On so many levels, Bill Wittliffmade a profound impact on Texas.
Best known as the screenwriter for the classic miniseries, “Lonesome Dove,” based on Larry McMurtry‘s novel, Wittliff, who died in 2019, told tall tales, wrote scripts and novels, produced movies, published books and photographed Mexico and the Southwest.
He applied the same renaissance sensibility and skills to collecting artifacts of the creative life. He and his wife, Sally Wittliff, founded the priceless Wittliff Collections – which preserves and shares the literature, photography and music of the Southwest – at Texas State University in San Marcos.
Wittliff also mentored and celebrated other writers, a central function of the annual Austin Film Festival and Conference, known as “The Writers Festival.”
It is fitting, then, that “A Man of Vision: The Story of Bill Wittliff,” a magnificent documentary by writer and director Elizabeth Mims, will premiere at the festival, which runs Oct. 29-Nov. 5 around town. The movie screens at 3:45 p.m. Nov. 1 at the State Theatre.
We caught up with Mims – whose father, the writer, director, cinematographer and lecturer Steve Mims served as director of photography on the movie – before the fest.
Bill Wittliff: The gift of creative life in Texas
American-Statesman: In fewer than 90 minutes, you were able to construct a painstaking yet entertaining portrait of a complicated Texas writer, artist, producer, collector, mentor and a man who is still a part of so many people’s lives seven years after he died in 2019. When and why did you decide to embark on this project?
Elizabeth Mims: It was a journey to distill a legend into a film. As Bill has said in other interviews, having an audience’s attention and inviting them into the experience of a film is a gift. I felt it was important for the film itself to honor that sentiment, even within its runtime.
Bill’s son, Reid Wittliff, first introduced the idea of creating a documentary to Austin Film Festival CEO Barbara Morgan. At first it was going to be a television series about artists represented in the Wittliff Collection. As we began exploring the concept, it became clear that we needed to understand the heart of the Wittliff, and that meant understanding Bill and Sally’s vision.
I was familiar with Bill and had crossed paths with him a few times at the Austin Film Festival, but I didn’t know him well. As I began digging into his story, I realized just how many layers of his life and work were essential to understanding his creative legacy. A feature documentary, I felt, would only scratch the surface of what it meant to truly do him justice. The more I learned, the more compelled I became to find a way to get inside his mind and explore his creative process with the intimacy and depth it deserved.
While you use rare archival images and fresh photography to illustrate Wittliff’s personal and creative lives, one of the miracles of the movie is the people who tell their stories directly to your camera. Some are notoriously hard to interview. You’ve got Tommy Lee Jones, William Broyles, Jr., Barry Corbin, Suzanne de Passe, Sally Wittliff, Barbara Morgan, Stephen Harrigan and Sarah Bird, just to start, but also lesser-known designers and craftspeople, who tell some of the most revealing anecdotes. How did you round them up and then get them to be so open with you?
With the help of the Wittliff Collections’ staff and board members, I was connected with these individuals, each of whom had a unique relationship with Bill. Through those relationships, I was extended a gift of trust. People trusted Bill. And by proxy people trusted me.
In each interview, I tried to establish a genuine connection with the person sitting across from me, paying close attention to their relationship with Bill and the arc of their own personal narrative. I developed many of my questions from moments in Bill’s interviews, looking for glimpses into why he had chosen these particular people to be part of different chapters of his life.
One-on-one interviews are among my favorite parts of filmmaking because I’m continually astonished by the stories people are willing to share. I’ve been fortunate that so many interviewees seem to recognize that my intentions as a filmmaker are rooted in a genuine desire to understand their experiences and share their stories authentically. I have a voicemail on my phone from Barry Corbin, and better believe I’ll be keeping that forever.
Even people who never met Wittliff knew he was a consummate storyteller from an early age. Part of your interview with Morgan reveals how he polished his stories, this one about meeting Elvis Presley backstage by climbing up to a window when he was a youth. What was the secret to his magical storytelling?
Steve puts it beautifully in the film: “Bill taught me to speak in scenes rather than empty blather.” It makes me chuckle because it’s so accurate. Bill had a remarkable ability to captivate people, whether in an intimate one-on-one conversation or in a town hall setting. I think that was one of the secrets to his storytelling.
He could leave people beguiled by his charm and wit, but more than anything, he knew how to speak in scenes – to tell a story so vividly that people could see it unfold in their own minds.
The Elvis story is also a perfect example of what acting on intention looked like for Bill. There’s something fearlessly nostalgic about it, a willingness to follow an impulse and see where it leads. It captures something essential about Bill’s spirit and the way he moved through the world
You share several stories about how meticulous Wittliff was as a publisher at his Encino Press, as a photographer experimenting with cameras, as a producer ensuring that every historical detail in a movie was accurate. Which is the most revealing story to you?
I think Van Ramsey, the costume designer, really illustrated Bill’s commitment to “Lonesome Dove” through the extraordinary attention to detail Bill brought to the production. Hearing about his knowledge of hats and pants, and his instinctive understanding of what would feel authentic, was particularly revealing. It spoke to the depth of his knowledge and the care he took in getting the details right. The sheer number of laborious hours that went into “Lonesome Dove” is difficult to fathom.
Hearing about Bill’s commitment to the film brought Tommy Lee’s words to mind: “If we take care of ‘Lonesome Dove,’ it will take care of us.” That philosophy became even more tangible as I learned about the level of care and craftsmanship that went into every detail. It was a reminder that Bill’s belief in the project wasn’t simply about making a great film; it was about honoring the story in a way that would endure.
One element that you handle deftly is Wittliff’s visual sensibility: He thought in images as well as scenes. Everything could be drawn by hand. How did that affect his scriptwriting?
In learning about Bill, I came to understand how important his connection to the tactile was. I work in much the same way, with note cards, handwritten notes, etc. There’s something almost sacred about that process, something I think Bill understood deeply. It’s a way of channeling energy onto the page, giving shape to thoughts that might otherwise remain intangible.
Bill also valued the physicality of paper, the tangible artifacts that could be held, revisited, and seen. I think his screenwriting benefited enormously from this relationship to the material.
He was always rewriting, reshaping and sculpting, whether with a red pen, a black pen or through his photography. There’s something revealing about being able to see the evolution of an idea through its revisions, to witness the marks and decisions that accumulate along the way. That physical record of the creative process made visible something that can be incredibly difficult to articulate: the way an idea changes, deepens, and ultimately becomes something else.
Another Wittliff trait that was well known was his sharp business sense. Sally of course helped out there. She was the numbers wizard. Yet from poker – Wittliff once said he made his way through the University of Texas on poker winnings – to Hollywood production deals, he came out on top. Or he walked away. How did this sense inform all his other endeavors?
I’m convinced that Sally was a grounding force for Bill, providing the stability and protection that allowed him to be the kind of creative he was. She had a precision in her thinking and an ability to look around corners, to see what was real and understand what was coming before it arrived. I don’t think Bill could have flourished in quite the same way without a partner like her. Just as importantly, he had tremendous faith in Sally and trusted her judgment.
There’s something rare about that kind of partnership, where two people can bring such different strengths to the table while believing so deeply in one another. To me, the love they shared nurtured the best in each of them. It created the kind of foundation that allows a person to take creative risks, pursue a vision, and become fully themselves. That kind of love doesn’t just support a life; it helps make the life and the work possible.
I don’t think of Bill as a gambler so much as a reader of people. He had an uncanny ability to read a room before anyone even opened their mouth. His instinct for understanding who people were, or what a situation really called for, was remarkably precise. I think that kind of discernment is difficult, if not impossible, to teach. He also seemed to know when to walk away from something that was no longer serving him, which is its own kind of wisdom.
There’s something fitting about the legend of Bill playing poker his way through college and, as Broyles describes, being able to start with a “wormly old nag” and end up with a ranch. It speaks to more than luck or a willingness to take a chance. It suggests an instinct for recognizing potential where others might not see it, and knowing how to turn that potential into something meaningful. That connects to what Carolyn Mugar says about the energy around Bill, the sense that people wanted to be part of whatever he was doing. I think his ability to read people and recognize possibility was a big part of what drew them to him.
In a related talent, Wittliff cultivated a persona – a combination of gravitas and creative authenticity, among other things – that allowed him to get his way with Hollywood types interested only in money and fame. What was the key to his success?
I think the key to Bill’s success was that he knew when he had a story worth telling. He was willing to dig deep, discover what he had to say, and then be bold enough to say it. In my mind, tunnel vision can be a gift, and I think it was for Bill, too. He knew how to protect his time and energy by immersing himself in the spirit of a place and drawing from the deep well that was Texas.
His connection to Texas was more than a sense of geography; it was ao authentically himself that he couldn’t help but live by his own rules. I think that conviction gave him the freedom to follow a story wherever it led, without losing sight of what made it worth telling in the first place
Your film deals with the subject of depression only briefly, but his friends and family say he was open about the condition. Was it important to a full portrait of Wittliff to delve into that subject?
Depression and the emotional challenges that come with a creative life felt important to explore, and I think they were important to Bill, too. The path from success to happiness isn’t a straight line. For someone like Bill, who was strong in so many ways, I felt it was essential to share the moments when he acknowledged his depression or struggled. There’s something powerful about a man being willing to speak honestly about those experiences, particularly in a world where men are often expected to keep those struggles to themselves.
Bill was deeply committed to mentoring others and helping them find their way, and I think honesty was one of the ways he did that. This is an important part of his story, and I hope it can serve as a mirror for other writers, allowing them to recognize themselves not only in his success but also in his struggles.
On a personal level, as someone who has struggled with anxiety, I found it affirming to hear other writers, including Bill Broyles, speak openly about the experience of pouring yourself into something that never gets made. There’s a particular kind of grief in investing so much of yourself in a project that never comes to fruition. Hearing those experiences acknowledged reminded me that these struggles are part of the creative life, even for people whose work we admire. I wanted that honesty to be part of Bill’s story, too.
I love that you brought up the “Popa Stories” – the three cherished late novels that begin with “The Devil’s Backbone” – and how they relate to Wittliff’s “spooky” side. Was it difficult to pin down his spiritual side and his conversations with apparitions?
The spooky side of Bill’s story fascinated me. I consider myself a spiritual person, and I’ve had my own experiences with things I can’t easily explain. As we got deeper into the edit, I realized that some audience members might dismiss these stories as woo-woo nonsense, while others would recognize something familiar in them. I felt it was important to make room for both perspectives without diminishing what these experiences meant to Bill or to the people who knew him.
Bill seemed to possess certain gifts that felt almost otherworldly, particularly in the way he connected with a place and with the spirit of the people around him. His water witching and experiences of channeling came up remarkably quickly in many of the interviews, letting me know that these weren’t simply peripheral curiosities but an integral part of how people understood him.
I’ve always felt that creativity has something inherently mysterious about it. We can talk about craft, discipline and process, but there’s also something less tangible at work, something we can feel without necessarily being able to explain. Bill seemed to have a particular gift for tapping into that mystery and harnessing it in his work. I wanted the film to honor that dimension of his life without trying to explain it away.
Many a book has been written about how the film industry got started and flourished in Texas, but something your movie reminds us: Wittliff made Hollywood come to him, not the other way around. That meant coming to Texas. And he set films here on the soil where he was so rooted. Among the many other factors, this city’s film festivals promoted Texas as a movie destination. You’ve been involved with the Austin Film Festival for a while. What is it like to premiere “A Man of Vision” in this setting?
I’m just thrilled to my core that “A Man of Vision” is premiering in Texas. I think Bill will be very happy to have some of his dearest friends in downtown Austin, gathered around once again and hear a good story.
This article originally published at ‘Lonesome Dove’ screenwriter’s Texas legacy explored in Austin Film Festival documentary.
