How My Grandmother Helped Me Break the Ice with Martin Scorsese (And What It Taught Me About Directing)

Mr. Scorsese and Freddie Francis on the set of CAPE FEAR

by Jeff Fisher

The year was 1991, and I was about to get the education of a lifetime—though I had no idea it would come from a Yiddish word my grandmother used to say.

FROM CRAFT SERVICE TO CAPE FEAR

My first real production job in South Florida was doing Craft Service on an American Playhouse show called THE SUNSET GANG—three short stories about people in their golden years. Great cast: Jerry Stiller, Anne Meara, Uta Hagen, and others.

Craft Service means keeping the cast and crew in snacks and drinks. Not the easiest job in South Florida in July—especially when the plot involves octogenarians having a bicycle race. To say it was hot and humid is putting it lightly. I was basically running around making sure nobody passed out from dehydration while learning the ropes and trying not to screw up.

But I must have done something right, because a local coordinator I'd worked with recommended me for a new gig coming to town. A little movie called CAPE FEAR. Director: Martin Scorsese. Stars: Robert De Niro, Nick Nolte, Jessica Lange, Juliette Lewis.

No big deal, right?

THOSE TATTOOS ARE PRETTY INTENSE

I was hired to be Robert De Niro's Production Assistant during pre-production—just until his regular assistant wrapped GOODFELLAS and could get down to Florida.

My first day, production sent me to Mr. De Niro's rental house to help him get supplies. Now, if you haven't seen CAPE FEAR lately: Mr. De Niro is RIPPED in that movie. His character, Max Cady, has a huge cross tattooed on his back with TRUTH on one side and JUSTICE on the other.

I hadn't read the script yet.

So there I am, looking at this intense physical transformation, thinking, "Wow, Robert De Niro is in crazy good shape and he's got some pretty intense tattoos."

But despite playing a terrifying villain, Mr. De Niro had the kindest vibe. Gracious, polite. My first real lesson in the craft—how great actors completely inhabit a character while remaining themselves.

Mr. Deniro's Tattoo as the character Max Cady

"DON’T TALK TO MARTY."

I was desperately wishing this gig could last longer than the week or two I was originally hired for.

Then Deborah Lee, the Unit Production Manager, asked if I'd be interested in the Video PA position.

It took me less than a millisecond to get the YES out.

I'd be doing a non-union version of Video Assist—two TV monitors on a cart, running cable from the camera to wherever Mr. Scorsese was seated. Close to everything, getting to watch these greats at work, learning by osmosis.

Joe Reidy, the First Assistant Director, was a PRINCE among men and remains the gold standard of First ADs in my book.  He also made one thing crystal clear: "Don't talk to Marty." He was friendly when he gave me the instruction, but I got the message loud and clear. I was so grateful to be there, I would have done the show standing on one foot rubbing my belly if they asked.

A FLY ON THE WALL WITH LEGENDS

Six weeks into shooting, I was living the dream—even if I had to stay silent.

Mr. Scorsese had hired Freddie Francis as Director of Photography. Freddie had just won the Oscar for shooting GLORY. I got to listen to these two brilliant artists talk about setting up shots. The way they discussed light, framing, storytelling through the camera—it was like auditing a masterclass you could never afford.

I also eavesdropped on Mr. Scorsese's conversations with Costume Designer Rita Ryack, who had the best stories and owned a Lady and the Tramp-themed poodle skirt that she would rock on set.

I was learning more in those six weeks than in film school and all my previous jobs combined. (Yes, including my time as a movie theater usher and video store clerk.)

Then the Oscar nominations came out.

THAT MOMENT

While we were shooting CAPE FEAR, GOODFELLAS received six OSCAR nominations, including Best Picture and Best Director.

The day after the nominations, I found myself alone with Mr. Scorsese in the Bowden family bedroom set, setting up monitors. Just the two of us in this smaller space, which was unusual.

I was doing my best to stay quiet, but I made eye contact. And I couldn't help myself.

How could I NOT congratulate him? This man had just gotten nominated for multiple Academy Awards, and I was three feet away.

But I was nervous as f*ck about breaking the rule.

So what came out?

"Mr. Scorsese, I just wanted to say congratulations on all the Nachas."

Nachas? WTF? That’s what you’re going with?

This random Yiddish word my grandmother used to say? More appropriate in turn-of-the-century Russia than a South Florida film set?

I couldn't believe what just came out of my mouth.

WHERE DID THAT EVEN COME FROM?

While my Bubby was the person I remember first using it, Nachas was always an aspirational term in my house. My dad would use it when something truly meaningful happened—a cousin got into a great college, a wedding, some epic achievement.

It wasn't a word you threw around for everyday stuff. It had weight. Substance.

Nachas roughly translates to "pride and joy from someone's achievement." But it's deeper—that warm, glowing feeling when someone you care about does something remarkable. It's got heart in it.

In my nervousness, trying to find something authentic to say, that’s what came out.

I reached for something real. Something from my grandmother. Something that meant this matters.

THE LAUGH THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

Mr. Scorsese let out a big laugh.

"I love that word…that’s a great expression" he said. (I’m paraphrasing a bit, but it was something along those lines.)

I apologized for talking when I wasn't supposed to. He could not have been nicer.

From that day on, we had small conversations. He was so cool, so kind, so incredibly interesting.

I remember asking what it was like to work with huge movie stars. What stuck with me most was him saying that when you're working with actors of that caliber, you really don't have to offer that much direction. I'm sure he was being modest, but I see what he meant. Casting is 90% of the job. The right actor makes all the difference.

Mr. Scorsese and Freddie Francis on Set in Ft. Lauderdale. That's Joe Reidy in the Yankees hat.

FROM THE TANK TO THE FUTURE

After we wrapped the house set, we moved to the houseboat set—a huge tank in a Fort Lauderdale warehouse. We put up a plastic barrier to protect Video Village from the water, which meant I was now inside this small space with all these movie heavyweights. Mr. Scorsese. Freddie Francis. The producers. Key crew.

To say I felt unbelievably lucky is the understatement of all understatements.

THE DRIVE WEST (AND SOME HELP FROM MY DAD)

When CAPE FEAR wrapped, my dad did the kindest thing. He'd been more than a little worried when I'd set my goal to be a director in Elementary School. But he believed in me enough to make an offer: if I gave him my weekly paycheck during the shoot, he'd match it. At the end of the show, I'd have a small nest egg to try and relocate to Los Angeles, where I was desperate to go.

And he did just that.

After wrap, with two phone numbers in my pocket and my Mazda packed to the gills, I drove cross-country from Florida to Los Angeles.

I was thinking, "I just got off a Scorsese flick. I'm going to get a job in LA, no problem."

A month later, I was folding shirts at Banana Republic on Main Street in Santa Monica.

But I stuck it out. And eventually, I made some headway.

WHAT THIS TAUGHT ME ABOUT DIRECTING (AND LIFE)

That moment with the word Nachas—that split-second decision to be authentic instead of playing it safe—taught me something fundamental about this business and directing.

The most important breakthroughs often come from being authentically human, not perfectly professional.

Film school teaches you some great lessons. But nobody teaches you that sometimes what opens the door is being real. Being yourself. Letting something genuine slip out, even when you're scared.

When you're directing, you're managing chaos. Problem-solving on the fly. Dealing with personalities, egos, weather, budget cuts, equipment failures, and a hundred other things that can go sideways.

But the core of it—the heart—is human connection.

It's creating an environment where actors feel safe enough to be vulnerable. Where crew members trust you enough to go along with your vision. Where everyone feels they're part of something meaningful.

You can have all the technical knowledge in the world, but if you can't connect with people—really connect—you're going to struggle.

That day in the Bowden Family bedroom, I learned that authenticity trumps anxiety. That real human connection matters more than following every rule. That sometimes the family wisdom you carry shows up exactly when you need it most.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying ignore the rules or disrespect the chain of command. Joe Reidy gave me that instruction for a reason, and it was right for 99% of my time on that show.

But there are rare moments when being human is more important than being invisible.

Maybe it's a word from your grandmother. Maybe it's a genuine compliment. Maybe it's being honest about not knowing something instead of faking it.

Because in an industry built on artifice, authenticity is the thing people remember.

I ran into Juliette Lewis at a movie screening shortly after moving to LA. I had been blown away by her performance while we were shooting as was psyched to see her career taking off.

My parents demo-ing some "nachas" at my Bar Mitzvah

Jeff Fisher is a director and writer whose credits include Paramount Pictures' "The Stranger in My Home" and "The Image of You," Hallmark's highest-rated film of the year "My Christmas Love," and reality hits spanning from "The Simple Life" to "Keeping Up With The Kardashians." Visit www.jefffisherdirector.com to see his work and www.reeltalkwithjeff.com for more industry insights.