Biting the Hand

Today marks the anniversary of a bold new experiment: it's now six months since I evicted television from my home.

I have retained a sneaky DVD player lashed up to a box upon which I view films and programmes that I’ve specifically chosen, but having severed all ties with my broadcast service provider, I’m now free of TV’s addictive poisons. I’ve escaped that shrivelling life expectancy sensation that it so generously administers, and bedtimes are now unhindered by channel hopping: a trap which typically results in becoming accosted until the wee hours by ‘The Hundred Greatest Most Worst Patronising TV Moments’.

I do miss The News, music performances, and those fine documentaries that we can’t afford to make anymore because no one watches them, but other than that life is improving exponentially.

Most notably it’s cleaned up my movie habits. I no longer trawl random excerpts from comedies which have suffered a humour bypass; when returning from work Police Academy 5 felt so much more digestible than anything subtitled or in black & white, but now with the limitless choice removed, the more challenging treasures have taken up permanent residence on my screen.

There’s something empowering about switching on my television now and being confronted with nothing but a black screen. If I lean in close to my new comrade I can hear it whisper: ‘you are in charge, what would you like to watch?’ and if I have some desperate need to watch Police Academy 5 then I can probably peel it off the front of a Mail on Sunday.

Quite why I bought this Christmas's Radio Times though I do not know... old habits I guess.

I ♥ My Job

…not a lot of people can say that; although I must admit that this is not the path I originally envisaged for my career when stumbling into this game.

Born into a family of accountants, I swore never to be shackled to a desk job, incessantly tapping away at a computer. I especially refused to consider professions in which I’d be deprived of travel, fresh air, daylight and exercise. In order to dodge my inherited career destiny, I chose to indulge my love of cinema and pursue a career in TV and film.

However, instead of flying all over the world, meeting people in remote and extraordinary locations, I was somehow sucked into the Avid caves of Soho.

With a decade's worth of editing now secreted beneath my belt, I'm here continually bitching about the business. I do so however, because I truly believe in what I do. Editing is a discipline and a craft that I hopelessly romanticise alongside that of a carpenter or a blacksmith. I make things; the pureness of that pleases me greatly.

Over the next decade editing technology may change beyond recognition, but no machine will be able to mine a story from hours of incomprehensible footage and lovingly craft it into a compelling film. I believe that my job is safe. Out of the many possible career paths, and despite my unexpected diversion into the profession, I made the right choice.

Fear of the Black Hole

Although most Executives were programme makers once, it seems that many endure a secret surgical procedure before being allowed to climb the ladder, one which extracts their memories of the programme making process.

I once had a typically premature viewing enforced on me; it was halfway through the edit and the programme was in raw sync assembly form. In the wake of this excruciating experience I was enlightened with this instruction:

"You should be cutting in the pictures and music all at the same time as the sync."

…and then I was hit with the punchline:

"It really doesn’t take any longer."

This happened some time ago, but those words still screech in my ears like howl-around brandishing small stabbing weapons. I’ve continued to witness this unfortunate condition following viewings ever since. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to reassure a superior that a black hole is not the result of a technical fault, nor that it’s a klaxon, warning of the director’s failure to collect the necessary material. Has everyone forgotten that a black hole is simply evidence of work in progress?

No one would expect a portrait painter to start at the top of their canvas and paint the final paint layer all the way down to the bottom, nor would they expect a builder to erect the first wall of a house, then decorate it and hang the pictures, before starting on the second wall. The whole entity must be built up in unison so as not to lose sight of the beast as a whole.

When cutting a programme, it's essential to prioritise the crafting of its story, and holding off on the polish for as long as possible allows for this to remain the focus. Once the pictures and music are woven in, it’s all too easy to slip into watching the cuts, rather than the content.

Now I agree that it’s not easy to view a programme that’s riddled with jump cuts and black holes… but that’s the job! If you can’t do it, then perhaps you should wait until nearer the end of the edit before watching, (or maybe even from home with the rest of the public).

It must be understood that if you view a programme halfway through the editing process, you’re going to see a half-finished programme. If you must view this early however, then please judge the story and not its lack of sparkle, place a little more faith in your choice of filmmakers, and trust that your programme will not be delivered for broadcast with black holes in.

Intolerable Tiredness

I’ve made several mistakes throughout my relationship with the Avid, but none have been severe enough to force a separation, or in many cases be noticed at all – until now that is.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve just made a blunder that cost my production a princely sum to remedy. Somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3am on what was the third day of working 16-18 hour days, I failed to replace a tiny piece of guide commercial music with composed, but this was not discovered until after the programme had been mixed and duplicated.

Now I’m not trying to shirk blame for my boo-boo, but I was tired to say the least. All involved were exceptionally forgiving, and bearing in mind the circumstances, I was instantly relieved of all responsibility.

However, that didn't stop me feeling sick in a way I’d not felt since failing my cycling proficiency test at school. ‘9 to 5’ is an alien term in the world of post; ten hours is the standard in this field, but when 10 hours is treated as the minimum period of daily incarceration then the personnel are not always the only ones who pay the price.

Don't Tell the Editor!

The powers that be can employ a peculiar touch of the clandestine in the management of edits. Their most surreptitious tactic is implemented when a job is in danger of running over its intended booking: occasionally production companies pencil a possible overrun with the facility but instruct them to not tell the editor. How do I know this? Well, because the first thing any self-respecting facility does in this situation is tell the editor. Of course they would, why would an edit facility help to conspire against the editors which it facilitates?

The purpose of this conceit is to manipulate the editor into increased productivity by allowing them to work feverishly towards the original unachievable deadline. The fear being that if the editor is made aware of the possible edit extension, they'll take their foot off the peddle and absorb the overrun whether it's needed or not.

Well the truth is quiet the opposite. If I have a genuinely unachievable deadline looming, I either slow down because let's face it, what's the point in running myself into the ground when I know I can't deliver, or I cut huge corners in order to stumble across the finish line on time.

The corner cutting method (or 'bodge' to give it its technical name) is the most damaging, because by giving the impression of having achieved their unachievable deadline you confirm that their sneaky methods produce results.

The 'them and us' situation that often permeates post-production is already obstructive enough without adding manipulation and deceit into the mix (outside of the timeline that is). I'm sure both sides could play such games, it could well be fun, if not a little disconcerting; it would most certainly damage the programme.

There is an alternative however, and I may need a slap to expel the fantasist in me: we could all strive for a post production utopia where everyone bats for the same side, collectively striving to make the best programme possible.

A Roaming Eye

There's a curious attitude towards TV cameras in public places, and the most common civilian reactions tend to be age specific:

The most prolific destroyer of takes is the teenage waver, or better still, the one with the two second groovy dance move that simply must be broadcast to the world. I only ever witness these performances from the confines of the edit suite, so can never pull the song and dance protégés aside to inquire as to what they think will come of their moment in the spotlight. There still seems to be an assumption that all TV cameras broadcast live.

My all time favourite though, is the mime act that's often performed by those over fifty. First they unwittingly step into frame, they then turn and spot the camera, whisper 'sorry', and then tip-toe out the other side of the shot. I presume these veteran sleuths believe that if they tread quietly enough, their presence will go undetected and the camera won't pick them up.

The sheer number of cameras now roaming the streets highlights the generational divide. Over fifty and the camera is an untrustworthy invasion and something to avoid in order for one's existence to remain hidden, whereby teenagers fight tooth and nail for its attention, viewing it as their ticket into a life of fame and fortune.

I don’t know where that leaves those of us aged in between. Through my narrow exposure to my own demographic, it appears that the vast majority lurk behind the cameras, in the media industry's limbo between fame and anonymity.

Save the Director

When I first stumbled into this profession, I was cutting for Producer/Directors of a similar level of inexperience as myself, but believed that we’d all grow together. I imagined that ten years down the line I’d be sharing credits with PDs wielding a good decade’s worth of experience. Well, now is ten years later, and I couldn’t have been more wrong.

A large number of the accomplished PDs that I've developed working relationships with have stepped up to series producing. They still call me with work, but it's to cut for PDs who are at a much earlier point in their career. So why are PDs prone to jumping ship the moment they master their craft?

I think the industry burns them out.

PDs work the longest hours, receive no overtime, and are expected to donate an indefinite number of weekends to the cause. Although paid for the weekdays, they take home less than most of the key personnel. It’s peculiar to think that you’re paid more than the person calling the shots.

Also, if an edit overruns and leaves the budget gasping for breath, the PD’s the first thing to be cut. In Factual Entertainment particularly, there's a belief that beyond a certain point a PD has served their purpose and is expendable.

It’s this lack of respect for their craft, combined with a willingness to exploit them, that’s elbowing PDs up the ladder prematurely. This has led to huge swathes of television being made by PDs who, although talented, have yet to reach their prime.

No matter how dictatorial a programme's format may be, the importance of authorship in television cannot be underestimated. This industry must nurture its PDs, pay them accordingly, respect their personal time and allow them to finish their programmes, including all the attendance. Perhaps then, they’ll stick it out for longer, and viewers will reap the rewards of having their programmes shepherded through by the most accomplished of hands.

Chop & Change

Broadcast asked if I'd write a piece for their website about the five editing habits that need to change. It can be found here.

A Shining Sow's Ear

If ever there's a point in my job when I feel like a hairdresser, it's in the first hour of an edit with a new client. Initially you tend to circumvent the task at hand and break the ice with a little professional small talk. The same points are usually covered: what was your last job, and who have you worked with in the past?

The other day though, I was hit with a question that somewhat threw me: 'What's the best programme you've ever edited?' The answer was not as easy to come by as I first thought, because the programmes I'm most proud of are not necessarily the best ones.

Although I've cut several exceptional programmes, I feel that they were exceptional before I laid my grubby hands on them. They were well conceived and directed, shot on HD with Steadicam, cranes, helicopters etc, and topped off with supportive executives and commissioners. Even if I'd botched the real issue of the storytelling, the end products were going to appear impressive. In these instances it was my job to maintain and nurture their inherent qualities rather than create them.

On the other hand I've cut a number of programmes which were shot by amateurs, and without purpose. These I refer to as 'shoebox' jobs; a big crate of tapes that no one has watched, is dumped on the desk and you're asked to turn it into something that sings. These jobs are my greatest achievements, however, to look at them a viewer would be hard pressed to see why, because the end product is not as remarkable as their glossier competition.

It's a far greater achievement to turn dire rushes into a coherent and broadcastable programme, than to take outstanding material and turn it into an outstanding programme. So the next time you're handed a shoebox full of crap, resist the temptation to grumble, because as an editor, it's not only a rare chance to claim authorship, but it's your greatest opportunity to shine.

Out of your Box

I like to think that I’m an easy person to collaborate with; I’m not precious when it comes to content disputes, and let go of my own unwelcome suggestions gracefully.

However, the one area where I've tended to shun collaboration is in my process. I've always felt that as long as I'm working towards the end product that a client desires, the order in which I execute it should be left to me.

I have to sedate the tantruming toddler in me when told to add music prematurely, or made to picture cut a sequence before it's at a manageable length. Yet I must admit, and I do so with lashings of begrudgement, that it’s not always a such a bad thing to be forced into an alien working process.

For example: I've always believed that you should nail the narrative in sync form before attempting to decorate it with pictures. Now, although ultimately I still stand by this, occasionally there are exceptions, but years of habit forming in my process had closed my mind to considering alternatives. On enduring this imposed process recently, I discovered that I cut the sequence in a very different way to what I would have done otherwise. In this particular instance it was the right thing to do.

What needs to be done in these circumstances is to neither reject the imposed process, nor embrace it a hundred percent, but to learn from the experience and then consider adding it to one's own artillery of methods, ready to be drawn on the when the right moment arises.

Becoming set in our ways is one of the few down sides of escalating experience, and it's something that must be beaten into submission if we intend to not be overthrown by the younger and more open-minded.