(Originally published in CUFA News, a Cornell University newsletter)
They stood waiting patiently as we set the camera, checked the sound, and discussed the shot. A light rain had begun to fall, so the man opened an umbrella and held it up over his companion to keep her dry. On the roof of the barn behind them, painted in large white letters, were the words “Billy Loves Vicky.” It was a brazen display that might have earned some love struck teenager a trip to the woodshed. But Bill and Vicky are no teenagers.
I had come here with a film crew to interview Bill about his struggle with depression that set in following his decision to retire and shut down the family dairy farm. Bill had been working with a consultant from New York FarmNet, an organization started in the mid-1980’s at Cornell University to assist farm families who were facing financial difficulties or personal crises. The consultant had encouraged Bill to seek help from the proper medical professionals, and he was now fully recovered. New York FarmNet had asked my group — the Cornell Media Production Group — to document Bill’s story.
The tape began to roll, and I cued Bill and Vicky to start walking. I had considered asking them to hold hands as we filmed them sharing a casual stroll around the farm, but I feared that the gesture would appear artificial, an action made up just for the camera. So I did not mention the idea. But as they took their first step, she reached out and slid her curled fingers into his open palm, a move so fluent and casual that I could not imagine the two of them unconnected for long. Her left hip was severely swollen, her gait uneven, her footsteps labored, so they leaned into each other as they walked, his body acting as a living crutch.
These simple expressions of intimacy, captured on videotape, defined this couple’s relationship, and how important that relationship was to Bill’s healing process. Due to nothing more than the fortunate happenstance of having our camera pointed in the right direction at this touching and spontaneous moment, we were able to tell a complex and critical part of our story with just a few hundred frames and a few seconds of screen time.
In another FarmNet case, Rita, a goat farm owner, had contacted the organization to help her cope with financial woes that were threatening her business and her emotional well-being. During a recorded interview, I asked Rita about the obvious bond that had formed between her and Anita, the financial consultant who had helped her bring the farm ledgers back into the black. A few seconds into her response, Rita hesitated. “Oh, dear,” she said as she wiped away a tear. Although Rita went on to describe her appreciation for Anita and the warm friendship they had developed, her words, no matter how eloquent, could never have the same impact as an unrehearsed display of emotion that had taken even Rita herself by surprise. Our lens had captured a moment that could not be duplicated with a still camera or with words on a page.
Yet, using the same video camera, we can sometimes manipulate events to suit our needs.
That was the case on the day that I sent our photographer, Joy, on a two-hour flight with the USDA Wildlife Services. The plane was loaded with several large buckets of bite-sized baits, each one carrying a dose of oral rabies vaccine. As they flew over a predetermined wooded area, the flight crew would drop the baits, via a conveyor belt that led to an opening in the rear of the plane, thereby providing inoculation for a portion of the wild animal population. Later, in an effort to determine the project’s effectiveness, animals would be trapped, tested, and released. We had been warned that first-time fliers were normally overcome by the rough ride in a windowless aircraft combined with the unpleasant odor of the fish-meal baits. Because space was limited, there was room for just one extra passenger with video gear, so, fortunately, I was forced to stay behind.
Late that afternoon, I was waiting on the tarmac as the plane touched down. When the door opened and Joy emerged with the crew, I was relieved to see that she was smiling.
She had felt no ill effects from the flight. However, she was concerned about the quality of her footage due to constant and erratic motion combined with her inability to maneuver around the crowded aircraft cabin. So, rather than send her back up for another two hours and risk achieving similar results, we came up with an alternate plan.
As the plane sat waiting to go out on another mission, our sound engineer, Bert, and I recruited a couple of the USDA crew members. The four of us stood outside the plane and rocked it back and forth to simulate a bumpy flight while Joy was onboard shooting additional footage of baits moving along the conveyor. Later, in post production, I was unable to distinguish the “fake” scenes from those shot while the plane was in the air.
Occasionally, we have to settle for much less than we set out to achieve. We once spent over six hours on the Texas plains just north of the Rio Grande in an area that was heavily populated by coyotes. The field crew and I stood waiting, camera ready, for one or more of the animals to show. Unfortunately, this day was especially windy, causing them to keep an exceptionally low profile. We never saw a coyote through the lens that day, and our trip across country turned out to be a partial failure.
Each time the crew and I are on a field production, a part of us is always watching, waiting, anticipating that defining moment, the “money shot,” the image that will bring viewers a little closer to the story we came to tell. Sometimes it just happens, sometimes we get to help it along, and sometimes we just pack our gear at the end of the day knowing that tomorrow will provide countless new opportunities.
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