In 1984, filmmaker and producer Fred Simon said he made documentaries that zeroed in on subjects in a “talking head’’ style because he wanted to focus on the words of the speaker, not the questions of the interviewer or expository footage.
“Probably nothing has a worse reputation than ‘talking heads,’ but I’ve never understood that,’’ he told the Globe. “I can’t think of anything more interesting than what comes out of people’s mouths.’’
His best-known film as a director was “Frank: A Vietnam Veteran,’’ about a Navy sniper who became a Boston social worker and spoke candidly on camera to Mr. Simon about his deep troubles adjusting to life after returning from Vietnam. Colleagues said the portrayal helped pave the way for an open dialogue on post-traumatic stress disorder in the US military.
The black-and-white film was shot in the low-level lighting Mr. Simon favored because “it made it feel very intimate,’’ said his business partner and former wife, Susan Walsh of Boston. “That’s what he was always going for in his films — a conversation late at night between two friends.’’
Mr. Simon, who taught filmmaking at Clark University in Worcester and Massachusetts College of Art and Design in Boston, died of pneumonia Feb. 8 in NC Little Hospice in Edina, Minn. He was 71, had lived in Greater Boston for many years, and recently moved to Minneapolis to be near his daughter, Mira.
In 1982, Walsh and Mr. Simon founded the Center for Independent Documentary, which has helped filmmakers and producers create, market, and distribute documentaries for public and cable television, theaters, and classroom settings. Mr. Simon focused on the production side of the business, while she handled administration.
In a 1981 preview of a showing of several of his films by what was then known as the Boston Film Video Foundation, the Globe described Mr. Simon as “not so much a storyteller as a story gatherer,’’ and said, “He believes everyone has wonderful stories to tell.’’
“Frank: A Vietnam Veteran,’’ which Mr. Simon produced with Vince Canzoneri, drew some criticism from those who considered it a negative portrayal of the US military. But after it first aired in Boston on Memorial Day in 1981, WGBH-TV received scores of phone calls, most from veterans seeking help from counselors appointed by the TV station, and some who said they were considering suicide.
Later that year, the documentary was shown as part of a Veterans Day special on PBS stations nationwide.
“At issue is an interview, taped in black and white, in which the camera focuses only on the face of Frank B. as he talks about his experiences in Vietnam during 1970 and 197l and his subsequent difficulties in readjusting to what is supposed to be a more normal life,’’ New York Times TV critic John J. O’Connor wrote.
“In the sense that the result is hardly comforting, entirely devoid of cheering crowds and marching bands, the portrait is indeed negative,’’ O’Connor added. “But as Frank gropes, with astonishing candor, to explain what happened to him, the effect is undeniably powerful.’’
In his documentaries, Mr. Simon explored topics including death and grieving, life in Boston’s Combat Zone, and the feminist movement, all told through up-close interviews with subjects.
“Interviews are valuable when individuals bear witness to what they have seen or experienced, and what they feel others should know,’’ Mr. Simon told the Globe in 1989. “Then, telling people fulfills an obligation.’’
Mark Abbate, an engineer and cameraman who worked often with Mr. Simon, said he used a modified surveillance camera to create the soft effect Mr. Simon aimed to achieve, and that as an interviewer his friend was “invisible’’ on camera.
“The thing Fred did that was very different — you didn’t see him and you didn’t hear his voice,’’ Abbate said. “We carefully set up where Fred was sitting, and the job was for the camera to be as inconspicuous as possible so the person could be looking at Fred and also almost into the camera.’’
Mr. Simon’s affinity for talking-head filming allowed him to “build an authentic, cohesive story out of what was essentially a long conversation,’’ Abbate said. “Fundamentally, he was a classic listener and engager. He loved hearing people tell their stories.’’
Eric Stange was a journalist at the Boston Herald when his wife died, and he approached Mr. Simon about making a documentary about bereavement. The resulting experience was so profound, Stange said, that he gave up print journalism for filmmaking. Since then, he worked often with Mr. Simon.
“Fred’s idea was always to let people tell their stories,’’ Stange said. “He was drawn to sort of personal, intimate stories that promised to reveal something about human frailty and the human character. He would really minimize all the technical aspects of filmmaking. It was sort of an anthropological approach.’’
Frederick A. Simon was born in Cleveland, the son of Edward Simon and the former Betty Sands, and grew up in Shaker Heights, Ohio. He graduated with a bachelor’s degree in history from the University of Wisconsin, and then enrolled in law school for a year. He later moved to New York City, where he was a cab driver before eventually relocating to Boston, Walsh said.
Because he had a hearing deficit, Mr. Simon wore a hearing aid and read lips. The disability affected his work in a positive sense, Walsh said, because it helped create intimacy.
“He always liked deep conversation, and he liked it one-on-one,’’ she said. “He needed the close-ups.’’
Mr. Simon’s son, Ben of Boston, described his father as quiet and thoughtful, and added that he was also “really funny and witty, with a great sense of humor.’’
Video artist and teacher Diane Nerwen of Brooklyn was a student of Mr. Simon’s at Clark University who later worked for him as a production assistant. She called him “an important mentor and friend’’ who was “incredibly generous, encouraging, and supportive.’’
Curiosity, she said, led Mr. Simon to the topics of his films, and he encouraged his students to be just as inquiring.
“He taught me how filmmaking is really about conversations and relationships,’’ Nerwen said.
“He really believed in the process of discovering something new, and that questions are not interesting if you know the answers before you ask them.’’
A service has been held for Mr. Simon, who in addition to his former wife and two children leaves a sister, Marjory Klein of Shaker Heights.
Mr. Simon told the Globe in 1989 that a lack of funding should not stand in the way of filmmaking, and that expensive technology is not needed for effective storytelling.
“We feel that independent producers should be able to present points of view and issues that are not dealt with in the mainstream media,’’ he said of the films he and Walsh helped make. “We are willing to take a risk on ideas that are different.’’
Kathleen McKenna can be reached at kmck66@verizon.net.
