My (brief) life as an auteur

I am sitting in the control room at my college’s TV studio.

I am in the director’s chair, and I am suddenly in charge.

I say “suddenly” because my teacher, John, and his boss, Mr. Hogan, the head of the communications department, have left for a meeting, leaving me with the members of Mr. Hogan’s speech class, who are now in the studio.

I had taken the speech class a few semesters ago, and I had been eager to take the silver-tongued Mr. Hogan’s class in announcing this semester, but he canceled it at the last minute, saying he didn’t have time. I’d also taken the college’s basic TV production class, so because Mr. Hogan’s cancellation left me with a hole in my schedule, John talked the powers that be into letting me enroll in a one-person tutorial, Advanced Studio Operations. My duties mainly consist of helping John teach the basic TV class and — more important to him — directing stuff he doesn’t have time for, what with running the AV department and supervising work-study students.

So yes, I am now literally in a class by myself.

Our small studio is a little more than a year old. Through the control room window I can see, among other things, our two cameras, two black-and-white televisions and, at the other end of the room, our newest gizmo: a huge Muntz TV that includes a big screen and other equipment, all in a wooden cabinet. It is the type of fancy-schmancy TV that for some years will be popular in bars until technology takes a quantum leap and a half and consigns it to the video dustbin.

Although our studio might be most kindly described as rinky-dink, it’s popular with some of the professors. An education professor’s students give practice lessons while the other students pretend to be pupils. On another occasion, a Spanish class stages a show with sock puppets. I direct most of this stuff, even though I don’t understand a word of Spanish or know what to do when the head of one of the puppets falls to the floor while we’re taping.

Today Mr. Hogan’s class is giving “speeches of demonstration.” Having taken the class, I know the drill: The students are going to show how to do various things, complete with props.

Although we have two cameras, we have only one camera operator. This is no big deal; we merely keep one of the cameras locked down in position with a wide shot of the student giving the demonstration.

The other camera, which will take close-ups, is operated by a charming work-study student named Patrice.

The first student demonstrates how to wrap a package. It goes perfectly. (Thanks, Patrice.)

As I’m getting ready for the next segment, I look out and see the next student — and his prop.

Uh oh.

Sure enough, after we start taping, he says “I’m going to show you how to kick a football!”

I think of the two black-and-white sets — and the Muntz TV, which alone might be worth at least $2,500 in 1974 dollars.

I look at Patrice.

Her eyes are like saucers.

The guy kicks the football. Another guy, off camera, is supposed to catch it.

Much to my relief — and Patrice’s — he does.

I don’t remember the other “speeches of demonstration.”

But even now, many years later, I’m sure I myself could give a great demonstration of how to lie on a couch with a cold compress on my head — if somebody else wants to set up the cameras.