A big-sky Anthem

collage/editing by Rachel Shaw

Every other Tuesday I go to a lovely writer's group where we get to freewrite for two sessions of about 15 minutes and then do "readbacks," in "popcorn style." I had never heard of this before and particularly enjoy the way it creates connections throughout everyone's work, almost like creating one giant poem. This time I thought I'd share the two basically unedited pieces that I wrote yesterday: 

1.

I wanted to make an anthem. A scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs anthem, a flag-waving, muscle-car, big-sky anthem. I think that's how you feel when you've gone too long with something sitting on your chest, pressing you down; you think freedom must be a battle cry, blood and tears, some kind of epic trumpet fanfare.

But really it's more like turning the dial on an old radio to the place where it cuts through the static and you can finally hear. Or like finding a quiet spot behind the building to go at lunch break and nobody else knows about it.

Nobody else knows about it, which gives you equal parts pride and dread. What if you get lost or die and no one knows? What if something else equally terrible and unforeseeable happens? There are a million thoughts just waiting to convince you that it was a bad idea, after all.

But don't let them convince you. You are a filament in a lightbulb. Like waking up early with only dreams and silence, ready to ask the day to give you something.


2.

I have come to the point where I know I am not ready. I see myself in the helpless baby robin, in the overly-ambitious shot made in the local game of street basketball, in "third strike, you're out!"

I know I'm more like spray paint gripped by sweating palms on sticky July nights under the railroad awning and the almondy moon. Like the first kiss you later regret because it was terrible but the other person didn't let you know. Like stupid circuit breakers crapping out just when the weather is starting to turn up and your landlord is going to china for three weeks.

At a certain point, though, you've got to throw something overboard or you are going to sink. Either that or maybe upgrade to a bigger boat?

I was always annoyed by people who said that everything is just perspective... because perspective isn't just anything.

Perspective is like Los Angeles cuisine, like street tacos next to Hungarian goulash next to thai food so spicy your eyes water when they give you extra chili.

Perspective is like film critics arguing over Ingrid Bergman's lips, whether or not they contribute to her performance in the film...

My perspective is like a leaky cauldron, siphoning bits of vegetable and meat, and especially cooked carrots--I hate those mushy, cooked carrots so much I could scream.

My perspective is also like a musical instrument that you want to play but are so frightened and reverent that you only pluck a few perfunctory dollups of rhythm from the underbelly of an arpeggio before piously returning it to its case.

Consider also the stained glass shop on Main Strasse as a metaphor, though it seems too pointed a comparison for perspective.

Editing as Empathy

There's something about editing that intrigues me more than any other aspect of filmmaking. Much time is spent coordinating the many moving pieces of a film, giving it a certain "look" through setting, performances, and cinematographic style. But the lifeblood of a film, the energy it has, the momentum, the driving action... it seems to me that editing is needed to fulfill their potential. What, then, is the unique magic of editing?

Empathy.

The film editor works in the medium of empathy. Without empathy, the editor will be unable to connect ideas, themes, and emotions together comprehensively. Without empathy, editing is paint-by-numbers. All of the tricks of editing--the effect of montage, use of rhythm and emotion--require empathy. And the editor is uniquely called to practice empathy on a spectrum of people--from the production team, to the subject, to the audience. The editor offers an open hand to lead the viewer into the story.

Empathy is the name of the instinct that guides editing. And, empathy guides rhythm as well.

Consider a close friend who is suffering. Would you dominate the conversation? No... instead, a rhythm of listening, accepting, and consoling would be appropriate. Empathy in conversation is so rarely found in the words you say to the other; it's in the way you look at them. Non-verbal signals communicate your attentiveness and desire to understand and share their feelings.

Films have the ability to immerse the viewer in many natural and instinctual patterns of behavior, such as the human ability to read facial expressions. Though many of us struggle in various social situations, the evolutionary advantage of being able to read faces has made it a largely instinctual impulse. Editors craft the scene to provide this information to the viewer.

When we watch people on screen, we feel a connection to them. And that's because we have time. Time to watch their faces before they speak... and time to watch them afterwards. Editors have to decide: how much time do I give this emotion? Tony Zhou

In films, time often translates to silence (show, don't tell). We watch the face of a man who just lost his wife to cancer and we don't need dialogue to understand. At the extreme end of this, Chris McCaleb has said "Sometimes you can cut an entire page of dialogue out because maybe a character is saying it in a look." The sentiment being, there is power in a look.

Using empathy in film means giving the people on screen time to express their emotions and, simultaneously, giving the audience time to connect with them. That is the unique magic of editing.