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J
FRANCIS GLADSTONE – Some Notes on a 20 year (1966-86) film
and television career.
Film School and editing -- see below.
BBC
documentaries (not viewable)
Pubic Television NOVA documentaries and dramatized films
(many viewable and with links)>>>>
FROM STUDENT AND CUTTING ROOM TO DIRECTOR OF SHORT FILMS:
NEW
YORK UNIVERSITY FILM SCHOOL & EXPERIENCE AS A FILM EDITOR:
It was the summer of 1966 and my wife, Janet
Schumacher (1941-d 1970) and I lived in a scruffy, often
sweltering one room flat somewhere around 68th
street on the west side of New York, part of a divided up
brownstone building that had not been renovated in decades.
I was British and had had a teaching job in New Hampshire,
wanted to try to get into film or television. By chance I
was put in touch with John Craddock, an established
documentary film editor. We became friends and he suggested
I apply for the Summer Workshop at New York University
school of film. John had been a jazz musician by night and
librarian by day and managed to switch via the full time
undergraduate course into a film career.
The workshop was small, perhaps twenty five people
and you needed either to be in the film industry or to have
a previous degree. I qualified with a history degree and
wrote a short script – I think about a man in a lonely wood,
or a lonely man in a wood at night…. It must have been
literate enough. I was selected. We had a bundle of books to
buy, on the Italian film director Antonioni, the Technique
of Film Editing – I think by Carol Reed who directed the
Third Man, other books of criticism and technique which
set me back a stringing hundred dollars and proved to be
essential reading. I had watched a lot of films, Now, if not
deep inside, I was inside film.
The
film school was located in Washington Square in then
Bohemian Greenwich village. Across the square lived the
Maysles Brothers, Al and David who pioneered small mobile
cameras for cinema vertité documentaries. Down the road one
could see a French new wave film by Godard or Alen Renais,
any bare breasts that were – then so daringly – shown
covered over by the city censor with black markers on the
actual film projected. In the building, books in hand, I
remember bustle, editing rooms, bins with strips of code
numbered 16mm film and magnetic sound tape, clattering
Moviola editing machines, intensity, cigarette smoke, more
cigarette smoke, projection rooms. The dynamic leader of all
this was Haig Manoogian and his star pupil was a man to
become one of the ten or so most esteemed directors in the
world, Martin Scorsese.
Manoogian bought an intense interest to the
central question for the would be film maker: why certain
subjects were most effectively visualised in certain ways.
The films he showed us and lectured on were an eclectic
mixture, the formal documentaries of Grierson, from an age
when only 35 mm cameras were accepted and film slow
requiring heavy lighting.
We watched Hitchcock films, instructional films on
maternity nursing, the new informal work being done by the
cinema verité pioneers, the Maysles, Richard Leacock and
others.
From day one, thinking oneself a great film
critic, we were divided into teams and actually making a
film. You have a camera, rolls of film – strictly limited
and expensive, sound tape and recorder, clapper board to
ensure synchronisation, lights and reflectors and the great
putative film maker than you are is humbled. The camera and
mike have to be pointed at something, turned on and turned
off. The small teams were camera person, sound person,
lighting person, director, assistant. I think the film we
made had not much more content than my script about the
lonely man in the wood. It was about a lonely girl on a boat
to somewhere and was filmed on the elegant old pot bellied
ferries that crossed the Hudson with thousands of communters
morning and evening. I was assigned to being sound person
and I realised that, if you want to recreate the sound of
lonely water lapping against a lonely boat, you have to lie
on your front and drop the microphone on its cable as close
to the actual water as possible. It is a trivial example
perhaps. It is about the need to do and listen, or look, or
know.
If you want the lonely girl to sound like the
lonely girl when she talks to someone you have to make sure
she does not sound as if she is in a room and that her voice
is not drowned out by airplanes or other traffic. The sun is
out when there are planes above and when the planes go, the
sun goes in. Haig’s genius was to let us by humbled by the
basic and be full of praise for anything original or fresh.
The
intensity – you have a short time to turn a story about a
girl on a boat into a film…. This all came from Manoogian.
He was sharp eyed, dynamic and he immersed us summer
workshop students in what film actually was – individual
shots strung together in a certain sequence and cohered with
a sound track. You physically cut the film there and join it
to a shot starting there and you have an effect. Make the
edit even a few frames earlier or later and you have a
different effect. An idea turns to a script page which is
divided into shots. The shots are shortened and joined and,
if it is done right, what was intended in the script becomes
more intense. Films grow which is why they are so horribly
difficult to get right and why even huge budget films often
fail.
Besides shooting and putting together the film, along the
way we watched. With Haig, if we watched an Antonioni film
he talked not so much about how the Italian director was a
student of alienation in the modern world. He talked about
how he positioned his camera and got his actors to work to
create that sense of alienation. Manoogian’s own bias was to
film making that was structured, had strong narrative and
was dynamic cinematically. If Antonioni always stood back,
Martin Scorcese stands forward and the most pugnacious of
his films is, perhaps, Raging Bull which he dedicated
to Manoogian. Scorcese was around and finishing up his
graduate film. He was, and has admitted to being, very much
a product of Haig’s teaching and imagination.
Besides George Harris, a rowing coach, Haig was the best
teacher I ever had. I could not have done it without Janet
working as a secretary and putting up with a cockroach
ridden apartment where the water sometimes refused to run.
Yet
in a way this did not matter. New York was alive and cheap
and the film world and its desire to change and change the
world was a good appendage to being in love. In the late
1930s 35 mm still cameras freed the photographer to get in
close. They weighed little and did not need a tripod. They
documented the world in a way that only the pencil could do
before. Now 16 mm film, synchronised sound, lightweight
sound recorders – these made possible film cameras getting
on the inside. The camera was free and when used rightly an
instrument to express personal and political freedom. Film
developed by Kodak requiring less artificial light also
helped widen the range of subjects that could be filmed. ]
All
those bare breasts on the silver screen, even with black
tape on them… It was a big time in western history. With
more dynamic shooting, this period – Paris and New York
central to it – we students were in a time of the biggest
change since the introduction of sound in the 1930s.
EARLY DAYS EDITING:
The workshop over, for a time I picked up work in
New York in editing rooms – editing seemed to me to be the
essence of film making. Without a union ticket the work
available was somewhat fringe and one was caught in the
paradox that without experience one could not get a union
ticket and without a union ticket one could not get into the
mainstream of New York film making.
At least I had a salary and we moved to a fresher
apartment also on the West Side, most of which was still
down at heel. I had contrasting experience. I worked on
commercial films for Duracell batteries which were a model
of orderliness – everything was planned to the last
artificial light-induced sparkle on a battery. Happiness
came with batteries.
It was good film experience -- of a world where
all the shots were planned before the camera came near. The
subject was batteries, what they did or people made happy
with batteries. The film was pretty much put together in
script terms before it was shot.
I was lucky. Too much filming one’s own subject
matter – the dreamy girl on the old creaking boat – and one
can miss the discipline of storyboarding. The more one works
out what a shot is to say, the more effective it is likely
to be. Many of the great late 20th century film
makers were grounded in work on advertising films. The right
effect can make millions and the person to make that effect
is the film director.
My
next job was an exercise in chaos.
Ed Duffield had been given money by – I think –
the Wall Street Journal … conscience money?... I am not
sure… to make a film on a high school somewhere in the south
– this, 1965, at a time of some racial integration and a
lot of tension. We were a year after the 1964 Civil Rights
Act.
The film was not effective, cinema verité at its
worst. The great cinema verité film makers of that era, the
Maysles, Richard Leacock and D.A. Pennebaker used the light
camera to get close to a subject whose narrative they had in
outline.
These films were verité – true in feeling –
because they were close to events unfolding – the Beatles
tour of America, the Kennedy election campaign. Things may
unfold in a big high school. If they do it is unlikely the
camera will be there. So the cinema verite approach of this
film while claiming to record truth, was just an
unstructured record of largely random events. The film I
worked on had miles, literally, of film and sound.
While in the past film directors had been proud of
using low ratios == amount of film shot to amount used, 6 to
1, 10 to 1, 15 to 1, film makers in this era would announce
that they had twenty seven hours of film, or whatever, for
an hour long production. It was a false conceit. For long
hours I – and other editors – tried to organise this
material, search for nuggets of human drama which did not
reveal themselves.. If this was a story about the failure or
success of school integration it was never clear and, I
think, the film was never completed. From a selfish point of
view it proved something important to me as a film maker.
I went on to make essay films for television. The
Ed Duffield experience taught me that, if you are going to
cover a complex subject, pressures to integrate or resist
integration in a southern high school, someone has to write
about this. It will not just happen. The film maker has to
become author rather than observer. Either someone in front
of the camera must lead the viewer or someone behind it. By
cinema verité advocates. commentary on the film, a recorded
voice, is despised as interfering with the truth of the
moment captured by the camera. It means a great deal of
subject matter can never be filmed.
In
1965 we left New York, perhaps in a cowardly way. I was
British but caught up in a visa scam and was possibly liable
for the US army draft which meant service in Vietnam.
As a matter of record, I left, came back several
years later, eventually applied to be an American citizen,
displayed all the records of this period in my application
and did not have these held against me.
That is off my chest.
TOM
STOBART AND THE BBC.
The same union conundrum held in the UK as in New
York. You could not work in mainstream film. Including the
BBC or Independent Television, without a union card. And you
could not get a union card without some prior film
experience. (Or, maybe, an auntie who was in the studios and
connected to someone – I had no such auntie.)
I tried, with hopeless failure, certain trainee
jobs at the BBC – perhaps failed because I sensed that you
could not be much good without some training in technique.
Those jobs tended to lead into management.
This was a difficult, indeed hellish situation.
UNION AND NOT UNION:
The
only non-union jobs in New York were on the edges and I had
ended up with a film maker who did not know what he was
doing. In Britain the union (the Association of
Cinematograph and Television Technicians/ACCT) had a strong
hold on production.
This was good. It ensured reasonable pay and
conditions and probably pensions. It kept film crew sizes
up. (In the BBC, although outsiders would say: why do you
need five people for an interview?, the system was pretty
efficient and cost effective). The union was tough in
negotiations and left wing at the top. We used to joke that
our dues took Alan Sapper, the head of the union, by air to
Moscow for junkets.
Perhaps it was more guild, a sort of extended club
and protection against outsiders rather than a a union, when
inside which I was then not, it protected and made a
television or film career a possibility. If you wanted to be
inside and were outside, it was nasty and the film work
available was scrappy. A person seeking a BBC career could
expect regularity working to a pension.
Actors and that kind of talent were freelance. A
few outside groups provided film crews, equipment and
editors. They also needed to be union. Most production work
was done in house with efficiency and much of the best
equipment in the world.
Almost no women had positions of authority. Women
typed and, if they were lucky, worked as researchers. My
hunch is that the whole system as much as the union was a
barrier to them.
This is now largely gone. Most production jobs
are short term or with outside companies.
MAKING A FILM CAREER.
In London, I knocked on doors, got nowhere.
Luckily – I suppose I did have an auntie, or uncle
– a friend was related to the famed mountaineer and film
maker, Tom Stobart. Tom had been a film maker all his life
and mainly in exotic places and often at high altitude. He
had filmed the British Everest expedition of 1954 when the
Sherpa, Tensing and Richard Hillary first reached the
summit.
Tom (see Wikipedia entry and his autobiography)…he
was, I think, a top class climber and averse to risk as such
people are. His first great disappointment was that the
Everest film turned out not to belong to him in terms of
rights. It showed widely in cinemas and with little reward
to its skilled maker. He went on, in the 1950s and ‘60s to
film other expeditions and he pioneered a form of BBC travel
film to far flung cases. Instead of the union-demanded crew
of five, there was Tom and perhaps one assistant.
Then came his second disappointment. In a terrible
quarrel he was shot in the knee, somewhere in the desert in
the Middle East. I am not sure if he had compensation,
probably not.
Limping, he could not longer travel intrepidly
like this and carry a camera to remote or high locations. If
he did not adventure, there was nothing. What he found was
not high class work. If movies came first, high production
value commercials second, television documentary films
third, so called ‘industrials’ were a low forth. There was a
significant market for them and they were distributed to
schools and community groups as 16mm film which was not,
unlike 35 mm, technically demanding to project. They were
usually soft sell, ‘educational’ with some corporate
message, the main message being prestige for the company.
That is where Tom, divorced and newly married, found
himself, making commercial and educational films for the
Fison’s Fertilizer company based in Ipswich. He took me on
as editor and assistant. In fact he did the camera work and
I did pretty much everything else. And I managed to get a
union ticket.
Tom, of course, was a union man and when he
advertised the job in Ipswich, I was the only applicant. I
already had good experience in the techniques of editing and
could be useful to him. He was writing a cook book and only
so keen on fertilizer. So I did much of the work. He
commended me.
That gave me the handle to apply to David Zeigler,
BBC film operations manager for editors. I think he was
surprised that someone with a history degree wanted an
assistant editor’s job. No matter: he gave me a chance and a
summer assignment led to BBC jobs from 1967 until I was
fired (or ‘let go’) in 1973. If the New York University film
school was a hive of film activity, full of stuff, editing
rooms, equipment storage, lights, piles of film cans, Ealing
film studios was a dream come true. For a time in the BBC
film, as opposed to videotape, had only been used to insert
some exterior shots into dramatic films or series. Now 16mm
film had come of age – Kodak developed stocks suitable for
transmission thought electronic media. German Arriflex
cameras were not light but could be carried on a shoulder.
Swiss Nagra sound recorders that worked with a pulse from
the camera made synchronised sound possible.
THE
GOLDEN AGE OF BRITISH TELEVISION:
The cinema verité of New York was one kind of
revolution in film technique and art. This was another. The
BBC expanded to a second channel. Colour film came in. By
the time I came to work in the BBC, thousands of miles of
shot film went from crews to labs to syncing up to editing.
The old sound stages from Ealing comedy and drama film days
were there. There were three floors of editing rooms with
fire escapes on both side – the previous generation silver
nitrate film had been dangerously flammable. This was a
factory of art. Behind the production was the larger than
life, Audrey Singer who had carved out an empire from a more
staid BBC. He commanded science, arts and general features.
A separate documentary department also used film and had
another semi-empire of mainline documentaries (the Royal
Family) and a number of small series headed by journalists.
I was lucky to be assistant to an editor I won’t name and
who had the virtue, to me, of being work averse and, I
think, with business interests in providing cars and
catering from the film industry proper. I got to do a lot.
I was in the ‘golden age’? There is an argument
that these later 1960s years were a period of cultural
highlight for the British television. The independent
channels derived income from advertising. Legally they could
not obtain a franchise without some promise of quality.
Their news programs were ring-fenced from all commercial
influence and they had to provide a stream of quality
alongside more popular films. Anglia TV specialised in
wildlife, Yorkshire in drama or period drama, Granada in
news and current affairs. From the panache of the
impresarios who ran these channels, money was not short. Nor
was it in the BBC. The license fee doubled for colour –
which did not double costs. The grandees went everywhere by
taxi.
As originally founded, BBC radio producers did not
express points of view. They could hire people to give talks
or write drama. The producer was not an auteur, With
television that changed, at least with original television,
drama or documentary, Producer, writer and director were
sometimes the same person, sometimes there were three
different roles. Such people proposed films or programs to
department heads and then were on their own. They were not
editors, the old BBC model, but auteurs and there was a
public hungry for material to watch, The central control of
content from BBC management was being lost.
A director general was chosen who looked to the
future was chosen. Hugh Carleton Greene was both patrician
and a liberal – brother of the novelist Graham Greene.
His problem was not how to keep the old, formal
neutrality of BBC radio, It was to stop Independent
television from stealing audiences. He won them back with
wickedly satirical comedy shows and muckraking film series
both in dramatic and documentary form. He was a working
journalist at the helm. The film department was the vehicle
for much of this. No lonely editing rooms. This was a film
factory. People were paid and the film processing sales reps
drove Rolls Royce’s.
Well, one of them did. I was lucky to work mostly
for Christopher Burstall who had won the Italia Prize for
his (music television) film on the early composer
Monteverdi. In particular he – or we, he and the editing
room – made a film on the William Blake poem Tyger Tyger
– a vivid fifty minute film on a single short poem.
CHRISTOPHER BURSTALL:
With Tyger, Tyger he had the simplest concept, recite and
discuss, recite and discuss the one poem.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Children and professionals did this, recite, react. Critics
filled in with other background on Blake. What should not
have worked, did so and he – or we – made forty five
minutes of as enticing a film as can be made on poetry. In
the film about the Italian composer Monteverdi, Burstall
combined the music, magical shots from a boat drifting
through Venetian canals and waters and – the third element –
an interview with the American music critic, Robins Landon.
Landon was perceptive and dramatic. He looked like a burly
garage mechanic. The contrast was between his down to earth
talk and the ethereal shots, mist and water, grey on grey on
silver…. this contrast produced a magical film that won the
coveted Italia Prize. It taught me that the simplest visual
material, a ‘talking head’, transposed on film, can, when
done right, create real film drama.
FURTHER EDITING:
As to being assigned, I supposed I was moved
towards the intellectual end of documentary and arts film
production. You could be asked for, as with Christopher.
Otherwise you went you were told. Match of the Day (a
prominent Saturday football match) was shot on reversal film
(no negative, or the negative is processed to a positive
image). It was rushed to London and the film lab by taxi and
train, then to us. We had to cut 90 minutes down to 45 and
find moments when the edit in the commentator’s voice made
sense. If you wound it back the possibility of scratching
the film was there and the whole national audience would see
a long black line all down a section of the match. You had
to make edits such that the ball was in roughly the same
position when you cut back in to where you cut out, And the
commentator must make sense. It was more a hair raising task
than actual editing and at the end of it you had cut miles
of actual film to leave the forty five minutes for which
there was air time. Nor could you watch the game on
television ahead of time, Some games were televised live.
For Match of the Day, this was the only record. I
think we had less than forty five minutes in which to
extract forty five minutes of the ninety. Flatbed German
Steinbeck editing machines made wizzing possible, It was
fine until the film sprockets got tangled in the mechanism.
Also thrilling was the live studio programme
Late Night Line Up. This was an arts based studio
discussion with film clips inserted, sometimes from movies,
sometimes from documentaries or interviews shot that day.
The film editors had to source the film and sound track,
have them loaded on the ‘telecine’ machine which converted
film to an electronic signal. Once loaded the engineers took
over – they saw film as opposed to live studio or videotape
as some kind of bad child’s toy that had rotten visual
quality – it did not.
Again this required nerve and care. Real 35mm would be sent
from film sudios, the American ones mainly in Wardour Street
and one had to find and mark up the segement the Late Night
Line up producer wanted without damaging the fragile
original. There were hair raising journeys to these film
studio headquarters in Soho (where the union also had its
office), Sometimes film was lost and one had to deal with a
Byzantine system called Film Traffic staffed by older men
who appeared to have had their jobs since George Orwell
(unfairly, I think) based some of 1984 on the BBC in its
wartime propaganda guise.
If
you were flustered these men in Traffic did not help. If you
were not flustered they did not help either. Some of our
preparation took place several days ahead and when one BBC
film really did seem lost between us and the archive, he
remarked that film never gets lost in the BBC, only
misplaced.
A
story of one reel of one film being ‘misplaced’ for seven
years was not reassuring, I was eager (one mistake) and
young (another) and not staff (another) and I had to have
that film ready to transmit to the watching public.
We got by and most of the editing work was more
staid. Start of production dates were set, end of production
dates and transmission dates. I would guess that there were
fifty of sixty editing crews in different parts of the BBC.
One was in the canteen with people making groundbreaking
films, And one got paid overtime.
A
number of people from that BBC department went on to be
feature film directors. Ken Loach is still working. Jack
Gold was another. Ken Russell, John Borman, Ronald Jaffe,
Richard Marquand (my second wife’s first husband)… all these
had eminent careers. I worked and was good friends with
Brian Gibson who went Hollywood and, alas, died young.
MUSIC FILMS:
I touched on a lot of productions, Music films
were a thrill because of the visual editing and sound laying
challenges, Humphrey Burton was the director of music
documentaries and determined to being classical music to
live audiences,
I
worked with Bert Chappell on a biography of the British
composer Sir Thomas Beecham and briefly with Ken Russell
whose drama documentaries on composers and the dancer
Isadora Duncan broke new ground with their visual
extravagance. There were also a series of master class
programmes, with eminent musicians or composers teaching
small ensembles. These did not so much need editing in the
full sense, more touching up and shaping and shortening.
I
also, not music, worked closely – pretty much as editor –
with the urbane producer Julian Jebb who was beginning to
make films with the poet John Betjeman.
Betjeman was anything but a modernist as a poet and his
lyric verse found a wide audience – he was later to be Poet
Laureate. Anti-modernist – this was the age of the Brutalist
movement in British architecture – he was passionate about
the preservation of buildings, especially Victorian
buildings. (Anyone travelling on Eurostar to France should
be grateful to him for preventing the demolition of St
Pancras station – there is a large sculpture of him there.)
The film I worked on was about as un-Swinging London as
could be, Betjeman in his overcoat and trilby hat,
travelling on a north to south London bus and stopping off
to praise the old and – I think – condemn the new.
Of
course this went against the avant garde dynamic of the
time. Thankfully many of the Victorian buildings he
treasured are still alive.
It was a golden age. As in the
pre-television days of the movies, high budget and lower
budget B movies, the audience was both assured and
concentrated with only two BBC and one independent channel,
Television was also still stealing audiences from the
movies.
Money was concentrated and key to this was the
quality demands put on the independent production houses.
How to run television media in a free way that is not a
free-for-all is no easy question to answer. Before Margaret
Thatcher smashed into the criteria for programming
excellence demanded of British commercial television,
Independent Television was a rival in a race that was not to
the bottom.
This is no place to be quizzical about how
television should be, how free in a financial sense, or how
determined by the old BBC mission to inform and educate as
well as entertain, Working with Ken Russell as a sound
editor was something of a technical apex because he shot his
films on 35 mm -- cinema standard film. On a TV screen the
end result was not that much different from 16mm. The fact
was that he was a master of black and white lighting and
dramatic effect and the 35mm, made sense. (16mm sounds like
half the size of 35mm. In fact the film area is one quarter
the size.)
Also I had experience of the sound stage, the
place where many notorious British movies had been made
Then I looked around for a directing traineeship and, thanks
to Christopher Burstall, landed one in his arts features
department.
FILM, OH FILM! The moving image is, of course, an illusion,
the projection of one still image after another, each
slightly later in the time and so different. The film itself
was concrete, an object. Magnetic tape the exact same size
as the picture means that each frame of image had an exact
frame of sound to match it. After the negative was shot and
processed to a working print, the ¼ inch sound tape was
converted to 16mm sound tape. The rolls were then coded in
synch with tiny yellow numbers, Each shot had a number, Shot
24/ Take 3, the third attempt. Or the assistant editor
created numbers and made lists.
Back from the laboratory and being number coded,
the assistant cut each shot into a length of film and either
wound these onto small cores or hung them in a bin if short.
If the editor shortened a shot to put into the film one had
to keep the remaining section. If he (there were no she
editor’s that I knew in the BBC)… shortened it and
lengthened it and shortened it again, the assistant had to
reattach the cut of frames to the rest of the not used
section. For the moment everything was sliced at the mid
point between frames and then joined with sticky tape. This
was relatively easy to get off. That said, a cur and re-cut
sequence could become a mess. Film got broken in editing
machines and the damaged part replaced with the exact same
number of frames of blank film. Otherwise sound and film
were different lengths. The Steinbeck editing machines
(which took over from the Moviola, Hollywood standard)
enabled one to roll the film back and forward slowly. So the
edit could be made on this frame rather than that. Each
frame represents 1/24th of a second. That said,
the human eye is precise. If great films were made of great
editing discussion between director and editor about which
frame to cut were the visual notation at the bottom of the
art.
In fact the BBC in connection with Kodak did a lot
to make 16mm a standard medium for television transmission –
less demanding than large movie theatre transmission. 35 mm
produces the great results that are great movies (unless
shot on widescreen 35 mm or not so often used 70mm), 16 with
its lack of bulk was far more practical and made the
‘machine’ of film production at Ealing of which I was part
possible. The prestigious Jacob Brownowski Ascent of Man
and Kenneth Clark’s Civilisation were both shot on
355 mm colour film stock. You needed big bins to hang all
the outtakes.
It was tactile. The ‘moving’ image seen on a
screen depends on an illusion. The film from which it was
made was a thing, an object, individual shots stuck together
with tape for the informal editing and glued together when
the negative was cut as the basis of the final show print.
That is what it was, a thing that went through the
camera gate and onto the editing machine, was cut up and the
assistant editor did his best not to loose things. A sixty
minute film was 2400 feet long. Shot on 10: 1 ratio, that
was 24,ooo feet plus 24,00o feet of sound not to loose small
bits of.
I did not graduate from the editing rooms. I was
just the other side of the editing machine when I became a
director, or trainee director.
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