The first thing you notice is the hair. Bill Pohlad’s lanky, slightly graying, just-above-shoulder-length coif distinguishes him from the classically all-business looks served by his older brothers, Jim and Bob. Bill has more hair than either, and his is the do of an auteur rather than a baseball-club-owning oligarch—though, technically, he is both. For while the youngest Pohlad brother appears to stand apart as the sensitive artist of the Pohlad dynasty, he’s always been a dutiful brother and son: After graduating with a degree in accounting and economics from Gonzaga (the same school his dad dropped out of after his senior football season), he worked in marketing for his father’s financial services company throughout the ’80s. Eventually, he left to pursue a career in Hollywood, getting his big break as an executive producer of the Academy Award–winning western Brokeback Mountain in 2005. But he still has an active role in the family’s business affairs, currently serving as president of the Pohlad Family Foundation.
As we wait in line for coffee at the Spyhouse in the cavernous lobby of the Hotel Emery downtown—we’re meeting downtown rather than near Pohlad’s house in Kenwood because the Yankees are at Target Field for a matinee—he discloses how sick with nerves he gets when screening a new film for an audience for the first time. His latest, Dreamin’ Wild, debuted last fall at the Venice Film Festival, and he says watching it with an audience for the first time was an excruciating experience. He was helplessly fixating on mistakes that, admittedly, only he would be likely to perceive, but he says the more recent screenings, including its local debut at the Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival last spring, have been much less stressful.
As he talks, I get a close enough look at his fine, patrician features to recognize the family resemblance. Meeting Pohlad downtown reminds me of seeing his billionaire father, Carl, at his regular table at Morton’s steak house, just a couple blocks from where we are now. And while Bill, now 67, is almost two decades into a moviemaking career that really began just a few years before Carl died in 2009 at the age of 93, the relationships of fathers and sons loom large in Bill’s art—as in Dreamin’ Wild. This true story is about two unknown musical brothers, Donnie and Joe Emerson (played by Casey Affleck and Walton Goggins, respectively), who made a teenage dream of a record back in 1979 that was forgotten until it was dug out of a dusty bin in a Spokane junk store, only to be rereleased in 2012 by a boutique record label that specializes in excavating old albums that were overlooked in their own time. Light in the Attic Records’ rerelease of Dreamin’ Wild gave the Emersons the chance to be heard that eluded them as teenagers, but something much heavier than music was dug out of that bin.
Pohlad’s film is a story about two sons working through their own ancient family resentments, hard feelings held against each other and their father—a father who believed in them so much he mortgaged and lost much of the family farm to make their album in the first place. And it’s the first film Pohlad has directed since Love & Mercy, his 2014 film about the psychological struggles of Beach Boys genius Brian Wilson against the abuses of Wilson’s stage daddy, Murry Wilson, and surrogate father, the quack psychologist Eugene Landy.
So, for more than an hour, Pohlad and I talk about how far he’s come since directing his first independent feature, Old Explorers, on location in Minneapolis back in 1990. He’s so soft-spoken that at times it’s difficult to hear him over the din of the busy lobby, and I imagine him on set, his cast and crew leaning in to discern his gentle direction. In fact, Dreamin’ Wild is only his third time in the chair, with most of his success with his company, River Road Entertainment, on the production side, beginning with Brokeback Mountain and eventually including a string of critically acclaimed films, such as Into the Wild (2007), The Tree of Life (2011), 12 Years a Slave (2013), and American Utopia (2020).
You directed your first movie, Old Explorers, in 1990, and then you didn’t direct again until Love & Mercy, almost 25 years later.
I directed Old Explorers 10 years after I graduated from college. It took a little while to get the courage up to do it. And I met two other guys who wanted to make movies out of Minneapolis. A crazy idea.
Difficult, but people have done it.
At that time, I don’t know if it was a good time or a better time or a worse time. But we did it, and we started this company, first calling it North Coast Productions, and then River Road Productions [and finally River Road Entertainment]. We had this idea to make movies out of Minnesota, but when we came around to finding the director, I didn’t have any experience but was really taking a chance on people that we didn’t know, and it was like, Well, why not just do it by myself? So, I co-wrote it with one other guy, and then three of us produced it, and I ended up directing it. It was a baptism by fire.
What was the movie about?
It was based on a two-man play that came out of the Dudley Riggs organization about two old guys, two old explorers. They were at the end of their days, and they would meet every week to go on these fantasy adventures in their heads like they were great explorers.
And then there was sort of a long lull.
I mean, we got distribution on that film, so in some ways it was a success. But we had raised the money from family and friends—just going around and trying to get little bits and pieces. And we ultimately got distribution but never got any money back. So, I wasn’t going to do that again—it was too much pressure. I tried to get another one going, but without significant money or support.
When did you realize you wanted to be involved in the production side of moviemaking?
I had started off as a writer-director, but 10 years after Old Explorers, nothing was going on. We did commercial films, things for Northwest Airlines. It was actually cool; we made a business of that for a little while. But after 10 years, I felt like I’d like to get back to features. And I felt like nobody would buy me being a director, so I went out to Hollywood—because I wanted to be more feature-oriented and engaged in that way—and I started to become a producer.
How did you find your way into the Hollywood machine?
Luck, basically. I mean, I met a guy by the name of Rick Hess early on as we were going out and exploring L.A. He was running a production company called Propaganda. They did films, but mostly music videos and short films for hire. Steven Soderbergh was part of the group, and Spike Jonze. But the company was struggling financially, and eventually it cratered. But we became friends. We were thinking about doing something together, possibly him joining River Road. But in the meantime, he got an indie financing deal from CAA that he brought me into. So, we said, Let’s just do this together, and ultimately, we got a deal with Universal/Focus. They presented a bunch of projects—which I didn’t like and said no to. People thought I was crazy to say no to them. And we had some projects we wanted to do, and they said no to us. So, eventually, after turning many things down, Brokeback Mountain was the first one we did. My experience with Old Explorers underpinned my entire philosophy about making movies: If I’m going to have one chance, I’d rather go down in flames for something I really believed in. And I felt like Brokeback Mountain was a script and a concept that I really believed in, and so we did that.
You’re not looking at it as purely a business proposition, but you also don’t want to waste anybody’s money.
I felt very responsible for the money. But I didn’t want to just make a movie. I don’t know if you remember Vanity Fair, the Reese Witherspoon vehicle directed by Mira Nair. They presented that, and I read it and said no. I said no to a bunch of packages that Universal wanted to make but I didn’t.
Brokeback Mountain spoke to you.
Yeah. And I thought, or hoped, that it was going to make money. I didn’t have any guarantee, but I’d rather pin my hopes on something like that and be able to hold your head up high, as opposed to doing something that you don’t really believe in.
When you hire an auteur like Ang Lee to direct, what’s the role of the producer? Are your fingerprints on certain parts of that movie?
Ang actually got involved at the same time we did, so Jake [Gyllenhaal] or Heath [Ledger] hadn’t even been cast yet. Obviously, I believed in Ang. We felt like we were in good hands. I went on set a couple times and, during the edit process, looked at a number of the cuts, so it was great. Obviously, you’re giving notes at screenings, but Ang Lee, is he really listening to me? I mean, hopefully—we developed a great relationship. But I wouldn’t say that the film is what I would’ve done or really has my fingerprints on it, aside from our decision to do it and our support for the process.
Your résumé is impeccable. I loved Love & Mercy, and after you finished that one, you began working on a Walt Whitman movie that didn’t make it to the shooting stage. If Bill Pohlad can’t get his passion project across the finish line, does it say something about how difficult this business is?
It’s always been an evolution, career-wise, for me. I always wanted to be a director again. So, as we were going through the different productions, our involvement became more and more involved. Brokeback Mountain was the least involved. I became good friends with Terry Malick during Tree of Life, and I would give him notes.
Wow. That’s insane. And none of those notes were, “Hey, do we have to go back all the way to the dinosaurs in this movie?”
[Laughs.] There were some notes like that. But I can’t tell you how great a relationship Terry and I have now. I mean, actually through the whole process, but especially now.
Terrence Malick is also famous for his epic fallow periods between films.
I’m not saying I’m emulating him, but I’ve always respected that. He’s not really interested in his career; he’s on an artistic journey, and I think that’s cool. I mean, he’s a pure artist.
So, you were just always biding your time, hoping to direct.
Yeah. Maybe I was too shy about it.
Has the market changed, or has it always been difficult to get somebody to pledge $25 million to a Walt Whitman movie set in the Civil War?
Song of Myself is based on a historical novel called Nostalgia. It was always going to be a tough sell. It wasn’t about combat, but it was dark, so we just had trouble putting it together. I mean, even during the—I hate to say “the Harvey Weinstein period”—but [even] when people were more used to going out and taking chances on movies, it was going to be tough.
Did you finish a script?
Oh, yeah. Jeff Bridges was going to play Whitman. We were still in development, and this happens all the time.
And the time spent developing this is like five years?
Oh, yeah. I suppose we were working on it right up until the time that I decided to do Dreamin’ Wild.
Dreamin’ Wild was brought to you by Jim Burke, an old producer friend from Minnesota who went on to win an Oscar for Green Book. But you weren’t sold on Dreamin’ Wild initially. What was Burke’s elevator pitch that got you to actually consider making it into a movie?
When he made the pitch, it did sound like Searching for Sugar Man. I wasn’t interested in doing it. But he insisted that I read the article, which was an extended version of the New York Times piece, and listen to the music.
The music sold you on it?
It kind of convinced me. I mean, you can see something in Donnie’s song “Baby.” Ultimately, I agreed to direct it. And we were going to look for a writer, but we thought we’d go meet Donnie first. So, Jim and I flew to Spokane; Donnie picks us up at the airport and drives out to the farm. His parents were out of town, so I didn’t get to meet them, but you just see the place in the world, and you start to really get sucked in.
The aspect that makes it so different than Searching for Sugar Man, or an even more Hollywood rags-to-riches story, is Donnie goes undiscovered for so long that by the time Light in the Attic finds him, he’s carrying too much regret and loss for it to be a feel-good Cinderella story. What did you think of Donnie when you met him? And what did he think of you? At this point, is he used to Hollywood types knocking on his door in Spokane?
I mean, obviously the Light in the Attic discovery and the rerelease of the album had happened. I don’t know if he thought things were going to work at that point. But when he met us, he couldn’t relate to the idea of doing a movie. But he picks us up at the airport, and we go out to the farm and have a few drinks at the local bar, and then he drives us home. And halfway through the drive, Jim’s asleep in the back seat and Donnie’s telling me his story, and he just starts crying. So, his feelings were right up front, and that intrigued me even more.
Were they bitter tears? Tears of sadness?
A combination of things. As with most of us, you start crying, and you don’t really know why you’re crying. You just know that it’s massive stuff going on, which is what the challenge was in trying to capture some of that in a movie, as opposed to oversimplifying it.
Spoiler alert, but when we see the real Donnie at the end of the movie, we see this teenager trapped in a middle-aged man’s body.
That’s one of the reasons why I wanted Casey [Affleck] for it. Casey has that otherworldly, disconnected personality, too. And that’s what you are trying to capture.
What is it about Casey Affleck that carries the sadness of lost youth?
Hard, really, to pin all these things down; that’s why it’s a gut thing. You think, Casey can do that, and then he ends up doing it. But it’s not necessarily logical. You can’t necessarily follow it as a straight line. I don’t know what it is about him—his relationship with his brother? Who knows?
The Bill Pohlad Filmography
The Minneapolis-based director-producer’s résumé is one of the most impressive in Hollywood.
How concerning were the sexual harassment allegations against him when he was cast?
Well, you’ve got to take a position. Obviously, personally, I took the position that he said he was sorry. I mean, some people don’t want to hear that, or think that he didn’t say exactly the right words. Kim Roth, our producer on the movie, knows him very well and was satisfied that he didn’t do [what he’s been accused of]. So, I trust that as well as my own feelings about him and what we personally experienced.
The rest of the casting was perfect. Beau Bridges has a believable warmth as Donnie’s father. Zooey Deschanel, I thought, was perfectly cast as Donnie’s wife. Is casting more important when you have such a tight shooting window?
It was a 30-day shoot, which is not that unusual for an independent film, but it’s a lot to try to cover in what we were trying to do. I’ve been lucky, with Love & Mercy and with Dreamin’ Wild, to be working with great people. That takes some of the weight off. There were definitely challenges with the shoot. The real Donnie was conflicted about what was going on—if he wanted to be involved or not. And honestly, Casey, I think in channeling Donnie, had a lot of issues, too. I think he was taking on some of Donnie’s characteristics. And I think that’s just part of working with those kinds of guys.
Everybody around Donnie is looking for him to be the genius, which is a recipe for a malcontent.
Particularly with his lack of success—you have all that guilt built up. He’s living all of that stuff, and suddenly there’s a movie being made about him. It’s totally freaky.
Was he on set?
He came a few days. But honestly, he was really conflicted about it. We didn’t get along very well during the shooting. We had a great relationship before and after. [His wife] Nancy was challenging, too, because she’s Donnie’s protector.
You had to protect the creative space while also appeasing the people that the movie is about.
Yeah. But on the other hand, the family itself—Don Sr., Salina, and Joe—I mean, Joe’s absolutely the nicest guy you could ever meet.
Walton Goggins played him perfectly. Almost as a naïf—a lifelong bachelor who’s just waiting to be there for his brother again.
They were great. Sometimes you might worry that we’re shooting on their farm, they might be coming over and looking over your shoulder all the time, but they weren’t. I mean, [they’d say,] “We’re glad you’re doing this and you’re welcome to be here”—but they didn’t change their personality, which is so cool.
Did you screen the movie for them on the farm?
No, we did a screening room in Spokane because they just didn’t have the facility there. And they came in and watched it all together, which is a little charged anyway, because whereas it seems like everything’s great with everybody, they’re human beings. Nancy and Donnie, beyond the big issues, there’s all the everyday issues that people go through with family and brothers and fathers.
Did you rebuild the boys’ studio, the one their father originally mortgaged the farm for them to build in order to record the album Dreamin’ Wild?
We did. The exteriors of basically all the rooms, including the practice place, were real. But as soon as they stepped into the practice place, that was shot on a set. You have to break walls away and things like that. Whereas Joe’s space, that’s Joe’s real house. And the upstairs where they rehearse, that’s the real place.
Your last two features were both so musical. You told me you played the clarinet as a kid, but how did your love of art express itself growing up? Were you a music freak?
I don’t know if I would say I’m a music freak. I think my brother Jim was actually mostly into music, so I followed his lead.
Jim was the classic older brother who had the cool records that you could discover through him.
Yeah. The first Bruce Springsteen album and all that.
He had Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J.?
Yeah. He would show me, and we’d share. So, he was very progressive in that sense—he was leading the charge for a lot of that. But then in college and beyond, yeah, I was totally a music aficionado.
When you left the family financial business to make feature films in Hollywood—to commit yourself to the life of an artist—was your family supportive?
I wouldn’t say supportive right away. My dad was obviously a larger-than-life character. He had strong opinions about things.
What were those opinions?
That I was playing around, and maybe I was just playing, so to speak. In fact, I borrowed his words for the movie: “The percentage chance of success of making it in the music business or movie business is really small.” So, that’s in the movie, because obviously, it resonated with me. Thankfully, he got to see Brokeback Mountain when it came out.
That’s cool.
And obviously he saw the success, so he was more supportive at that point.
Was your dad financially supportive of River Road?
He supported it. I mean, at that point, it was just a little company.
Right. But he did take an interest.
Yeah. He allowed me to do it. At first, I don’t think he felt he could be supportive, because he didn’t know where it was going. But when Brokeback Mountain came around, he goes, “Oh, maybe you can make some money on this.” So, he was—yeah.
Both of the most recent films you’ve directed have had larger-than-life father figures in them. In Love & Mercy, Brian Wilson’s dad is the classic overbearing stage dad. And in Dreamin’ Wild, Donnie’s dad is a little smaller-scale, but he’s so supportive, almost slavishly committed to his son’s art. Were either of them like your own father?
Well, definitely not Wilson.
Carl wasn’t abusive.
I mean, he wasn’t like that. You could say he didn’t support me, but it’s just because he didn’t really understand. Like, “Don’t waste your time on this.” He didn’t actually say that, but again, he wanted me to do something that’s worthwhile, and this seemed like a fantasy to him.
What about your brothers—do they discuss your films with you?
We are very close. But no, it’s my thing. Not that they’re not excited for me. My dad was a dominant personality, so I think we’ve developed, between the three of us, the ability to express ourselves and the opportunity to do our own thing. Yes, they’re in the business world, but I think it’s important that we all have our areas of interest that we can express and don’t feel like we have somebody standing over us and checking everything.
It’s always been an evolution, career-wise for me. I always wanted to be a director again.
—Bill Pohlad
What about your mom?
Well, she passed away before we had any success like Brokeback Mountain. But she was supportive. I mean, she’s just a loving mother. Kind of like, “Yeah, that’d be great.” But she’s not being critical about it.
Are you consciously a different dad than your dad was to you?
Yeah. And I think probably all three of us are. Because, again, he was a great dad, but a really dominant guy. And to be honest, it’s not like today—like, you’re able to spend time. He was working. He was always afraid, honestly, that he would lose everything, because he came from nothing. And so, he had that fear: “I don’t want to go back there.” So, that really drove him, and so he was honestly not there a lot. We had moments and good times—traveling on the weekends and things like that—but he was focused on his work.
Donnie’s father goes in debt to finance his son’s record, and he loses part of his farm to the bank. Didn’t your father make his fortune foreclosing on family farms?
I mean, that’s just not accurate. He worked for a guy during one summer where he would go around—this is as a teenager. His job was to collect, but that didn’t define his career.
So, that characterization of your dad is untrue?
I mean, he did do that, but this is a summer job when he’s 15. He didn’t spend his life foreclosing farms. He was a banker, so eventually, you’re in the loan department, you have to figure out how to do your job.
Did Donnie’s father feel exploited by the banks?
That was his decision, obviously, and he said that to me. I asked him, “How do you feel about risking all that money and losing it all?” He said he didn’t see it that way; rather, it was an investment in his family.
Donnie felt more guilt about it than his own father did?
That’s the way it is. I mean, if you take out a loan, you’re supposed to pay it back. And so, the onus is on Don Sr.—he knew what he was doing. I wasn’t intending to make the evil force the banker. He doesn’t think that’s the case. So, I just bristle a little bit, the idea that the banker is the bad guy. I mean, to be honest, they’re in a business just like anybody else is, where they have to do something that’s often not good.
Do you think these father figures will continue to show up on your films?
I don’t know how that happens, to be honest. I think it’s kind of cool that these things happen—the synchronicity. When other people realize, “Oh!”—I mean, I’m not thinking that at the time. I’m thinking, as with the Emersons, I want to be responsible to them and tell their story and not make it about me.
It’s the people who consume the art who draw inferences and conclusions and think about your body of work.
We could’ve been sitting here talking about Walt Whitman! I’m sure there are things in that project that would’ve related to my life. In the same way, critics are out there talking about every artist: “Well, he did this because of that.” And actually, maybe they didn’t; maybe they did. It’s kind of cool that those things happen and that other people can recognize it, but the artists hopefully are just going on their gut.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.