| The Story of “Oi!” In the days when camera cables were as thick as a man’s arm and it took two strong men to drag a cable-eight out of tech stores: two such cameramen were dragging such a eight out of stores, one morning, when a teddy truck ran straight over it – bumpity, bump. The two men stopped abruptly, the unexpected weight of the teddy truck coming as a shock to their spines. The Senior Cameraman, Paul Kay, observed this and called out, quite reasonably, “Oi!” He didn’t get a chance to say anything else. The teddy truck stopped suddenly. The Driver dismounted. There was something about his beetroot coloured complexion, trembling jowls and savage snarl that suggested he was not in a good mood. He launched into a passionate diatribe: “Who are you calling “Oi!”? My name’s not Oi! I’ve got a name, I have. I’m a human being, I am. Not just an Oi!” and similar sentiments, at great length, great volume and considerable venom. The Crew retreated before his onslaught. Paul Kay made consolatory gestures. The rest of us looked for somewhere to hide. Eventually, our angry Driver ran out of breath and bile. A deathly silence descended across the studio floor. It was a tense and terrible silence that only a very brave man, or someone who didn’t understand the situation, would have dared to break. It was broken by the Driver’s mate. Having been out in the ring-road, he had missed all this. He now appeared in the dock doors and gave us a momentarily puzzled look, before calling out, “Oi! Are you coming?” A dispirited and crestfallen Driver slunk back to his teddy truck. Recognising the sensitivity of the situation, the crew tried to restrain their laughter. We failed! |
| During the Work to Rule, a junior Cameraman, such as myself, was only allowed to perform one operation at a time – as specified by our job description. My crew was working on “The World of Wooster” at the time, with Ian Carmichael as Bertie Wooster and Dennis Price as Jeeves. One of my shots required me to track in to a close-up of Ian Carmichael. The rules allowed me to track and maintain focus, but I was not allowed to tilt, crane or in any other way reframe the shot as I tracked. The result would have been a track into Bertie Wooster’s tie knot, rather than his face. Fortunately, the Cast and Production team all supported our action and were prepared to conspire to make the shot work. We arranged that, as I tracked in, Ian Carmichael would bend at the knees, in order to keep his face in the frame. True professional that he is, he maintained perfect headroom throughout the shot! |
The First Time I Tracked a Mole Crane
| 1965. I was a very junior trainee Dolly Operator, newly arrived at TV Centre. And I hadn’t been to Evesham yet, so my ignorance of all things technical was profound. I was rigging in Studio E, Lime Grove, when I received an urgent call from Allocations. Could I go immediately to the Studio next door, where the Crew were short handed? I hastened to Studio D. It was “Blue Peter”. The Crew had rigged and rehearsals were just beginning. They urgently needed someone to track the Mole Crane. I hurried to the Mole. The Cameraman was Mike Figini. He was offering a Wide Shot of presenter Christopher Trace, who was sitting in a mock-up of a tube train. Even as I climbed aboard Mike was signalling me to track in to a closer shot. I had never used a Mole before, nor even seen one, and, having missed the rig, I had had no opportunity to ask anyone about it. I quickly checked the controls. It all seemed straightforward enough; two throttle levers and a steering wheel. Then I looked for the “Dead Man’s Handle”. The only dollies I had tracked before were the Heron and the Vintern Motorised. Both of these have a Dead Man’s Handle, i.e. a pedal on the Tracker’s platform, which had to be held down by the Tracker’s bodyweight in order to activate the motor. It worked as a safety cutout. Should the Tracker dismount or fall off the platform, the pedal would be released and the motor would immediately be disabled. I saw a bar, just in front of my toes. I put my foot on it and it depressed satisfactorily. Clearly, this was a pedal. It must be the Dead Man’s Handle. Thus after a split-second’s self-training, and feeling that I knew what I was doing, I attempted to track in. I put my foot down firmly on the pedal and pushed the throttles forward. The whole crane shuddered and trembled. Then it began to move forward, very slowly, in a series of jerks and twitches. Despite holding the pedal down with my full bodyweight and pushing both throttles fully forward, the Mole was only managing a very reluctant, stuttering movement. Everyone was staring at us, puzzled. Evidently there was a fault on the crane, but we would sort that out later. The priority now was to line up the shot. After a long embarrassing judder, Mike Figini felt that the shot was tight enough and signalled me to stop. So – I took my foot off the pedal – – – The crane shot forward like a rocket. Instinctively I stamped my foot down again, and pulled back the throttles. We stopped violently, but not before Mike’s Mid-Shot of a smiling Chris Trace had crashed into a Big Close Up of a terrified Chris Trace! We had almost pinning him against the set. To his credit, Mike held focus remarkably well. And, once he had recovered from the shock, Chris Trace thought the whole thing was very funny. In this drastic way, I first learned that a Mole Crane does not have a Dead Man’s Handle – just a brake. |
Accident Report Forms
| Have you noticed the way that, after you’ve read a few, all Accident Report Forms start to sound like Gerard Hoffnung’s “Barrel” story? The following is the actual wording of a Hazardous Incident Report submitted by me after an episode of “Pets Win Prizes”, on 7th June 1995. The literary style may be frivolous, but the factual details are all perfectly true. “During a recording of “Pets Win Prizes”, I was operating a hand-held, underwater camera in a tank full of ravenous, flesh-eating Moray Eels: in order to obtain detailed close-up shots of bone-crushing jaws lined with razor-sharp teeth. Everything perfectly safe so far, then. The first eel posed dramatically, menacing the lens with a set of dentistry which would have made a barracuda jealous. I moved on to the second specimen: a long, mean, leopard spotted killing machine, by the name of – “Fang”. So, still no obvious safety hazard. “As long as you keep your fingers out of the water,” I was advised, “he won’t be able to smell you and won’t try to eat you.” Unfortunately, this simple principle had not been explained to Fang, who attacked immediately. My wide-angle BCU of vicious, predatory jaws developed into a rapid track-back and crane-up, without those jaws becoming noticeably smaller in frame – nor any less predatory. Most Cameramen would have given their right arm to take such a spectacular close-up. But I moved faster than most Cameramen. Nor did Fang understand that he was supposed to stop where the water finished. Rows of needle sharp teeth erupted through the surface, followed by ravening jaws – and head – and body – – and tail! A full three feet of writhing, snapping carnivore was suddenly airborne. I suspect that Fang had recently seen the film “Piranha II: The Flying Killers” and felt inspired. Amid a shower of spray, it hurtled out of its tank, narrowly missed the Common Edible Cameraman, and landed with a wet slap on the studio floor. This was followed by much slimy thrashing and a round of applause from the studio audience. The intrepid aviator was netted and safely returned to his tank. It is to be hoped that he has now learned the essential difference between a fish and a bird. But the incident could have been dangerous because he had made the floor paint wet and someone might have slipped.” |
