by Ola Zaltin
I’m channel surfing again, so what? I’ve already cleaned the
apartment, colour-coded my books, re-potted the plants and flossed the cat’s
teeth (ok, I don’t have a cat, but the neighbour’s volunteered - if somewhat
evasively - the hurdle was to hold him still but as my niece says: if it ain’t
working, you simply haven’t used enough gaffer tape.) For short: anything to
avoid writing that horrid article for WWJ. “Non-fiction”. I mean, seriously,
where DO they get it all from?
So I’m hopping from channel to channel, merrily
procrastinating away another afternoon in a very clean apartment with some very
happy plants and good-looking bookshelves and someone pounding on my door
yipping away for cat and country about the RSPCA in the background. Which is
when something catches my eye and I suddenly can’t make my thumb obey my brain
and push the button for the next channel. And no, it’s not Playboy channel (not
this time, at any rate).
In fact, I don’t know what it is. It’s utterly strange,
what I’m watching. There’s black and white footage from some kind of eastern
block country in the seventies. Oldsters being interviewed about I think
Czechoslovakia back in the day. An English woman in her seventies, who I am
starting to understand is looking for her heritage in the Jewish part of Prague
that was before WW2. I haven’t watched any channel more than 10 seconds
tonight, and now already 20 minutes have passed without me moving a muscle. Okay,
truth be told, I just made up the specifics of the documentary. But you know
the feeling: you just have to find out what the story is and so you stay on the
channel. At least if you’re curious, and I believe most writers are, on one
level or other.
In the image-saturated society of today we have become
extremely adept at decoding moving images. I dare anyone reading this not being
able to tell within five seconds after switching to a new channel what genre it
is, whether made for tv or film, what decade it was produced, and round about
where we are in the story. Sounds like a lot? Yet you do it without thinking
about it 25 times per evening, give or take. If you watch the telly, that is.
If not, stop reading. Now.
Genre is easy of course, rom-com, detective stories,
comedy, thrillers, historical dramas etc; we all know them. TV-productions
generally contains more talking heads, few movie-stars (for natural reasons),
whereas films have another aspect-ratio, better lensing and more landscapes and
so on. Production decade isn’t a biggie either, as we decode this fast as well,
based on things like resolution, black & white or techni-colour or colour,
the way the dialogue runs, the fashion and interior decorating of the sets, and
more. Even historical dramas from another decade aren’t that hard (e.g.
“Kelly’s Heroes”: a film from 1970 set during the second world war has Donald
Sutherland as a hippie in a tank...).
Where one has landed in a film when channel surfing can
be figured out through some easy tells: if the camera is zooming in slowly,
it’s the very opening. If it’s slowly zooming out, the credits are about to
start rolling. The beginning means a lot of talking, a lot of exposition,
things are moving along at a rather sedate pace. Middle means things just got a
lot more complicated and dangerous (spot the film: the Death Star is in
fact fully operational, Jules is kidnapped by Davian, Cobb’s projection of Mal
sabotages the plan, and so on and so forth ad absurdum). When it starts raining
and the guy just lost the gun, the girl plus his nerve and the storm of the
century is headed for the coast with 100 feet waves saturated with very miffed
cyborg sharks - that’s when you can tell we’re beginning to see the climax and
approaching the ending of the story. And
so on, there’s a dozen other simple signs that we decode and understand more or less subconsciously.
This is part of my theory why documentaries make such
fascinating viewing. Being so inundated with Hollywoodese and its formula story
telling, well made documentaries has become a breath of fresh air, an anti-dote
to the make believe world of been there seen that. Although knowing what’s
around the corner can be very comforting in story-telling terms, we also need
to be surprised, get to know new worlds, true drama and deep sorrows and
real-life triumphs. After all, this is what fiction strives to portray.
So what makes documentaries so watchable? To find out
more about this I called up Swedish documentary film maker Fredrik Gertten
(whose film ”Bananas!” http://www.bananasthemovie.com/ is now out for
distribution in the UK). It came as no surprise that his genre of documentary
film-making, doesn’t have a script per se. More of an outline, a question he is
curious about. Something worth exploring to see if there is a story behind the
headline, the article or the tip-off. What came as more of a revelation was
that he said good documentaries were character driven. Fredrik told me that
once he has the subject matter researched, he goes looking for the character
that can tell the story. Without this person, no documentary. Which blew me
away, because this is so very much like fiction script writing. Without a
strong protagonist: nada.
It hit me, upon a quick mental run-through of my
favourite documentaries, that they all had amazing main characters or groups of
characters. Hoop Dreams (1994), Capturing the Friedmans (2003), Dont
Look back (1967 - easy: the main character is Bob Dylan) and The War
Room (1993) are ones that immediately leap to mind. They all have amazing
stories, strong characters and very involving story-lines.
Then there’s Grey Gardens (1975) possibly my
favourite documentary of all time. It concerns the mother and daughter
relationship of Big Edie and little Edie Bouvier and their solitary and
impoverished, half crazed and vividly alive existence in the eponymous Grey
Gardens, a derelict mansion in the posh East Hamptons. The fact that little
Edie was first cousin to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis made quite the headlines
when the film was first screened.
I won’t even try to describe the film, it has to be seen.
I will never forget mother and daughter Bouvier (how can you, when the main
character little Edie every other night goes up to the attic with a bag of
cat-food to spread out for the visiting badger?). It’s one of those things, if
you wrote it as fiction and showed it to someone they’d immediately say it was
completely outlandish and wholly unbelievable. Man, you just couldn’t make it
up. Larger than life and incredibly heart-felt. Stranger than fiction.
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