Just when I think Amanda Emily has unearthed every early broadcast photo of note, she excavates another frame for the ages. Her latest discovery deserves to hang in some hallowed hallway of The Lenslinger Institute, or at the very least printed on the kind of postcards one finds at one's seedier t-shirt shops. Either way, it's a safe bet the story behind this image is a lot more interesting than whatever Sexy Robot Fairy Wars (in 3-D!) Hollywood is cookin' up.
At the Jack Dempsey vs. Tommy Gibbons world championship heavyweight fight at Shelby Montana on July 4, 1923, newsreel cameraman were not permitted to shoot footage of the fight. Henry Hardy, disguised as a peanut vendor, shot footage on a hand cranked camera he smuggled in. He got the pictures of the fight and came back to the office somewhat of a hero among his peers.
Ever bum-rush a lunch lady in the name of news? I have and I sleep fine at night. But before you brain me with that cafeteria tray, understand this: I got mad respect for matriarchs, moms and even the occasional maven. So when I say I bum-rushed a lunch lady, please know I did nothing of the sort. Sure, I cornered Miss Shirley, hooked a microphone on her without really asking and told her I wasn't going to leave until she talked to my lens. But I did it with a smile! And wouldn't you know she softened a bit, relaxing just a fraction and uttering something humble. I smiled and nodded, despite the fact I couldn't hear a single word. The sun room was packed, you see, teeming with administrators, kitchen help and more than one millionaire's daughter. Between all the well wishes and privileged giggles, I couldn't hear myself stink, let alone hear how Miss Shirley was fending off my inquisition. That's when she started to cry. The mic I'd attached to her polyester lapel picked up her every syllable, but sixteen inches away, her words were lost in the adolescent din. So I nodded again, while silently praying I wasn't standing on her foot.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
An hour or so earlier, I pulled up to the fancy girls' boarding school, a cameraman on a mission. Seems a certain cafeteria worker had spent half a century doling out cakes, pies and wisdom to upscale offspring from around the globe. Miss Shirley's many friends were excited about her sesquicentennial and had conspired to honor her with a small ceremony - whether she liked it or not. that's where I come in - a pre-seasoned 'slinger eager to pay his station's respects. Trouble was, Miss Shirley was famously averse to hoopla. I was repeatedly warned any attempts on my part to pay homage would be met with stiff indifference - if not a highly-polished frying pan upside the head Sooo, while she mingled with her peeps in an inner room, I did my best to blend in with the lunch crowd. It was there, among the dinner trays and debutantes, that I planted my tripod. I gotta say though, standing there amid a sea of screeching fresh(wo)men, I felt a little less than invisible
Maybe it was the hula shirt.
Or maybe it wasn't, for once friends coerced Miss Shirley into the sun-room, I melted into the backdrop, determined to fill my destiny as fly on the wall. It wasn’t easy, as the moment the lunch lady in question spotted the newspaper photographer huddling in a corner, she froze. She stared, she grimaced she even attempted a little evil eye as her many admirers urged he to let loose with a few of those stories she was famous for. She did not. What can I say - some folk view a cameraman pointed their way as an otherworldly specter that should be examined only out of the corner of the eye. This makes it tough to document unencumbered, but when a hews shooter’s lunch is on the line he (or she) will do just about anything to get through the shoot. Thus, I didn’t really worry, as nothing short of Sharia Law was going to stop me from interviewing Miss Shirley. Actually, I’d won the match long before I cornered her with questions. Ten minutes in, the crowd convinced her to cut the cake. She did so and broke out in the first of her fleeting smiles. As she turned her head, she barely noticed the pesky news fella right there, or the fact that he too was finally smiling.
If you're looking for a place to major in cameramanthropology, you'll do no better than your local water park. There you'll thrill to the splendor of a thousand double-takes, spark panic in the hearts of housewives and emit a contrail of eleven year olds. It's a target-rich environment, but if you're not careful, YOU could become the hunted. Don't know what I mean? Apparently, you've never slogged through a county fair with a lights and logo on your shoulder. Or plowed into a tailgating party with your number two sports guy trailing close behind. I have and can tell you with great sincerity that few arena parking lots compare with your average water-slide emporium, a modern day Colossus with a milieu somewhere between moonshine bust and American Idol audition. Trust me, I been to both. And while no one threw corn liquor in my face or insisted on singing Streisand, I can assure you, it was a grueling experience.
Okay, so it wasn't exactly the Bataan Death March. But my sixty minute slog through concrete and Dippin' Dots packed its own kind of casualties. Namely, the collective dignity of the human race. Falling bodies, hairy uncles, turbo wedgies: for the fully-loaded photog, it's a sea of possibilities. Why if you can't stroll through such as place and this and fill your tape or disc or card with memorable images, well then, you might want to remove that lens cap. And while you're at it, take the following advice from your Uncle Lenslinger, patron saint of distracted glass masters...
Keep Moving - Though many in the crowd will try to hide from your lens, a fair contingency will pivot on your every move. Bear this in mind when backing up, lest you crush a phalanx of frothing fifth graders - who’ve been flashing made-up gang signs at you and your tripod ever since you two entered the place.
Wear Your Game Face - Ask any of those %$@#& I work with, I’m an expressive, loving person. But in unruly crowds as this, I’ll not hesitate to go total robot. No emotion, eyes darting, little whooshing noise when I walk. How else are you supposed to survive when your only eye protection is a thousand yard stare?
Do No Harm - Mere happenstance determines where we take our lens. Don’t make others pay the price. See those bendy straws sticking out of the kiddie pool? Those are the life support systems of three stay at home Moms who didn’t count on a cameraman when they put on that swimsuit that used to fit. Move along - they’re almost out of air.
Eyes OFF the Prize - It’s a water park and you are human. Whether busty coeds or chiseled frat pukes trip you trigger, do NOT indulge in any eyeball reconnaissance. You are, after all, carrying an oversized recording device with incredible zooming capability into a sea of scantily clad citizens. Don’t be that guy. The world’s got enough of that guy.
Bite Your Tongue - People don’t see you. They see that logo. Thus, now may not be the time to use those zingers you heard on the Comedy Central roast. You will be tempted. In fact, the lower back tattoos, butt-encrusted Speedos and occasional pair of black socks will virtually demand your clever commentary. Do not - I repeat, Do NOT indulge in any --- excuse me, won’t you? “YO MISS - in the rebel flag bikini and strawberry blond dreadlocks - Has Bill Cosby gotta come back in town and choke a bitch!?!”
As perp walks go, it’s pretty pedestrian. But this twenty second journey of an accused killer is worth reviewing anyway, if only because someone caught it on their fancy new phone. In it we see the backpedaling begin, a fugacious parade of shackles and glass that fed the opening moments of a half dozen newscasts. I wasn’t there, but have waited on enough Crown Vics to know what to do when what passes for Justice rushes up. So too do my cohorts, who set aside the small talk long enough to bag their prey - in this case a man accused of murdering his mother and setting her home ablaze. That's Top Story Strong and nothing would do for either of them to miss their mark. Still, nary an elbow set sail as an ad hoc welcome wagon surrounded the guest of dishonor. The competition ain't always that friendly, but in our analysis, the Lenslinger Institute finds no foul. Thus, the analysis that follows should be used only for entertainment purposes and not even linked without the express written permission of that sweaty executive I put on TV last week. Remember, no shrubberies were trampled in the making of this report. Names have NOT been changed to protect the indifferent. Please, no wagering...
:02 The footage begins with Weaver (in light blue) trailing the suspect closely, tossing out a question and getting a cryptic response. For Weave, the rest of the trek is but a cutaway. Meanwhile, Justin (in black and white) backpedals before the approaching trio like a man walking on marshmallows. Why you'd wanna walk on marshmallows, I haven't the foggiest.
:04 From screen left, lovely Caroline (in white) enters the field, sashaying across the lawn like she’s at a garden party. Do not be fooled. She’s a seasoned operator and can crunch scrum knuckles with the ugliest of us. As she swoops in, Weaver pries an eyelid off his screen long enough to notice an approaching pole. He dodges it.
:06 Justin too comes up for air, sees an ill-placed cement thingie and deftly slithers around it. His lens never leaves the mug of the man in the middle. At precisely the same time, a second shooter (in blue) appears, choosing a crossed ankle lope to smooth out the middle distance while working the far end of his full-sized lens.
:08 Corner fully rounded, the seven people proceed toward the Sheriff's department door, four squinting through lenses, two bearing arms and in one in a paper jumpsuit authorities made him put on after they found him naked near a swimming pool. You can’t make this stuff up. I’ve tried. :10 The scrum congeals as the straightaway opens up. Weaver and Caroline fall into cadence on the arrestee's right. To his left Justin juggles his wriggling baby-cam. It is here lenslingers dare to zoom, darting in for a close up at the risk of eating an ill-placed phone pole. As for the man of the hour, he's entering 'the squeal zone'.
:12 "Why'd you set a house on fire" It's the only audio of note, a vexing question lobbed at a bloke well on his way to the pokey. He chose not to answer, keeping the details of his day to himself. But many times men in handcuffs do tell tales, so you'd better be rollin'. I've seen 'em confess on cam...
:14 No such luck this time. the suspect grooves on his shoes as he shuffles past on (mostly) his own power. No comment personified. Justin, Weave and Caroline trail alongside, lest he change his mind. Second shooter pans the passing parade. Nelson from the newspaper fires a closing shot.
:16 A squeal of feedback can be heard as the video freezes. I'd like to report that it was a passing spaceship dropping off Sasquatch for a press conference on Osama Bin Laden's whereabouts, but in reality the phone stopped recording once a call came in. It was a nightsider, wanting directions to the scene. Funny how news works.
...So, there you have it. Gratuitous perusal of found footage, the likes of which prove little more than I've logged too much time on my new Mac. If nothing else, perhaps you'll put some names to faces the NEXT time you're being frog-marched into a county-owned enclosure. Tell 'em Lenslinger sent ya...
Once upon a crime scene, you knew what to expect when you glanced at the other guy’s gear. These days, not so much. Take this set-up, for example: a stack of plastic and glass so nonsensical Dr. Seuss might hide it in the live truck. Me, I’d strap that contraption to one sore forearm and wade into the fray, oversized logo lit by a lone tally light. So what if Rube Goldberg wouldn’t shoot his kid’s bar mitzvah with that rig? We got menus to cruise through! Besides, it ain’t the components you tote, it’s the moments you scope. And who knows, this plastic axe may be just what you need for that upcoming clown-car ride-along. Imagine the pride when you all pile out, knowing that A.) you’re rockin’ the very latest in news-gathering technology, or B.) those virgins down at Radio Shack have been playing Jenga in the back room again...
Some folks only see their competitors on a spreadsheet. I run into mine at train derailments, cop car conventions and, of course, ribbon cuttings. Not surprisingly, the more mundane the assignment, the happier the chit-chat. Let’s face it: no one’s gonna skunk the other guy when you’re all lined up to talk to the Tomato Queen. Or even a well-meaning executive, for that matter. Thus, you’ll see many of the above formations outside pseudo-news events. Some call it teamwork, others collusion. I however know it by its proper name, an inelegant appellation to be sure, but one that’s oh so fitting: It’s a Gang-Bang. And while that term may offend your sensibilities, too late: We’ve been calling them that since before Andy Rooney swung his first wool-encased elbow.
Me, I like ‘em. You would too, if you spent much of your day squinting into a tube, slaving over a hot dashboard, or merely trying to dig that tripod foot out of your lower intestinal tract. While I have little desire to carry any young reporters through their seminal assignments, I’m always up for a cross-town camera cluster. The other guys and gals seem to agree - especially in this time of One Man Bands, Multi-Media Journalists and other Kitchen Sink Carriers who have either volunteered or been outright deceived into working alone. Why it’s a time to compare opinions of protocol, transfer valuable camera acumen or just spread the kind of vile gossip we newsies tend to live for. Come to think of it, who wouldn’t dig a little midday huddle, a chance encounter we all knew would happen when we first read the press release...
Just don’t think it’s always a love-fest. Au Contraire. TV cameras are, after all, Asshole Magnets and a few of those orifices have infiltrated our own seething ranks. Think YOU despise the guy on the Tee-Vee with the shellacked head and aura of entitlement? Try scrunching up next to him outside a Meth-Lab. Or how about that sports reporter who sleeps in his car? That IS a pickle slice stuck to his cheek. And while we’re on the subject, how about that local news shooter who thinks he’s the official scribe for the Photog Nation? Dude speaks in couplets! And when he’s not yammering on about the psychological ramifications of High-Def lenses on aging News Queens, he’s slinking away to pop off yet another photo of some utterly dull camera cluster ---
What other profession can you skulk about a playground at dusk and still feel pretty good about yourself? Loiter outside a homeless shelter with your eyes held high? Part a sea of overdressed strangers while wearing a fishing vest? Name another gig that requires the skills of an assassin, the reflexes of a pilot and the nobility of a pizza delivery guy? Hold that thought, I gotta put some eyes on a sinkhole across town. Seems it swallowed a Prius full of female weight-lifters road trippin' on a vitamin binge. That’s the kind of video the good people of the Upper Midland Heart Zone count on me for. Besides, I didn’t repeatedly volunteer to thread the filmstrip projector in middle school for nothing. See...
I’m on a mission from God.
Okay, maybe not the thunderbolt-hurling, pox-applying, sunset-understanding GOD, but hopefully some middle management deity is reviewing my file, watching the good news I produce and the bad news I dodge and marking it all down some sort of cosmic photog ledger of sorts. I’m really not expecting total consciousness or anything but if I’m gonna be judged, base it on the number of feel-good stories I cranked out as compared to the death-obsessed dreck I had a hand in. Hey, we ALL fall short of the Glory, but if I’m going down (or up) over the kind of tripe I spread across the earthbound airwaves, I feel pretty good - for I’ve profiled (slightly) more dogs in funny hats than I have freshly shackled madmen, no easy feat considering the first four hundred stories I put On-Air began and ended with some sap in handcuffs.
Hey, it was the early Nineties. Arsenio Hall still had a show. There was a lot to be angry about.
Yeah, not counting all those times I slow-mowed video of Revered Ernest Angley walking in and out of Federal Court, I’m pretty good in the Karma Department. There’s only one thing that worries me. The Blog. I’ve been at this this for more than half a decade, spotlighting the plight of TV News Shooters for a small but rabid readership and though it’s humbling to admit, I’ve received some glowing letters over the years. We’re talking personal notes filled with uplift, the kind of divine e-mailed intervention that’s more than once elevated my mood just when it really needed it. But I’d be less than lying if I didn’t admit it troubles me on occasion, More often than not, it’s the rookies who write, they tell me they enjoy reading my screeds then offer up their own adventures. This never fails to please me, but in my inner moments I wonder will I pay for encouraging youngsters to pursue what may be the most intriguing dead-end job on the planet. Can I live with that, let alone live up to it when called on the cosmic carpet?
Lemme get back to you on that. (Special Thanks to Jonathan Warren, whose above photo got my head spinnin'...)
If you're looking for a place to major in cameramanthropology, you'll do no better than your local water park. There you'll thrill to the splendor of a thousand double-takes, spark panic in the hearts of housewives and emit a contrail of eleven year olds. It's a target-rich environment, but if you're not careful, YOU could become the hunted. Don't know what I mean? Apparently, you've never slogged through a county fair with a lights and logo on your shoulder. Or plowed into a tailgating party with your number two sports guy trailing close behind. I have and can tell you with great sincerity that few arena parking lots compare with your average water-slide emporium, a modern day Colossus with a milieu somewhere between moonshine bust and American Idol audition. Trust me, I been to both. And while no one threw corn liquor in my face or insisted on singing Streisand, I can assure you, it was a grueling experience.
