Captured by the Magic

"Reach out, I'll be there..." banal lyrics from a pop song of the middle sixties yet like so much of pop music it is a memory hook for me recalling my instant infatuation with the exciting if little known world of television production. With aspirations that exceeded ability I stood at the back of Channel 3's Studio A mesmerised by the organised chaos of recording a programme called 'Saturday Date' hosted by a then radio jock called Phil Hunter. 

As the Motown beat of 'Reach Out' filled the studio, the young girls kicked up their legs allowing the cameras to carve patterns between them, trying to interpret this exuberance in a manner that would appeal to a young and energetic audience. This was Newcastle television circa 1965, enthusiastic, optimistic and naïve. So was I. Little did I know or appreciate back then that the production of such shows in a regional environment was economically unsustainable.

Love doesn't acknowledge such boundaries. Consequently I fell in love with television at  the moment those first demanding beats of that song bounced off the concrete floor of the studio and reached my ears. That the song was already a personal favourite (I still have the vinyl LP) served only to enhance the experience and convince me that television was my future.

While my friends that I had brought with me for moral support (I was looking for a job) joined in the merry fray, it is a measure of my intensity back then that I observed the 'decadence' from the shadows, dressed primly in a suit (I was looking for a job and hoped to impress). How many 15 year-olds back then even knew what a suit was let alone would wear one, wetsuits excepted? In to-day's terminology I would have been considered a 'dork' albeit minus its IT connotations. That stereotype was still in gestation. Following the recording session I was driven home that night by the show's producer, Bill Bowen, who coincidentally happened to be the husband of one of my school's librarians, Stephanie Bowen, who also coincidentally occasionally appeared as a singer on 'Saturday Date'.

Despite Mrs. Bowen's presence (she was after all one of my teachers) in the car I took advantage of the informality of the occasion to ask Bill a few questions about the magical world of television, like how did he work or how many hours a week, pretty basic and unimaginative entreaties given the opportunity. He obligingly responded with an answer that captures the dynamic tensions between creativity and commercial reality, an answer that abides with me even today. Bill's point was that fundamentally while he might have been paid to work a determined number of hours a week, that did not mean that he did his thinking or generated his creative ideas within those hours. Not uncommonly it would be quite the opposite. My far simpler career bears witness to that statement in that my ideas came to me in either the shower or the toilet. The psychologists will offer explanations to do with relaxation etc. during such occurrences but generally most people find that proposition confronting if not revolting. I'm with the shrinks. Basically however if you expect to be paid for your ideas, you have to realise them within commercial timeframes or constraints, a truth that was to become self evident many years later in my own business.

That night was not so much a turning point in my life as a confirmation that my long held desire to be a cameraman was achievable if grounded in optimism rather than the pragmatics of Newcastle as a heavy industrial city which it distinctly was back then. One could always get a job at the BHP or the State Dockyard, a certainty now buried these days in the city's mythology. And at the uncertain age of 15 what period of time does a "long held desire" represent? Long enough to say that the money I had won as a bursary to support my studies in my last two years of high school was instead invested in an 8mm camera and projector to feed what was to become one of my driving passions. Mind you my parents had strongly urged me towards accountancy as accountants made money. How painfully prescient of them to promote this truth back them. How youthfully arrogant of me to reject it or at least transform it to that of an Economics teacher - teaching was all about the holidays to go surfing.

That volatile cocktail of youthful arrogance, ignorance and naiveté saw me some months after my 'début' on Saturday Date asking the then General Manager of Channel 3, Ken Stone, about my prospects of a job with the station. To his everlasting credit he granted me that interview, an opportunity largely unheard of these days. Apart from being terribly nervous I can recall nothing of that interview except that he introduced me to the studio supervisor, Barrie Jones, who attempted to enlighten me a little further.

Buoyed by this unexpected show of support for my aspirations I was convinced that it was only a matter of time before I would be working in television. Reality bit in the form of having to complete my HSC studies while briefly entertaining the thought of entering the CMF (Citizens’ Military Forces) for a little extra money. A subsequent indulgent interview with Barrie Jones convinced me that part time army service was not the way to enter the television industry in Newcastle.

It was good advice for within a week of completing my HSC exams I received a telegram from one Barrie, asking me if I could start the following week as a production assistant in the studio at Channel 3. It's a somewhat incredulous start given the notoriously few opportunities in the industry even to-day. It was also something of a let down when I discovered that with an HSC I was 'overqualified' compared with my new found colleagues in television. My former school colleagues who pursued engineering studies were earning $35/week while I was commanding the princely sum of $19/ week less $1.00 in tax. I suspect those relativities have remained largely unchanged. 

But how proud was I when given a pair of overalls - white and emblazoned with the Channel 3 brand. Proud to wear overalls? It was an oddity as much as white overalls wear an oddity also. However they hid from view my anti fashion statement of Jac shirt, Bermuda shorts and golf socks, the kind of retro clothing that is best forgotten. But overalls were a mandatory issue to be worn on outside broadcasts and when cleaning the studio.

One doesn't think of making television as being dirty work but when you are only a trainee it was. "Boongs" we were called in a less politically correct era and Steve, Russell and I were at the bottom of the food chain and were responsible for moving the sets in and out and cleaning the studio floor including the residue from Romper Room.

We also had garbage detail which on occasions meant crushing in large sacks all the extraneous news film that was sent down the back for disposal. This I thought was sacrilege and I would attempt to retrieve some of it thinking it valuable. I was to later learn that in the maelstrom of the daily news bulletin very little of its content had much value beyond that day. Except that not only news film was discarded but occasionally something that people thought was worthless. My scavenging efforts were rewarded when I secured a copy of a discarded film called "Woy Woy, Venice of the Pacific" made somewhere in the 1940's early '50's by my reckoning. Although jettisoned as rubbish it is now a treasure as it captures that part of the Central Coast while it was still largely unknown. It probably also represents the first attempt to promote the Central Coast as a tourist destination - what is one man's fish is another man's poisson? Dirty work was hardly the world of my dreams but I was at least within striking distance of the cameras and the notion of starting at the bottom and working your way to the top still had some currency. And if that meant cleaning up spilt milk and inflating Romper Room punching balls then I was very happy with my 'apprenticeship'.

Naturally all of the camera positions were occupied but we trainees learnt the ropes literally, by manhandling the cables that trailed from the cameras. The need for overalls quickly became obvious as we learnt to deftly whip these black snakes away from the feet of the cameramen in their pursuit of the director's request for the next shot. To relieve the boredom of this task one of us would play the role of 'Mr Sun and Mr Moon" for Romper Room, holding aloft a pole with the appropriate celestial bodies dangling down from fishing line. Somehow or other this power over the elements didn't strike me as career progression but it lead to me being allowed to 'track boom' That is, push round the floor a platform supporting an operator who winched in and out a mechanical arm with a microphone attached. If done too enthusiastically tracking boom could leave the operator dangling in open space. While it was tempting - well I was still only young and with an adventurous spirit, I recognised that at some time I too would have to take my place on that platform. As I had no desire to be the victim of the aerial acrobatics such a stunt would have entailed I curbed my mischievous desires and concentrated instead on attaining the role on the platform. Although clearly an audio position it did teach me the basics about positioning a microphone for optimum sound recording while still keeping it out of shot, an invaluable lesson for my future.

Most of us gained our initial camera experience however in Studio B, framing static shots and when we were considered capable, allowed to perform a zoom into a subject live to air. It was a heady moment for it recognised advancement and professional development yet to-day it is but an incidental skill. I should note however that back then only one of the three cameras in the main studio, Studio A had a zoom lens. The others still had a set of four fixed lenses mounted on a rotating turret. In other words, mastering the use of a zoom lens was a key skill. Perfunctory though it may be these days, effective zooming technique still distinguishes the professional from the amateur.

Finally I made the grade and was ushered on to the Romper Room set this time as a cameraman. No more Mr Sun and Mr Moon although I still had to help move sets in and out of the studio. Finally I was driving one of these beauties that I had so admired a couple of years previously. Although called cameras these electronic behemoths were largely controlled by the engineers who saw them as pieces of technical equipment not creative tools. The cameraman was little more than an operator to frame and focus the shot. Everything else was under the control of the engineers. Everything had to conform to defined electronic parameters which left no scope for anything creative.

At the time such detail was beyond my comprehension I was simply ecstatic at having the opportunity to drive one. It was an exhilarating and satisfying experience despite the anxiety that such first time situations generate. Because it was pre-recorded, Romper Room was a safe start for if you stuffed it up sufficiently the director always had the option of re-recording the segment, not that I ever recall that happening. Live broadcasts were the acid test and lifted the anxiety levels up several notches. In my time on the studio crew I worked on only two of these; Jackpot Quiz and the news.

Jackpot Quiz was one of those generic quiz programmes designed more to promote a sponsor's product than any genuine test of knowledge or even trivia. Being a live telecast was hugely motivating, putting us all on our mettle. With several musical segments it even allowed for some creative camerawork. Such opportunities were rare so doing camera on Jackpot Quiz was usually the highlight of the week. It was a most satisfying experience and tempted me to forsake my longer term goal of shooting news in favour of studio work. Fortunately I didn't succumb to the temptation as local productions such as Jackpot Quiz were a dying concept, their demise taking with them, from a cameraman's perspective, that satisfaction of meeting a creative challenge. Commercial production lacked that crucial dynamic that so appealed to me of being able to move a camera in a creative manner with a live telecast being the icing on the cake.

Although also live the evening news telecasts were presented according to a strict and unexciting format. But being part of the evening news crew gave me entrée to a distinctive 'club'. It meant that I was working when everybody else had gone home with a bonus informal tea break prior to the telecast being enjoyed in the small lighting room adjacent to the studio entrance. To-day you would probably call it bonding. Even with the news set and cameras in place Studio A was still a formidable arena, its comparative vastness threatening to overwhelm the four or five of us grouped around the news set. The surreal and sterile atmosphere made it even more difficult to accept that there were hundreds of thousands of people watching what we were doing. We seemed divorced from the perceived reality of the viewer at home.

Three cameras were required for news each with pre-determined shots. Camera one took the main shot, camera two provided a close up of the news reader while the third camera was dedicated to graphics, generally suburb names which were superimposed over the film shot at that location. By to-day's dazzling compositions they were, in a word primitive; Letraset (printed lettering attached to translucent sheets of special paper) transferred to a piece of black cardboard by simply rubbing with a pencil, the completed graphic placed on a stand in front of the camera.

Outside broadcasts brought challenges and anxieties in addition to those that normally accompanied the nightly news telecast so to attempt a live outside broadcast during the news was not necessarily courting disaster but it was an immediate relative. So it was that we were to cross live to the State Dockyard during the news to show a little of the launch ceremony of the BP Enterprise, one of the last large ships to be built at the yard. To ensure a smooth transition in and out of the telecast and to cover any timing uncertainties and the potential loss of the live signal News Director Bill Bowen had me lock my camera off on a still photograph of the ship. Being a glossy photograph it picked up reflections one of which turned out to be coming from the little red cue light on top of the camera. However it was not apparent until the camera was selected and the light came on. As the camera was going to be selected for quite a period of time it was essential that the reflection be removed. With no time for any changes to the lighting or camera angles I simply threw my handkerchief over the light. It worked but... Although only a small light it still generated heat which is why the coloured housing had a hole in the top of it to enable the heat to dissipate. My handkerchief securely covered that hole and the plastic housing quietly melted underneath. As the light still worked the housing was never replaced but remained atop the camera a misshapen monument to my expediency.

Long after I had left the studio crew I still grimaced every time I ventured into the studio and saw that light. It was perhaps as well that I didn't recognise it then as a portent of my future.

Working on the news gave me an opportunity to demonstrate my enthusiasm and ability to Murray Finlay (nicknamed ‘Fin’) who although not in charge of the newsroom was nevertheless a dominant player in its running. It also presented the opportunity For occasional lobbying. Unashamedly I took advantage of these opportunities to express my long held interest in ultimately becoming a news cameraman even to the point of persuading News Editor Murray Masterton to loan me a camera one Saturday morning to see what I could do. It was hardly an impressive result. I attempted to illustrate a little of what Saturday morning shopping was like in Hunter Street - back when you could drive down what is now the mall. Disjointed was probably the kindest critique offered of my efforts, the less said about any other commentary the better.

But I must have made an impression for when a position became available in the newsroom it was offered directly to me. Needless to say I eagerly grabbed it. How much my lobbying influenced my success I will never know but I left the floor crew with some surprising regrets about what I was forsaking in order to chase my dream. I had not countenanced how much I would enjoy the studio work. The regrets were short lived.