I don’t own a drone – and that’s why you should hire me
I also don’t own a gimbal – which is another good reason to hire me. Neither do I have a shoulder rig. Actually, there are a few other things I don’t own which you should probably know about: I don’t have a black pro mist filter, a cinema camera, the latest cinematic LUTs, or one of those slide rail things.
So what do I have? The ability to tell a story.
In my happy place: filming by the water.
Way back in the good old days when I studied cinematography and film production (which wasn’t on YouTube, by the way) we learned some fundamentals: the very first lesson, on the very first day was about framing and composition: Where do we see frames? What’s composed within the frame? How are the different elements placed within the frame?
Composition was clearly important.
Some years later I came across a quote by the great photographer Edward Weston. ‘Composition is the strongest way of seeing,’ he said. That stayed with me, and I was always pleased that my humble film school thought similarly.
We soon moved on to storytelling. Using a stills camera, we had to tell our stories in five shots. They were valuable lessons that taught us the relationship between wide shots, mid shots, close ups, and all the others, to move through a story.
Lessons
But I learned my most valuable lesson when photographing the Sydney Harbour Bridge. There was no detailed brief, we simply had to photograph the Bridge to tell a story.
Caught up in technical wizardry, I had fun with shutter speeds: making long exposures while zooming in or out, letting the lights on the bridge streak kaleidoscopic patterns across my emulsion. It seemed like the most artistic thing in the world…to me.
We presented our work but the less said about mine, the better. I sat humbled and embarrassed as my wonderfully artistic images fell flat. I had gone for the trick, and it didn’t work. The only story I told was that I owned a zoom lens.
Someone else presented their work. Several beautifully composed images soon filled the screen. There were no ultra-wide postcard shots of the Bridge; there was no technical trickery; instead we were graced by a series of closeups: details of sandstone, of iron, of light and shadow. More than 30 years’ later, and one image remains with me: a close up of a rivet.
Peeling paint had revealed other layers of peeled paint, stacked one on top of another like vertical tree rings. It was paint from yesteryear, and it told a story. It was the story of time. Of patience. Of solidity. Of strength alongside vulnerability. All in the close up of a rivet. And for the first time I had come face-to-face with the power of photography.
Serving the story
In my defence I will say that I was only 18 and fresh from the mental confines of an elite private boys’ school more renowned for its teachings on rugby and rowing than art and culture, but the lesson was clear: it's not about the tricks, it’s about the story.
I don’t know what camera my classmate used; I don’t know what lens he used; I don’t know what film he used. Neither do I know what ISO, shutter speed or f/stop he used. And therein lies the second lesson from that day: it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the story.
Despite my facetious title and intro, it’s important to say that yes, tools matter. Our tools allow us to do our job and specialised tools can give us options. But whatever we do has to serve the story.
Our editing teacher was well-known Australian editor, Alan Harkness. Alan was relentless with one point: ‘You might have just filmed the best shot in the world but if it doesn’t fit the story, you can’t use it.’
He drilled it into us—cinematography and editing students alike. His caution was simple: it’s about the whole film.
Acclaimed cinematographer, Roger Deakins (Skyfall, Empire of Light, 1917, The Shawshank Redemption, No Country for Old Men, Sicario, A Beautiful Mind, Fargo, Dead Man Walking, The Big Lebowski...) has frequently spoken of how cinematography 'is not about creating beautiful shots, but about creating a film that sustains the feel all the way through without losing the audience' (AlterCine). The danger, he says, is when a particular shot can take the audience out of the film—the story—because their focus is suddenly on the shot and not the whole.
And this is my concern when so much emphasis is on the tech and so little attention is paid to the story. The story must come first. Why? Because stories are how we make sense of ourselves and how we make sense of the world.
The Temperature Guy
I recently made a short observational documentary that went a little crazy online. I knew it was good, but its success still surprised me and has given me cause to reflect on what I got right.
The simple answer is storytelling. The film is about Guy Dunstan—known affectionately around Manly Beach in Sydney as The Temperature Guy.
Guy gets up before dawn each morning, takes the ocean temperature and writes it in chalk on a nearby concrete wall in vibrant artistic creations. ‘The numbers’ are much loved by the local community and particularly the swimmers and surfers who are interested to know how warm or cold they’re about to get.
But the numbers hold anticipation beyond the actual temperature: what colours will they be today? What pattern will they be? How big? What font? Will there be anything related (Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Easter, Christmas, ANZAC Day, NAIDOC Week, a sporting event…).
My purpose in doing the film was to find the human story lying beneath something thousands of people see every day; to explore Guy’s motivation: what drives him day in and day out despite the weather or the season.
Here’s why it worked:
It's a story, not a topic. Every documentary filmmaker needs to ask themselves this crucial question: do you have a story, or do you have a topic? If you just have a topic, go find the story
We know who the main character is right from the start. People respond to people and viewers invest emotionally in the characters presented to them. If there are too many or if it is unclear who is central to the story, your viewers will disengage
We know what our character wants. What are they seeking, what are they working towards, hoping for, and why? Guy wanted to be accepted by the community he had joined
People can relate to the story. People need to see themselves in the story. We uncover Guy's vulnerability, a desire to be accepted, the fear of rejection, the difference between taking and giving and we see that there is often a lot more going on beneath the surface. Anyone feel the same?
There is a story arc. We move from the introduction to, what, why, conflict, resolution, and finally to a little twist: what Guy thought it was about, turned out to be something else
It looks different to everything else. About 99 per cent of the film is hand-held (and not with a gimbal), and about 99 per cent of the film is in black and white; it is also 4:30 in the morning so it is pitch black. Almost everything is lit by Guy’s headlamp. This was technically challenging, but it served the story: it created a sense of isolation, of separation from society, and of loneliness. The black mise en scène also kept the focus on Guy. There is also depth-of-field instead of the current trend of no depth-of-field, and it is shot with a single camera not with two or three.
The shots work together as a whole. It is a simple single-camera observational documentary. It is shot well and in a way that serves the story.
A professional camcorder, my Panasonic HC-X2
To unwittingly prove a point, I also filmed it on a professional camcorder – which is the camera I own (the best camera is the one you have with you!). Despite their versatility, broadcast specs and superb image quality, camcorders—with their smaller 1-inch ‘type’ sensors—are often ignored in the hype of full frame cameras and razor thin depth-of-field.
But those who know them and use them, love them; because in the real world of news and documentary, where you need to travel light and be up and running within seconds, they are the perfect tool for the job.
It all comes down to knowing your craft and knowing what's going to be best for the story – something that surprisingly few YouTube channels focus on [Mark Bone, Luc Forsyth and In-Depth Cine are some notable exceptions here].
The craft of storytelling, not your gear, will determine if your film works or doesn’t. When you learn that the world’s best cinematographers still shine lights through bed sheets and bounce light off cardboard; and that the industry standard shotgun microphone was first released nearly 50 years ago, you soon realise it’s not about the gear.
I’ve had similar arguments as a copywriter: when the emphasis is on writing SEO copy instead of writing a compelling story; or when fundraisers insist that putting in an ‘ask’ every other paragraph—‘Will you help Matthew become a better filmmaker today?’—is the most effective way to raise funds for a cause.
My retort has always been the same: you just need good content. Good content is compelling, it is read, it is watched, it is remembered. It is also shared. If you want people to know you, to know what you do and why they should hire you or help your cause, make good content.
Finale
So no, I don’t own a drone, or a gimbal or a black pro mist filter, the latest teal and orange LUTs or any other trendy thing. But I do have a good camera, some good microphones, a couple of good lights and a good tripod. And I know how to find and tell a good story.
In the couple of thousand views and comments and personal messages and conversations I’ve had since publishing The Temperature Guy, no-one (seriously, no-one!) has asked me what camera I used. Two people mentioned that they loved it was in black and white. One filmmaker I know mentioned how clean the audio was.
The hundreds of other comments have been about the story.
And that’s the way it should be.