights from film school. What was important was
how I perceived. My own sensory response was the barometer on
which I would rely. I needn’t worry about anything other than how
I wanted to experience the story. I challenged myself to dig deeply
into what brought the story alive for me, because if I weren’t fully
engaged, how could I possibly expect to engage the audience?
It was exhilarating. I took responsibility for every moment being

communicated, measuring whether or not it was credible and
sustained my interest. If I had an idea that could not be imple-
mented because a necessary prop or set piece wasn’t there, I could
ask that it be added before the scene was scheduled to shoot. If I
saw that by removing a wall I could place the camera to provide
a better visual context through which to view the performance,
I could make sure the wall was made “wild,” meaning it could
be removed when shooting away from it but replaced for the
reverse angle.
I took responsibility by defining what was important in each scene

and targeting the significant moments. I chose camera moves on
the basis of how they made me feel. Did they create the appro-
priate subjective state? Or did they call attention to themselves
and distract from the story? If so, I would reject them. Rather than
trying to think of what the “correct” or “cinematic” camera angle
was, I turned my attention to how I wanted to see the scene unfold.
What visual choices would enhance what I was trying to create and
point the audience to the richest possible experience?

It turns out that rather than being something to fear, the ability
to empty oneself, to “not know,” can be empowering. But it takes
nerve and courage. In the pressure cooker of series-television
production, it’s important to find a quiet center within yourself
where you can be totally open and receptive. It’s most likely from
that state that you’ll be able to perceive the small detail, the precise
moment in the script, or even just the feeling that can point you to
the story that is yours to discover and to tell.
Armed with a much deeper connection to the material, I was

better prepared to take advantage of the help available to me in
the form of director of photography, production designer, assis-
tant director, and all the other departments. Being able to convey
a vision and a plan enabled me to invite their contributions for
how the episode might be enhanced. I had taken ownership of
the story.
But a painful lesson was yet to come.
I started shooting, and it could not have gone better. The episode
was about a teenage boy undergoing an initiatory experience that
liberated him from his dependency on an overbearing father. The
young man had run away into “the underworld” — abandoned
subway tracks beneath New York City — where “the beast” (Ron
Perlman), a kind of half-lion, half-man, presided over a subculture
of society’s outcasts. He was the series hero and romantic partner
to “the beauty” (Linda Hamilton), and he had mythic stature. One
sequence I created was a montage of several characters sharing
with the teenager their experiences in this secret place and how
what they’d learned had strengthened them enough to meet life’s
challenges. I wanted the feeling of a different dimension of time,
with each of these characters speaking to the boy from a deep

place within themselves, unaffected by everyday concerns. The
camera floated by each of them, dissolving from one to the other
in dreamlike fashion, as if the boy was absorbing the teaching
deep within his psyche. The response I got from the producers
was overwhelming. The showrunner said he’d never seen dailies
as beautiful or as moving.
The next day, I got a performance from the featured guest star
that led to the entire crew bursting into applause after his last
take, a performance I had helped him reach by not cutting the
camera after he’d completed the dialogue. I encouraged him to
begin the scene again right away from the freed emotional state he
had reached by the scene’s end, which propelled his performance
into previously unexplored territory. It was riveting. More praise
and delight from the producers. By the third or fourth day in an
eight-day schedule, I was approached to see if I would direct the
episode that started prep immediately after mine finished. The
showrunner told me it was the most important episode of the
season, and I was the director he most trusted.
I was thrilled, of course, but because it overlapped with a major

holiday, I needed to check with my family to see if they’d mind
altering some of our plans. My wife made it work, and on the next
day, the deal was sealed.
Then, on about the sixth or seventh day, I noticed that some-

thing had seriously changed. I stopped getting feedback from
the producers. They also became noticeably curt with me on the
phone. I could not for the life of me understand it. I thought we
were still getting terrific work, and I was particularly excited about
the themes the showrunner had encouraged me to explore in our
initial conversations.

On the second-to-last day, the showrunner called me, expressing
unhappiness bordering on anger. I had not, he told me, shot a
close-up of one of the actors (the young man’s father) in a climactic
scene. I explained that there was still time to grab it if he felt it
necessary, but that the reason I hadn’t shot it was that I thought
cutting to it would be a distraction from the story we were telling.
We had agreed in prep that this would be a story about a teenage
boy moving toward ritual adulthood by finding the true father
within, personified by Ron Perlman’s “beast.” Part of separating
from his smothering father involved a key initiatory challenge,
which was to develop an aptitude for containment: the ability to
keep a vital secret. In this case, it meant not telling anyone about
the existence of this underworld because that would lead to its
being destroyed. When the boy resurfaces and is hugged by his
father, with legions of police and firemen who’d been searching
for him standing by, Linda Hamilton’s character watches off to
the side, hoping the young man will not reveal the existence of the
sacred world down below. The story to me was in the look between
Linda Hamilton and the boy while he is still in the embrace of his
father. The look conveys to her that he will not be swept up in all
the emotion and betray their shared secret. I saw no reason to cut
to a close-up of the father because it would undercut the moment;
the father’s emotions were not relevant at this point. But I sensed
the showrunner felt strongly about it, so we brought the actors
back on the last day to recreate the parent’s close-up.
When I finished the last day, I went to the line producer to ask
where and when I should report to start prepping the following
episode. He said that there might be a change of plans, and that
I should report to the showrunner’s office the next day. I pointed
out that I had already adjusted my own schedule and would like
more information. But he said nothing more than for me to show

up at the showrunner’s suite the next afternoon. I felt a little like
I was being summoned to the principal’s office. That proved to be
an understatement.
If you’ve seen the movie Network and the scene in which Howard
Beal (Peter Finch) is called into the conference room to see the
producer (Ned Beatty), you’ll have some idea of what I went
through. The showrunner sat across from me, a scowl on his face,
his line producer and co-executive producer on a sofa. I still recall
his opening line: “I was seduced by your beautiful style, and you
f****d me.”
I sat there, flabbergasted. He then went on to tell me how I’d

“subverted” his show, as if he’d never signed off on the approach
we’d discussed. He said that the heart of the show was emotion,
and that I was obviously incapable of eliciting it. That was
something I’d never been accused of, it being the one strong
suit of which I was sure. Incredulous, I asked if he had watched
the scene during which the crew was so moved, they had burst
into applause.
“Oh, well, you can handle the darker emotions, but not the tender
ones.”
I came to realize that this man had created a hit whose appeal
often rested on its romantic escapism. I understood the romance.
But I had been handed a storyline that dramatized something
different: a brutal father’s failure to appreciate his imaginative
son, and the son’s developing the strength to move forward in
life by finding an “inner” father to bless him. I had worked hard
so that this story would not be at the expense of the romance
between the main regular characters, but might in fact strengthen

that relationship by the surrogate roles they played together in the
young man’s journey.
It seemed to me that this showrunner had gotten cold feet about

the episode and was having second thoughts about the wisdom
of doing it at all. Showrunners are under tremendous pressure,
and there is a great difference between having a hit — getting well-
paid and being something of a star yourself — and being among
the throngs of mostly anonymous writers hoping to get a project
off the ground. If a show gets canceled, the experience can be like
dropping instantly from the penthouse to the basement. Whether
or not that played into his worry that the show was deviating too
much from its pattern, he now wanted what seemed to me a purely
sentimental story, the opposite of everything we’d discussed.
He even impugned my motives, accusing me of having deliberately

subverted some of the show’s signature visual moments. I asked
which, and he cited a lighting effect that occurred whenever a
character entered the underworld of the subway tunnels. A high-
intensity lamp was aimed straight down through a skylight to
mimic sunlight, and characters entering the tunnel would disap-
pear into the extremely bright light.
I was disappointed that the producer who had been on set that
day and who was sitting there opposite the showrunner did not
mention the truth of what had occurred: The high-intensity lamp
had malfunctioned. It could still throw a beam of light, but if our
young hero stepped within it, the light was not intense enough to
make him disappear from view. We faced either not filming and
having to come back at considerable expense another time, or
shooting a version I proposed, which might disguise the fact that
the light effect was missing. I suggested that if we see the beam of

light as the teenager approaches and, just before he enters it, cut
back to Linda Hamilton’s character watching him disappear (as
viewers of the show would assume he had) we might salvage the
schedule. If it didn’t work, I suggested, we’d still be in the same
boat of having to schedule it for another time. But the showunner
seemed unwilling even to consider reassessing my intention.
This went on for forty-five minutes, after which he informed me

that I would not be directing the next episode. I told him that I
was sorry he was so unhappy and that I hoped his opinion would
change once he saw my cut. It didn’t feel like the time to mention
that we had a deal memo in place for me to work on the next
episode, so he would either have to pay me for it or face Directors
Guild arbitration. He would later find himself on the short end
of that arbitration, which did little to assuage my sense of being
wronged. But he basically disassembled my director’s cut, eviscer-
ating my carefully crafted visual design so that he might make the
show as conventional as possible. He eliminated as much edge as
he could in the conflict between father and son, and he cut into my
elegant opening shot, which visually defined the show’s themes,
dramatic focus, and protagonist. In doing so, he obscured any
sense of the focus we had discussed for the story.
I was hugely disappointed and felt horribly treated. But worse, I

didn’t know whether or not I’d ever work again. Here was yet another
experience from which I could reasonably assume there would be
no good references for future employment; more likely, they would
be devastating. I was challenged to my core to fathom how things
could have changed so quickly. I felt I had “found” myself on this
episode, discovered my voice and a way of working that might (and
did) serve me in my future efforts. Yet it had all crashed and burned,
even as I felt I had arrived at my calling. I had tasted the exhilaration

of being able to access my inner resources, putting them in service
to the deeper underpinnings of the story. And I had connected with
the cast and crew, sharing a vision that inspired them to contribute
creatively. But the show would never be seen in its intended form,
and I might be deprived of another opportunity.
It took many months before I was presented with that next oppor-
tunity, and it arrived with an amusing asterisk. The offer came
from a showrunner who had once been on staff at Beauty and the
Beast. He reported to me that he had been subjected to nearly
identically harsh accusations from that showrunner and had seen
others similarly accused. He wasn’t worried about anything said
about me from that experience, and I felt greatly relieved.
The new show, entitled Wolf, was an interesting one. I applied

many of the things I had learned from my previous experience,
prepping thoroughly and letting the story seep deeply into my
bones. The first few days of shooting went well enough, I thought.
On the third day, as I was walking to the set, I checked my phone
messages and heard this from the producer/director: “The dailies
are fantastic! We couldn’t be happier. Your footage is beautiful,
and the performances are great.”
As soon as I clicked off, I immediately said to myself, “Boy, am

I glad I had the experience on Beauty and the Beast so I know not
to take any of that seriously.” And I stopped in my tracks. Had I
just said I was glad for that long, nightmarish experience? Was I
really now able to be grateful for lessons learned and actually feel
stronger for having gone through it? Apparently so.
What I was glad for was that I had a new relationship to my work.
I knew to rely on my own sense of things and to not be quite so

dependent on the judgment of others. We all enjoy approval, and I
certainly wasn’t through with wanting that. But now I understood
that, despite their lofty position, showrunners are still human.
How they respond to personal and career pressures — how effec-
tive they are as leaders — will vary from one individual to the next.
If the producers of Wolf had had a negative response, I would have
asked where they were unhappy and how I might address the prob-
lems. But I felt I would be less thrown if something went askew in
the communication between us, more skilled at preventing that
from happening, and better able not to take personally reactions
I felt I did not deserve.
I have since gone on to work with a wide variety of showrun-

ners, each unique in their own way. Almost always, they’ve been
wonderful, creative people. In my relationship to each of them,
I try to understand, as much as I can, their vision for the show
they’ve created or are supervising. I want to learn the deeper ques-
tions that interest them and the particular hopes they have for
how they will be explored. It has been a great blessing in my life to
have worked with so many gifted people who invite me into their
sensibility and who open me to deeper aspects of myself.
As time has passed and the sting from Beauty and the Beast has
abated, I can see more clearly the real value of that experience. It
was what I learned in prep, before things ever blew up: the impor-
tance of taking full responsibility for every story point that gets
communicated, and the opportunity we as directors have to bring
ourselves to the telling. I learned the value of sensing into a story
and imagining its twists and turns as fully as possible until it
becomes my story to tell. Now, I do not rest in my prep period until
I feel I have discovered every possible nuance within the script and
what I need to do to communicate it. I understand there will be

more to discover during shooting. But being thoroughly prepared
increases your capacity to be creative on the set. It gives you the
confidence to stay open to new ideas — your own and others’ —
and puts you in a better position to evaluate whether or not they
enrich the story.
When young directors shadow me on a job, I encourage them,

before they ever see how I solve staging or camera challenges,
to make a plan of their own. Until you face the blank page, you
won’t discover what good directing really entails: a willingness
to face the void of “not knowing” and to explore choices. This is
true not only in prep, but throughout the whole creative process.
Sometimes, only by being able to tolerate making “bad” choices
(equivalent to a writer’s poor first draft) can you find your way to
the good ones. Sensing for yourself what works and what doesn’t
can be a painstaking process. Finally arriving at what feels right is
the first step in making your story come alive, and it anchors you
to something that can take root. Ultimately, your job is not just to
serve the showrunner, but also to honor your sense of what’s true
and your own instincts for what makes a story worth telling.

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DIRECTING

Cover design by Johnny Ink. www.johnnyink.com

Cover photos courtesy Alamy, Allstar Picture Library Ltd.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Copyright © 2021 by Dan Attias

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Attias, Daniel, author.

Description: Studio City, CA : Michael Wiese Productions, [2021] | Summary:

The power of stories,

those willing to explore themselves through storytelling,

and my wife, Diana, who has immeasurably enriched my story

CHAPTER ONE: What’s Unique About Directing Series Television? ������1

Afterword by Steph Green��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 201

E very successful television show is a miracle . So many

I looked up to find my neighbor, Jason Katims, Executive Producer

So that’s what I did. I went straight home, hired Dan Attias to

x DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

I am a director of series television, having directed hundreds

But the surprise for me has been that working in television is

Still, a lot of people who get into directing continue to think of

From my earliest assignments, I’ve been privileged to work on

Television viewers have always enjoyed spending years with char-

2 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

In many senses, directing an episode of television and directing

WHAT’S UNIQUE ABOUT DIRECTING SERIES TELEVISION? ﻿ 3

There are other significant differences between feature directing

4 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

When filming starts, directors of both features and episodic tele-

As my career in episodic television has progressed, exposing me

WHAT’S UNIQUE ABOUT DIRECTING SERIES TELEVISION? ﻿ 5

When approached in this way, series directing is an opportunity

​The episodic director often labors in obscurity, usually unrecog-

6 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

As you may have guessed, episodic directing is an art form I have

I’ve always appreciated what John Wells (who as showrunner of the

WHAT’S UNIQUE ABOUT DIRECTING SERIES TELEVISION? ﻿ 7

T here ’ s no real training for the experience of stepping

If anyone has transitioned to this job seamlessly without making

I learned a good deal about directing from getting an M.F.A. in

You’re going to misstep, and you’re going to make mistakes. Not

In short, no one can really be prepared for all the personal

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS ﻿ 9

The creative force behind Miami Vice, the quintessential police

10 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

Of more consequence was that the on-location producer with

When the dailies were screened in Los Angeles the following

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS ﻿ 11

Soon enough, I felt the vibe of being mistrusted, learning, for

12 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

When, several months later, I got my next job — again on a show

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS ﻿ 13

One of the challenges in beginning a directing career is that there

14 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

In the past, I’d treated my lack of expertise as a dirty little secret

At another time, in another place, I had come upon a similar chal-

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS ﻿ 15

On Beauty and the Beast, though I feared being regarded as a novice

Through having trained as an actor, I already felt well-versed in

16 DIRECTING GREAT TELEVISION s ATTIAS

CHAPTER ONE: What’s Unique About Directing Series Television? ��1

Afterword by Steph Green�� 201

WHAT’S UNIQUE ABOUT DIRECTING SERIES TELEVISION? 3

WHAT’S UNIQUE ABOUT DIRECTING SERIES TELEVISION? 5

The episodic director often labors in obscurity, usually unrecog-

WHAT’S UNIQUE ABOUT DIRECTING SERIES TELEVISION? 7

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 9

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 11

When, several months later, I got my next job — again on a show

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 13

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 15

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 17

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 19

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 21

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 23

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 25

THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS 27