3

The Film Doctor Is In

► The Profession

Where do editors come from? Why do people become editors? It has been said that the editor is someone who, if he or she were more ambitious, enthralled by working with actors, or loved to move the camera around, would be a director. In this sense the editor was a frustrated director. Many editors have, in fact, become directors, notably David Lean (Lawrence of Arabia, The Bridge on the River Kwai, Doctor Zhivago) and Robert Wise (The Sound of Music, West Side Story). But people who become editors do so because they love the challenge of story structure, the subtleties of character, and the sublime experience of rhythm.

In my university classes I used to begin by asking everyone who wanted to be a director to raise his or her hand. Scores of hands would shoot into the air. Then I would ask who wanted to be an editor. Maybe one or two hands would float up from the crowd. Today it is different. In the same course taught ten years later, the majority wanted to be editors, not directors. Why the change? Perhaps because the once nearly anonymous job of editing has moved to the forefront. Perhaps because more and more people have access to equipment by means of Avid Media Composer, Premiere Pro, and others. This coupled with software, such as Photoshop, After Effects, ProTools, and Maya has alerted the computer generation to the influence of postproduction.

An editor responsible for many hit films confided that he never wanted to be a director. He took a Zen-like approach to the editorial process and professed that, unlike the director and producer whose minds were occupied with the film day and night, from the development of the script to the key art on the one-sheets, he left everything behind in the editing room at the end of the day. He began fresh each morning and enjoyed the direct participation with the new material before him. During those hours in the editing room, the dailies became his whole world, and by uncovering the treasures within the takes, he would compose a film.

Almost all films today, from Gravity (2013) to La La Land (2016), are postproduction miracles to one extent or another. Even movies that on the surface appear to have no need for special effects benefit from high-tech postproduction, including the Facebook drama The Social Network (2010). Even the period drama Pride and Prejudice (2005) starring Keira Knightley reportedly required a special effects team to replace the dull, overcast English skies with attractive clouds. Miss Potter (2006), the film of nineteenth-century writer and artist Beatrice Potter with her fanciful drawings of bunnies, ducks, and gardens, mixes motion tracking and animation in order to tell the tale. Today, the opportunity to shape a film through the extensive tools afforded editors attracts many to the profession. It remains essential, however, to remember the basis for all of this marvelous technology—the need to tell a good story.

Experienced editors at the top of their game do more than put images together in enticing ways based on a plethora of techniques handed down from one master to another. They analyze the narrative and all that is involved in telling a good story. In constructing a scene, an editor needs a solid approach to the material. And, if called upon to nurse an ailing film, he or she needs to know how to diagnose problems.

► The Approach

Beginning editors often concern themselves with the principles of editing or mastering the use of software. They want to know how to make a match cut or where to locate the title tool on Premiere Pro or when the latest version of Avid is coming out. But the essential question they must ask is “How do I approach a scene?” What thought and feeling processes are needed to discover the right way to cut a scene? This is more important than technical expertise. Here are some of the basic questions an editor should ask for each and every scene before starting to cut:

• ► What is the scene about?
• ► Who is the scene about?
• ► How will the scene begin? How will it end?
• ► What are the beats that need to be met or addressed within the scene?
• ► What do the characters want in this scene? Why do they want it?
• ► How does this scene affect the overall film?
• ► Is there anything missing?

One is reminded of the Zen artist who endeavors to paint a picture of a single tree. Wishing to capture its essence, the artist sits for hours gazing at his subject. The hours become days. And the days become weeks. People wander by, wondering when he will paint the picture, but he doesn’t move. Then one day, in a flurry of sudden activity, he dips his brush into the ink and rapidly dashes it across the paper. In a matter of seconds, he has created the most stunning painting of a tree anyone has ever seen.

Such is the way of the editor. In working with narrative motion pictures, he or she should watch all the dailies before making a cut. These days, with the tight schedules, the editor may be the only one to see all the performances, as was the case of Chris Innis and Bob Murawski, the editors of Hurt Locker (2008), speaking in Allan Holzman’s film Invisible Art/Visible Artists. Even a director, who used to screen every take, may not have that opportunity.

As the editor views the dailies, he should let the sounds and images flow through him. He should note the special moments that jump out at him. He should remain alert to the take that wants to begin the scene. And then, and only then, when he has truly seen the potential of the footage in front of him, should he begin to cut. The time he has consumed in watching the dailies will be repaid in the alacrity and smoothness with which the cut will come together. And, though his movements may look rushed, his decisions come from a place of unhurried perception.

What Is the Scene About?

Scenes are mini-movies. Like the overall film, each scene is about something. In a sense, each scene is a self-contained movie. In Up in the Air (2009), Ryan Bingham (George Clooney) jets around the country firing employees for companies who won’t do it themselves. The deepest desire of this charming and unattached corporate hit man is to achieve the rare distinction of logging ten million Frequent Flyer miles. Yet the scene when he finally achieves his lofty goal is not about victory. Visited by the plane’s captain (Sam Elliott), who presents him with the coveted Executive Platinum award, Ryan’s long-awaited celebration becomes a realization of his rootless life, the fact that he has no home and no relationships. That’s what the scene is about.

Knowing what a scene is about guides the editor’s decision-making process. In determining what a scene is about, the editor must ask a series of questions. These include:

• ► What does the audience learn from this scene that makes this scene necessary?
• ► How does what they learn influence the eventual outcome of the story?
• ► Does this scene reveal something new about the character or her needs?
• ► What’s the underlying, or subtextual, meaning of the scene?
• ► What feeling should this scene elicit from the viewer?
• ► Does the scene, as shot, have enough coverage to fulfill its objective?

If you can answer these questions, you’re on your way to assembling a successful scene.

Filling the Gaps

Remember the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle in Chapter 1? That piece is discovered when the editor tells herself the story. Discovering the wider story is like seeing the whole landscape from a mountaintop. Immediately, one can point out the town, the river, the forest. Knowing the wider story allows the editor to compare the footage she has with the footage she needs. Sometimes they match up. Sometimes they don’t. If she doesn’t have the footage she needs, she must find it.

The story the editor tells herself is not necessarily the story as written. It is the transcendent tale that forms the basis of the scene. Perhaps it is an archetypal plot that operates behind the contemporary story as scripted. Ultimately, there exist only so many plots in the world. Depending on whom you ask or which book you read, the count seems to vary between four and 36 master stories. These are the stories and the myths that power your editing as well.

Case Study

Early in my career I co-edited Prancer (1989) with Dennis O'Connor, a Christmas film about a girl, Jessica (Rebecca Harrell), who finds a wounded reindeer in the woods. Believing it belongs to Santa Claus, she coaxes it home and hides it in the toolshed on their farm. As she nurses the reindeer back to health, she’s careful to keep it hidden from her strict and tormented father (Sam Elliott). Eventually, the reindeer escapes from the barn and is discovered by the father, who sells the animal to the butcher for display at a Christmas tree lot.

Only after the little girl makes a heroic attempt to rescue the reindeer, braving a snowstorm and nearly catching pneumonia, does her father come around. He realizes how his grief over his deceased wife and his failing farm has overshadowed his love and attention for his only daughter. In an attempt to reconcile with Jessica, he buys back the reindeer from the butcher. At this point the stories of the girl and her father cross. The once hard-hearted father is willing to allow the fantasy that the reindeer really is one of Santa’s, while the disappointed daughter rejects that possibility. She declares, “I never want to see that reindeer again.” After a tender scene, beautifully cut by Dennis, where father and daughter reconcile, I was given the farewell scene to edit, beginning at the point where the father carries his daughter through the downstairs crowd of concerned neighbors and into the snow where Prancer awaits in the back of their pickup truck. At this point, Jessie has agreed to accompany Prancer out to Antler Ridge and release him into the wild, in time for Christmas.

The climactic scene involves the girl’s farewell to her beloved reindeer, while the father looks on from a distance. Everything has built toward this moment. Yet when it came time to put it together, a gap appeared in the jigsaw puzzle. There wasn’t enough footage to allow the scene to play as it should. After sitting through 90 minutes of a story where nothing is more important to this girl than the life of this animal, the audience deserved a satisfying farewell. Yet without the footage to support it, the potentially vital scene was destined to play anemically. It was clear that other footage was needed.

Why did it become obvious? Because in viewing the dailies I found a story within this story, a story that directed the editing choices. Yet I couldn’t find the necessary elements to complete the story. Without a concept, without an approach, without a story driving each scene the editor constructs, he or she is like the surgeon in the New Yorker cartoon in Figure 1.1. Let the story guide you. It provides the fire that burns away everything false; it tells you what to look for. In this case the scene wasn’t just about a girl opening the tailgate on her father’s flatbed Ford and releasing a dumb animal back into the wilderness where it was born. It could be cut that way, but it would be wrong. The scene was about much more. It was a love story. Two lovers are saying their final good-byes. They will never see each other again. The life of each has been enriched by the other, but now it’s time to part. Circumstance and nature will not allow their union to continue. And each has a job to do: The reindeer needs to return to his kind or, if he’s truly Santa’s, to help deliver presents the world over, and Jessie needs to go to school, play with her friends, and grow up. Despite their love for each other, the two must do the right thing and say goodbye, forever.

Where have we seen that story before? How about the postwar film starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman? A little girl is not Ingrid Bergman and a reindeer is not Bogie, but in a sense they are playing the same roles. And experiencing similar emotions. Remember the end of Casablanca (1942) where Rick (Humphrey Bogart) has secured the rights of passage for Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid) and Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman)? Ilsa thinks Rick is going with her to continue their affair, but he has other plans, honorable plans. He’s not just solving the untenable love triangle, he’s allowing Ilsa to continue to pursue her cause. In order to do this he’s decided to stay behind. Once he announces these plans, the story’s trajectory shifts and becomes a final farewell. But Ilsa doesn’t just hop on the plane and fly away. She and Rick exchange words with each other, profess their love, their sense of duty, and recall that they’ll always have memories of their days in Paris. Likewise, in Prancer, Jessie’s last words to the reindeer promise, “I’ll always remember you.” In Casablanca, having left his beloved, Rick remains behind with Captain Renault (Claude Rains), whom he tells, “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Likewise, we have the sense that Jessie and her father are seeing the dawn of a new relationship.

With this in mind I constructed the scene. All the elements were there, but not in the profusion necessary to fill it out. Jessie’s dialogue was well covered and the director, John Hancock, had elicited a heartfelt performance. But in order to construct the scene as mentioned, more footage was needed of the reindeer. After all, if it were a love scene, it needed to be able to give equal weight to both sides of the equation: the girl and the animal she loved.

So the assistants were sent on a mission—to locate all the footage they could find of Prancer. It didn’t matter where it occurred in the film or for what scenes it was originally intended. Just so it fit the needs of this scene. The only requirements were that it was shot at dusk or night—around the same time as the existing footage, that it was from a low enough angle to represent Jessie’s point of view, and that the reindeer’s harness, complete with bells, was strapped to its neck—as was the case in this scene.

Figure 3.1 In Prancer (1989), a discontinuity that is obvious in this series of still frames is practically invisible in the flow of the story

Copyright © Nelson Films, Inc. Photo credit: Orion Pictures/Photofest.

Ultimately, the assistants returned with stolen footage that fulfilled two of the three categories. They found excellent low-angle single shots of the reindeer, and these were at night. The fact that there was no other footage with bells had to be ignored for the moment. Armed with this material, I was able to build a scene between the two lovers, cutting from Jessie’s dialogue to the reindeer’s reactions. As Jessie speaks, Prancer’s response is intercut with hers. At the scene’s conclusion, as Jessie throws open the tailgate releasing the beast into the wild, Prancer rises up, leaps over the camera, and disappears into the woods.

To make this work, I had to break rules remorselessly. Fortunately, editors aren’t arrested for such transgressions. And few are ever fired for such boldness. The ones who suffer are those editors who hold too firmly to convention and distrust the audience’s ability to become immersed in a good story with compelling characters. Unlike filmmakers, most audiences know nothing of film theory. All they know is what works and what doesn’t. When it became a choice of using a shot of Prancer without bells or leaving out the shot, I chose to remain with the shot (see Figure 3.1). The reasoning was this: If the audience isn’t involved in the scene, it doesn’t really matter whether the reindeer is dressed in a jingling harness or if it’s naked. If the audience becomes emotionally involved in the scene, they probably won’t even notice.

Also, audiences don’t tend to remember variations in discontinuous shots. If Character A performs an action in the first shot, and then we cut to Character B, when we come back to Character A, she may have shifted position, but if it wasn’t drastic, the discontinuity won’t register with the audience. Conversely, if Character A’s action in a close-up is different in the shot that follows—a wide angle, for instance—the change will be more pronounced and obvious. In the case of Prancer’s bells, until it was pointed out, nobody noticed. Eventually, in the final mix, the sound crew and director chose to place a slight, subliminal jingle on the soundtrack whenever Prancer moved, thereby reinforcing the bell’s presence.

In the case of Prancer, discovering the deeper story and breaking the rules of continuity created a better movie. It allowed the scene to develop fully as writer and director had intended it. The satisfying ending may have even helped the movie become one of the top-grossing films during its release, returning, like Santa, each Christmas to TV, stores, and the internet.

What Does the Audience Learn From This Scene?

How does a scene influence the eventual outcome of the story? Does the scene reveal something new about the character or introduce a new character? Many of the questions asked by editors when they begin the long marathon of cutting a feature film emerge for the film doctor at the other end of the process. Once a film has been assembled or, in some cases, reached initial completion, the questions return again and again until resolved.

We have all experienced the party guest, often with a drink in one hand, who goes on and on about some meandering tale that seems to lack a point or focus. As uncomfortable and boring as this can be in a social situation, it is equally unsettling in films. A significant role in editing is to find ways to focus a story, delineate character, and ultimately hold the audience’s attention. To accomplish this, the editor relies on contrast, conflict, drama, and the all-important throughline to accentuate the essential elements and discard anything unessential. The big question becomes how to distinguish the essential from the inessential. In many cases a particularly well-composed or choreographed shot may seem essential, particularly in the director’s mind. Likewise with a line of dialogue. If it does not contribute to the progression of the story, or to the emotion engendered by the story, it is generally a good idea to cut it out. Unlike novels which can benefit from tangents, detailed backstory, and literary embellishment, films demand their own high standards. Many shots, story points, and lines of dialogue can fail this test. An often applied metric goes something like this: “If the audience isn’t going to miss it, it should not be there.”

Mannequin: On the Move (1991) is the tale of a young woman (Kristy Swanson) frozen for a thousand years through a sorcerer’s curse intended to keep her from her true love, Prince William (William Ragsdale). Centuries later, she ends up in a high-end department store in Philadelphia where she is discovered by the current incarnation of her love, Jason Williamson (Figure 3.2). The closing scene involves a ballroom filled with people. The coverage displayed many of the participants, and it was easy to give a sense of the chaos by cutting to all the different people. But the scene was about Jason, who had disguised himself in order to intercept his cherished mannequin-turned-human. Even though the scene was peppered with other colorful but unknown characters, it was important to continually return to Jason, to show his progress through the crowd.

Attention Deficit

These days much is discussed about attention deficit disorder, in regard to how many of us, captivated by the barrage of information and technology that constantly bombards us, have our attention split. Yet is it attention deficit or attention overload? News programs in the 1960s usually involved a solitary announcer seated at a desk with some papers in front of him—it was generally a male—speaking calmly to camera. Eventually, with the use of video keying, images were composited behind him to illustrate what he was reporting. Next, titles and other elements were added, until now when the commentator or commentators are often eclipsed by all the other elements dancing around on the screen: a ticker tape–like crawl announcing other news updates, countdowns to upcoming events, lower thirds with the name, profession, and sometimes pertinent quotes of an interview subject, and picture-in-picture boxes displaying other events or people not necessarily associated with the currently reported story. Our smartphones constantly bombard us with friend requests, notifications, texts, e-mails, and news updates. One is rarely alone anymore. Yet to edit a movie one needs time alone. This requires pushing out other influences. The editor needs to discover for him- or herself the essence of a scene. And that scene needs to be focused, just as the overall film must find its focus.

Figure 3.2Mannequin: On the Move (1991)

Copyright © Universal Studios. Photographer: Francois Duhamel. Still courtesy of Universal Studios/Photofest.

The throughline, or what is sometimes called the story spine, is an essential element of storytelling. Without it, tales become diffuse. The editor must continuously lasso the story and pull it back to its central theme and idea. One of the most important ways to accomplish this is to ask who the story is about. In well-covered scenes there may be multiple players, each vying for the audience’s attention. In a simple dialogue scene it is easy to cut back and forth between two actors. But to truly make it into a scene, the editor needs to know who the scene is really about. Discovering this will determine who will be given emphasis and whose role will be diminished. This in turn informs such choices as shot selection, shot length, and overlaps.

Editors and directors often speak of keeping characters alive. In this case it is not a medical reference. This implies that important characters who lack dialogue or actions in a scene should not be forgotten. They need to remain in the audience’s line of sight, referred back to with a brief cut, perhaps to show their reaction.

Further Diagnosis

As with the human body, there are many things that can go wrong with a film. Fortunately, with humans, our immune systems usually protect us from viral or bacterial intruders. And homeostasis—an amazing phenomenon that is rarely apparent to us until it is disrupted—rules the day. When something is off-balance due to fever, pain, or dizziness, it becomes immediately obvious—and overwhelming. As editors we need to develop the same level of acuity. If a scene runs too long, a performance lacks honesty, or a transition proves jarring, we need to recognize it as if it were an unexpected and painful stomachache.

Wrestling With Material

Part of being a good editor is learning to trust your feelings. One day, putting together a dialogue scene consisting of many characters, the editor might find himself stymied by the approach he has taken. The scene just isn’t coming together. It should have—after all, it was a simple dialogue scene. Following several hours of wrestling with the scene, the editor comes to the obvious conclusion: He has lost his touch. Most artists confront this disquieting insecurity from time to time, the feeling that they are fakes, cheats, charlatans; how dare they even accept a salary? Obviously they are in the wrong profession, and it has taken this long for them to realize it.

Cut! Full stop. What about all the other scenes in the film that are working well? Who edited those? The same editor who’s struggling with the current scene. Maybe there is something wrong with the scene. Maybe it is not working because the editor is not feeling it. Or rather, the editor is not feeling it because some element is not working. Step back and examine the patient again. What went wrong here? Perhaps it’s a lack of coverage; perhaps the dramatic situation feels contrived; perhaps the performance looks forced and the editor is not willing to admit it; perhaps there are too many people in this simple scene, and they’re all talking, and what they’re saying is unimportant. The editor is bored. And the audience is going to be bored. Trust your feelings. The scene isn’t working because the scene is a lousy scene. But you can fix it or, at least, make sure it doesn’t harm the rest of the film.

Not all scenes, even those by brilliant, accomplished writers and directors, can work as shot. If you know how to edit, if you’ve taken the time to review the dailies and discover an approach to the material, and it’s still not captivating you, there’s probably something wrong with the scene. At that point, it becomes necessary to reevaluate. In some cases, the cut should be trashed, and the process should start over from the beginning.

These days it’s easier to scrap a scene and begin anew. All the dailies are waiting in virtual bins, as intact as when the editor first began. In earlier times, scrapping a scene took nerve. Only one version of the dailies existed, and it resided on a physical medium—film—so every cut was a commitment, a potentially destructive move severing the child from its mother. Reconstituting a scene required breaking apart all the shots, finding the rolls they belonged to, and splicing them back into the original dailies. Considering this today, one should not hear complaints when an editor is confronted by the task of starting over. Not only have the digital dailies remained undisturbed and ready to serve up their images again at any time, but also the editor can hedge her bets by making a copy of the previous sequence. This helps if, for some reason, it turns out that the first version was the better one. Or to prove to the director why it wasn’t.

► When Poisons Are Medicines, Accidents Are Intentions

One of the film doctor’s secret medicines resides in the accident. Just as the poisons foxglove, belladonna, and datura have been used in a multitude of valuable cures, so too the accident that is generally considered unusable footage can, in small doses, help or even save a scene. One such example is addressed in detail in Chapter 13 as a case study of the film Horseplayer (1990). But there are many occasions where an unintended event, by nature of its realness, finds its way into the final film. That is the virtue of accidents—they contain reality and bring verisimilitude to a scene. In most cases a filmmaker would not wish for an actor to stumble, a prop to fall, or a camera to continue running past “cut.” Yet when these events occur, they offer new possibilities to the editor.

Actress Kym Karath told me that at five years old, when she played little Gretl in The Sound of Music (1965), she couldn’t swim. In the scene where the Von Trapp children and their governess (Julie Andrews) row up to their home dressed in clothes fashioned from curtains, director Robert Wise preferred not to use a stunt double, so Karath agreed to play the scene herself. The plan was for the boat to capsize and, as Karath and Andrews fell off one side, the elder actress would catch the younger. The first take went as planned, but on the second take Karath fell forward while Andrews fell backward. Karath hit the lake and sank to the shallow bottom, swallowing a good amount of water. The quick action of the assistant director saved her. But rather than use another take when this one failed to proceed as planned, the director—a former film editor (Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons)—chose to include it as part of the scene. In the final version, the accident occurs, and before Karath is rescued by the AD, there’s a cut, and she is carried from the water by Louisa (Heather Menzies). Ultimately, the accident’s inclusion evoked a realistic, less staged, and more dramatic moment.

► Gestation of the Cut

The gestation of a cut, when allowed to follow its natural development, has many stages. If the film is not allowed to mature through these various stages, its growth will be stunted. It will be born premature.

The first stage, as with human development, produces a viable being. In the early stages the overall structure of the film—the skeleton, viscera, and flesh—are constructed. This is according to the dailies as conceived by the script. In the next stage, basic adjustments are made. Temp effects and music are added. Audio dropouts or level shifts are corrected and, ever since the advent of digital editing, color correction is applied. Some tightening occurs. Only after the film is a living, breathing entity does the final stage appear.

Generally, the film is in good shape at this point. It has fulfilled much of what was imagined in the script and at the production stage. In a sense, however, the film has yet to realize its full potential. It still needs to mature.

Now the real editing begins—the lifts, replacements, restructuring, and tightening. Directors and producers often complain, “Why didn’t we just do this in the beginning?” The answer is: because it wasn’t there until it was there. In other words, the editor’s and director’s (and sometimes producer’s) attention was aimed at other factors, the construction of a viable film, the realization of the script. Until that exists the more subtle aspects of timing, plot structure, and character motivation will not reveal themselves.

At this point, the dailies take on a whole new life. Their meaning, once relegated to specific events and character, expands to reveal new colors, fresh untold treasures. In a sense, it appears as if the editor and director have never viewed this footage before and another question sometimes arises: “Why didn’t we ever use that shot?” The answer: because it was not needed, there was no previous requirement for it. That is one of the most exciting aspects of editing, this final discovery stage where the film has taken on a life of its own with its own demands, desires, and expectations. Only after that point is it ready to go out into the world.