Bored of the Rings

So Tolkein is a philologist by trade.  Not a claim many can make, but okay, one has to write something on a business card.  The story goes Tolkein began to ask himself the sort of academic question that philologists apparently ask themselves in their off hours:  "Just for grins -- could I create a language of my own?"  I think I can appreciate the appeal of this mental exercise.  Syntax, grammar, vocabulary -- what's not to love?  And having just returned from an extended stay in Scandinavia, is it so hard to guess what existing language Tolkein's iinvented one resembled?

He must have been pretty pleased with the outcome.  It shook loose a string of successive questions:  "Who speaks this language?", "Where do they live?", "What's the architecture and botany like there?" These are the sorts of world-building questions Tolkein answered with style and aplomb.  Few authors before Tolkein equal him in the creation of immersive diagesis.  Few authors after Tolkein can escape the crushing burden of his excellence.

Accounts of his writing process, however, indicate the final question he asked himself was "What do these people do ?"  That is, to say, of all the stuff required of authors, the last and least of Tolkein's concerns was plot. 

Go ahead.  Review the books or the movies.  It's impossible to defend the plot as anything but linear and pedestrian.  Fellowship is particularly frustrating in this regard since it almost never cuts away from the main character to offer a "meanwhile on the other side of the forest..." perspective.  Thus, the simple structure might be summarized "ring here; volcano there. 1000 freaking pages (or 12 hours of film) in between."  It's not a very inventive plot (and, frankly, could be circumvented pretty early on if only those giant eagles could fly in both directions). 

Let me be clear.  This simplistic narrative doesn't disqualify the trilogy as great literature.  We like episodic quest structures (The Wizard of Oz. Pilgrim's Progress).  In fact, its plot probably helps cement its reputation as great literature -- for adolescents.  Recall the age at which you first encountered Middle Earth.  12?  13?  It makes perfect sense that so many people develop their first Frodo-crush in early high school.  Tolkein is the perfect bridge between the books of childhood and adult fiction. All the detailed settings of Inception  with the easy-to-swallow plot of, say, Goodnight Moon.

But how does one explain the abiding affection for Tolkein that follows readers from high school into later life?  I submit that the 35-year-olds who took their children to see the films reveled in -- not high art -- but nostalgia.  They loved the way they felt, the people they were, the optimism they possessed, when they read Tolkein for the first time.  And they wanted to pass that on.  They want another generation of readers to catch fire as they themselves did.  Don't we all love it when our friends or children enjoy a book we've recommended?

I don't begrudge anyone their cultic worship at Tolkein's altar.  Indeed, a part of me enjoys the films as a benchmark of the medium's capacity (though that will surely pass as technology makes new images possible).  But mature, intricate storytelling?  Nah...

Timid Empathy

My latest documentary -- about a progressive arts/faith-based school in New Jersey -- contains a shot in which its students lead a reggae version of the birthday song. Three seconds long, maybe four. Some of the children are wearing dreadlocks as you might put on any wig to assume a dramatic role. The school distinguishes itself in the inclusive diversity of its student body. Yet in this one shot, no African-Americans are among the song's performers.

The shot fronts a section about teaching music through joy. Indeed, wild enthusiasm is a hallmark of the performance, with nearly the entire upper school participating with loud voices and clapping.

I was enjoined by one funding client to run a rough cut by a specialist in multicultural sensitivity -- the assumption being that, because the film's donors and creative crew are white, we might not possess the necessary sensitivity ourselves.

So, I showed it to the multicultural affairs officer and held my breath, hoping she wouldn't suggest any changes to the content of the film in the perilous interim between visual lock and audio mix. "Leave it in," she said. "It's joyous. The school's all about the welcoming examination of other culture's through the fine and performing arts. Go for it."

Okay, she came to the same conclusion I did. But I didn't trust myself. And I didn't trust the five other smart people to whom I'd shown it. Perhaps the distrust of self is a sign of empathy. Or perhaps it is an indemnification, an abdication of voice. Now if members of my audience bristle at kids with fake dreadlocks I can claim I had the film vetted by an African-American expert and shoulder less responsibility for my art.

I am pulled like taffy between vigorously loving my neighbor and honestly sharing who I am with the bold voice of prophets.

Liberal Arts Filmmakers

At this point in a grueling edit, I feel with every cut as if I've lopped off a finger. In today's ten-hour workday, I trimmed 21 seconds from a time line. Twenty-one seconds. I policed "ums" and "ahs" from 8 to 6, tightening the "A" roll like a strand of cat-gut across a tennis racket. It is painful place to be in the post-production. And yet, I would rather be throwing away gold to sculpt 26 beautiful minutes than gilding dross in the strain to fill a mediocre hour.

Meanwhile, my assistants labored as animators. Rachel populated a map of the hemisphere with trees; Taylor created a cutaway of an active volcano. These tasks required research into geography and geology, respectively. Perhaps student filmmakers think themselves lucky of they avoid classes in those subjects. Yet there we were, in a dim dungeon of editing suites, needing nothing so much as knowledge of the continent's population centers and the upward path of magma.

A string of such moments (in the most recent week of this project alone) affirm the liberal arts as the best preparation for a life of media production. Yes, one could attend any number of technical training institutes to master the discipline's soft- and hardware. But a holistic sense of form's fit with content, a researcher's ability to navigate fact and rhetoric -- these seem to me hallmarks of "big picture thinkers," the skillset that may distinguish artists from craftsmen or technicians.

Lipdub & Copyright

Consider the “university lipdub.” A large group of students lip-synchs the performance of a popular song. A moving camera follows the action in a single, uninterrupted take. Because the law chases innovation and popular culture, student filmmakers and record company executives are asking “are such performances – often uploaded to the internet and seen by thousands – flattering homages to bands and performers or abuses of copyright?”

After three months of pre-production and rehearsal, a group of students shot what is easily the most globally popular media product our college has ever made: a lipdub. In less than a week, I count about 24,000 hits on YouTube, Vimeo, and other outlets. The college – though initially reluctant to support the production – is now anxious to showcase the video in every venue it can.

But true to the somewhat underground origins of the lipdub form, the producers haven’t secured the rights. Thus – though it represents a high watermark of organization, choreography, steadicam operation – they can’t really use it anywhere. Not in festivals. Not on college websites. Not in public campus screenings.

To be fair, they’ve attempted to contact the record label for months. And it seems the video’s viral success has finally generated some responses from executives and the artist himself. I have my fingers crossed that all will work out in the end. Until it does, however, faculty, administrators, and students are all crossing fingers, walking on pins and needles.

Technically, this wasn’t a class project. None of their teachers could have forced the producers to secure the rights ahead of time. But Media Production professors were consulted ahead of time. And we all said the same thing: “If you can’t get the rights up-front, don’t move ahead with the production.”

One of the producers was in tears in my office two days ago, torqued by the copyright woes that swirl around her. “I wish we’d never made it,” she said. Granted, she’s in a trench at the moment, waiting for some of the dust to clear. When she looks back on this project a decade from now, I hope and suspect the joy of universally recognized good work will overshadow current sorrows.

I’m not gloating with “I-told-you-so’s.” I’m relating (but not accounting for or justifying) different levels of respect for intellectual property. When it comes down to it, it doesn’t really matter if you believe you’re freely entitled to anything you can download. At a certain point, professional media makers come up against the law. They must assure their clients that they’ve taken all reasonable steps to avoid litigation. It’s a lesson best learned in the low-stakes environment of a classroom… not when 24,000 people are watching.

Empathetic Listening

A new friend of mine complimented a favorite scriptwriter as "having an ear for natural dialogue."

"How would you develop one of those?" I asked him, over hanger steak at the Grand Rapids Brewing Company.

"Eavesdrop," he said. "Listen to people."

I remembered being in St. Louis a year ago. Taking a break from an academic conference, I sat alone in an eatery atop a hotel near the famous arch. Alone: just me and my film-making notebook. Now, I don't know where you come down on the issue of eavesdropping, but I figure if people don't want me to hear them, they won't speak intelligibly in my earshot.

The 50-year-old businessman at the next table clearly wanted me to hear him. He wanted lots of people to hear him. For surely, the more people who heard him, the more people he would impress. And the more impressive he was, the better an impression he might leave on his dining partner, a woman easily 15 years his junior. From all indications, it was their first date. And unless I very much miss my guess, it was their last one as well. For I don't suppose she spoke ten sentences in the hour it took the restaurant to revolve. Her date, on the other hand, filled every silence with tales of self-importance.

Midway through their lopsided conversation, the man launched into the story of a mysterious dust he discovered daily on his car during the year he worked at a government project facility. I switched my attention from Caesar salad to notebook. My pen stuttered across pages in a hurried cursive. Perhaps those notes will become a screenplay. If they do, the heartbeat of the scene will be one haunting line of dialogue: "That was the year I got divorced," the man said nonchalantly, "...or maybe it was the year I got cancer... I forget which."

Eavesdropping isn't for everyone. Some might be troubled by perceived ethical boundaries. But there is a character virtue to be developed by screenwriters: empathetic listening. A good ear for dialogue is developed by turning one's attention outward to others. Scriptwriters -- especially scriptwriters of faith -- should listen so desperately hard that they crawl into the words and stories and lives of people who are nothing at all like them. Then, they may tell those stories with a winsome authenticity that invites audiences across borders of race, class, nationality, gender, ability and... difference.

Try

Phone calls punctuated last night's dinner as students discovered the file server intranet had crashed the night before projects were due in two of my classes. I sensed an educational opportunity in the tide of panic and sent the following e-mail:

Yes, o my children. I have heard your lament, rising like incense. No matter how many chickens you sacrifice on the altar of technology, ye cannot revive the ethernet. Verily, I say, follow ye in the way of the parable:

Once there was a servant tasked to split logs for his master's hearth. But when the servant came to the woodpile, he found the axe handle broken in twain. "I cannot chop wood," he said aloud to any who would listen. Yet secretly, the servant was glad in his heart, for he dreaded wood chopping more than all the chores of the farm.

A second servant -- wise and much beloved of her master -- found the same broken axe and used it as a hatchet to size smaller twigs for the fireplace. When the master returned in the evening, no logs were split, yet there was still warmth for his home.

Just because you cannot do all... it does not follow that you cannot do any. Media production is problem solving. Go thou and do likewise.

It strikes me that honor students (easily spotted thanks to bumper stickers on the minivans of soccer moms everywhere) are ill-prepared for inevitable failure. They have little practice taking responsibility for incomplete tasks in ways that are honorable. They are not trained to ask forgiveness; they seldom offer drafts or other paper trails as proof of industry and process.

For goodness sake, attempt something.

Product & Process

Friday morning, I met with a frustrated student. "Your teaching style is a poor fit with my learning style," he told me. I think he means he wants direct answers to simple questions. I think he wants me to tell him which buttons will work ProTools' magic on tracks of recorded music in the hour before his assignment is due. The pressures of deadlines and grades are heavy. He needs a thing to turn in.

But neither his product nor even his mastery of a program is my chief concern. The thing and the software are as fleeting as musical tastes and computer operating systems. How do I insulate the student from the same obsolescence? I teach him process. I teach him how to learn. Such teaching is painful, for it often resembles this exchange:

Student: "How do I add EQ to this section of the guitar track?"
Me: "Why do you want to equalize it? What do you want it to sound like?"
Student: "Um... I don't know. I just... thought it would be cool. The guy at the next work station was equalizing his stuff, so I.... um...."
Me: "Well, let me hear it."
Student: "It's not finished yet."
Me: "Yeah, I know. Lemme hear it."
Student: "Well... it sounds bad."
Me: "They all sound bad. Lemme hear it."

Student reluctantly presses "play." As promised, it is bad. Self-fulfilling prophecy.

Me: "Hm. Who's your guitarist?"
Student: "My suite-mate. He and some guys on the floor put together a band. They played at the Mucky Duck last weekend. Kind of a folk-rock-indy--"
Me: "EQ isn't going to help him."
Student: "Why not?"
Me: "'Cause he can't play. He's flat and he can't keep time with a click track."

Nine seconds pass. The same nine seconds which define the phrase "uncomfortable silence."

Student: "He... uh... didn't play with a click track. A click track messes him up. He wanted his performance to have the natural energy of... well... more like playing in a club, you know?"

The click track is a series of timid beats which keep tempo in a studio headphone. It ensures the guitarist recorded at noon will synchronize with the bassist recorded an hour later. Playing without such a track violates a cardinal rule of the recorded music industry and is the tell-tale sign of an amateur musician.

Me: "You didn't use a click track." I try, unsuccessfully, to sound surprised. "Let me see your regions list."

The student surveys the screen, keyboard, and desk as if he's mislaid something.

Student: "Where is that?"
Me: "I don't know. Where is it? Maybe you should check the class notes blog. I'm pretty sure we mentioned in that in class last week."
Student: "Well I don't remember everything you say in class."
Me: "I don't expect you to. It's why we have a class notes blog. Or maybe you could find the answer somewhere else."
Student: "Where?"
Me: "I don't know. Where do you usually look when you don't know something about the way software works?"
Student: "Um... the 'Help' file?"
Me: "Yeah. Sounds like a good start."

The student looks in the help menu. But unless the searcher's terminology matches the software's vocabulary, additional information about a given program feature often can't be found.

Student: "It's not here."
Me: "Okay. Now what?"

The student blinks. "Can't you just tell me where it is?"
Me: "Yeah, I can. But I'd hate to jump in too soon."
Student, the frustration rising: "It's not 'too soon.' I've got Spanish in half an hour."
Me, with irritating calm: "Take a breath. Think about it a minute. See what you can come up with."

If the earlier nine seconds of silence was uncomfortable, this silence is smothering. It is exacerbated by the necessary sound-dampening insulation of an audio editing lab.

Me, finally: "How do you learn something you don't know?"
Student, testily: "I ask somebody. Like you. But you're not telling me. Which makes me wonder what I'm paying you for.'"

Ah, there it is. The consumer mentality surfaces. It's always there. I mean, it's always there now. Not so much fifteen years ago. But the current generation of entitled learners now expects to get what they [or their parents or their government loans] pay for. They expect to establish the terms of their own satisfaction. And when they are satisfied with the height of their effort, the depth of their inquiry, they expect an "A."

Me: "Half of all jobs in Media Production are with firms of fewer than thirty employees. Your first job might be making wedding videos in your parents' basement. Who will you ask then?" I repeat more firmly, "How do you learn something you don't know?"
The student sighs: "I don't know."
Me, after a beat: "How about an online video tutorial? Maybe a user forum? Have you ever used those before?"
Student: "I guess."
Me: "Why don't you try that now?"
Student: "I don't have my laptop with me. Besides, I don't really have time for this. Can't you just show me how to view the regions list?"

I lean over and click a button in the screen's lower right corner. The regions list appears. The list ought to be populated with all the takes and versions of his recording.

Me: "There's only one recording of the guitar track."
Student: "Yeah."
Me: "That doesn't give you too many options in post."
Student: "Sounded okay at the time."
Me: "Did I tell you about Spielberg's shooting ratio?"
Student: "Yeah. In the intro class, I think."
Me: "What do you remember about it?"
Student: "I dunno. It's like... six to one or something ridiculous."

A shooting ratio: the number of takes recorded versus the number of takes used. The latter is always one, and Spielberg shoots an average of six takes for every one that makes it to the final film. Hence, 6:1. And, no, it's not "ridiculous." A really complicated shot might require a 20:1 ratio. There are stories of 500:1 from Chaplin's heyday.

Me: "You think maybe you're a better filmmaker than Spielberg?"
Student: "No. But the people who booked the studio before me ran long. And the guy after me showed up early. So I didn't have time for more takes. My musician had to go."

I nod sympathetically, but offer nothing that sounds like absolution.

I have not forgotten the student's original question (about how to add EQ), but I do not think that the question he asked was the one that needed addressing. Indeed, addressing that question (no doubt, a shortcut to product) circumnavigates the [admittedly more difficult] discussion of deeper process. Equalization will not improve his music, but coaching him in learning styles will improve his workplace readiness and career staying power.

In the short term, he wants to make good product. In the short term, I want to grade good product. How then, do I teach a lifetime approach to learning all new technology when he wants to know which button makes this software work to his immediate satisfaction?