I’m hanging out in my college’s rinky-dink TV studio when my TV teacher, John, begins talking about a play he saw the night before.
As he talks he holds the top of his head in his hands and shakes it — not a good sign.
The studio is a new addition to the college, and the novelty hasn’t worn off; a number of professors want to use it. One of them is a philosophy professor. She wants to videotape a play that was written by a French philosopher who visited the college some years ago, before I came there. She has staged the play in the college’s theater, where it was performed last night.
Oh it’s terrible, John says between head shakes. She doesn’t know how to stage things, and the blocking is so bad that the actors, who aren’t really actors, keep walking in front of each other. But, John says, we’ll try to make it work when the actors come to the studio later in the week. He’s going to direct the cameras from the control room, playing things by ear. He’s also a licensed pilot, and I once heard him talk about a bumpy flight he once made, so I know he knows how to roll with the tailwinds; he might, or might not, be able to prevent a crash landing.
When it comes time to tape the show, I am sitting next to John, who has appointed me as the assistant director and handed me a copy of the script. He wants me to follow the script and let him know when a character is about to have a long speech, which will give him some time to think a few shots ahead, kind of like a chess player. Sounds like a plan.
How well does this plan work?
Me: “Bernice has a long speech coming up!”
John: “Great! When’s it start?”
Me: “Oops, it just ended.”
John sometimes reminds me a little of Jack Nicholson, especially when he gives me the kind of look he’s giving me now. Fortunately for me, our studio’s equipment does not include an ax.
After the first act, John makes a command decision: instead of assistant director, I will be the technical director — at best a lateral promotion.
The technical director is the person who operates a board called a switcher. In a professional studio, this console includes lots of buttons in addition to other controls. When a director wants to “switch” shots, it’s the technical director who pushes the buttons. The technical director also does the fades and dissolves.
Luckily I have only four main buttons to worry about, along with two sliding mechanisms that produce the fades and dissolves.
When we mercifully get to the end of the show, John wants me to fade to black as the camera operator zooms over the shoulders of the lead couple as they complete their clinch. At the appointed time, the camera zooms, I slide the slider and that’s a wrap. Emmys for everybody!
Some months later, the philosophy professor wants John to shoot yet another play by this philosopher. He asks if I want to help. Unfortunately I’m not in his class anymore, and I’d have to show up every night, so I reluctantly decline.
The show is shot without me. Soon afterward John shows me part of it. It starts with a shot of a maid straightening up a room. It takes her forever to do this because the background music goes on forever. Turns out that this French guy was a philosopher, a playwright and a composer. Was there no end to his talents? Well, yes.
As the scene drones on, John gives me a piece of advice I will remember for the rest of my life:
“Never begin a show with a dirge!”
