Behind the Seen

by Charles Koppelman

  February 18, 2003, Murch’s Journal

  Beautiful sunny frosty day and I’m off to screen the film.

  Successful screening of the film, no technical glitches—in two 2.5-hour parts. First impressions: It is long and has an eccentric beginning. The film hits the tracks when Ruby arrives (and Veasey soon after). Solve the beginning, cut it down but keep the two stories balanced, find the most efficient path.

  Taking tomorrow off...

  There is nothing more important to humanity’s physical, psychic, social, and political survival and well-being than the conversion to hydrogen fuel.

  A new phase of editing begins—refining the story, clarifying the emotions, making the first steps at reducing the first assembly to an acceptable running time. The orientation over the last six months has been one of accumulation, a building-up of material. Now the engines are suddenly thrown into full reverse. The enterprise will head in the opposite direction, shedding material as expeditiously as possible. Murch may be more than five weeks behind schedule, but before he turns up the speed it’s time to make inquiries to Apple in Cupertino about acquiring Final Cut Pro version 4.0. Among other features, the new software release is rumored to include support for making reliable change lists and a function for exporting edited audio files to ProTools for further sound editing. These two functions could help Murch make up for time lost, or at least prevent further delays.

  FEBRUARY 24, 2003—LONDON

  Murch sends Brian Meaney, Apple’s Final Cut Pro product designer, an email update on progress with Cold Mountain and the successful first assembly screening. “Anthony Minghella said that he had ‘absolute confidence’ in the fidelity of the FCP image compared to what he remembers from the projected 35mm film dailies, and would be delighted to show the film to Miramax on an FCP output.” Murch mentions the “teething problems” he experienced with slowed-down playback caused by the audio filters. Then he invites Meaney to come visit the edit room in London, in part so he can discuss “a running list of suggestions for operational improvements in FCP as well as features in the present system that I think are particularly successful. Toward the end of March we would like to begin the process of conforming the 35mm workprint,” that is, preparing a version in film that mirrors his FCP cut—a projectable film print for theater screenings. Then Murch pops the question: “To that end, when a beta of the next version of FCP is available, we would love to be able to test-drive it on the one CM workstation that we have already converted to OS X.” Murch encourages continued dialogue between Apple and DigitalFilm Tree regarding OMF sound export. He then concludes, writing about the whole Cold Mountain/Final Cut Pro endeavor: “Congratulations to everyone on the FCP team whose efforts made this achievement not only possible but eminently pleasurable.”

  Two days later Meaney responds to Murch. It’s a friendly, positive email but it needs some decoding: “Thanks for the good word! I’m glad things are moving along so well with your project... And most definitely when a new version of FCP is available, I would be very interested in getting your thoughts.” Not exactly a commitment for a tangible piece of software Murch hoped to get, but Meaney does offer to send Walter the beta copy of Cinema Tools, “which has preliminary change list support inside of it.”

  This is very good news. Murch and Cullen will at least get one piece they need to finish the puzzle: the change list function. Revisions to the picture that Murch makes will be accurately and efficiently transmitted to the sound editors. For now, it’s back to the task at hand: finding fat, cutting it, and rearranging the essence.

  Murch wrote to Apple manager Brian Meaney in Cupertino, California, to request the beta version of Final Cut Pro 4.0.

  March 4, 2003, Murch’s Journal

  Revising the battle and pre-battle nips tucks transpositions. Connected up the rabbit in the tunnel with the rabbit in the trench, and all the associated restructuring.

  Murch and Minghella settle into what will become their editing routine for the next 12 weeks. This process began with the February 18 showing of the first assembly. The work will revolve in three-week cycles, each interval marked by a screening in Murch’s second floor edit room using Final Cut Pro on the 50-inch plasma monitor for an invited audience of up to ten people, which is all that the room can comfortably contain. After each screening, having debriefed together immediately afterward, editor and director collate their own notes with comments from the others who attended. They review that list, decide priorities, and establish goals for the next screening. Significantly, the entire assembly is not up for grabs each pass; some sections are put aside for a later date while others become the immediate focus. As Murch tries out ideas, makes discoveries, and tightens things up, Minghella is downstairs on his FCP workstation re-examining material, looking at the choice of takes, and otherwise getting himself oriented to the material that Murch reworks upstairs. As Murch gets scenes or sequences sketched out, Minghella goes upstairs to watch, review, discuss, and make decisions. The upstairs-downstairs pattern continues on a daily basis, whenever Minghella is available.

  From here on out, editing is, for the most part, all about story, structure, character, and length. There were hints, clues, and portents about these big issues as the dailies flew by over the last six months. But now the material has been “crushed” (first assembly), so the process of revision and reordering can begin in earnest. In film editing, however, unlike the winemaking process, none of the raw material is ever really discarded.

  March 4, 2003, Murch’s Journal

  Feeling good today though a little tired. Good Chi—thank you!

  On a subconscious level, the mass of film, all 111 hours of it, is rooted in Walter Murch’s memory/dream bank, not as an objective database, but as a living organism. A film editor draws on this subliminal source for creative thought and discovery much as a musician does. It is said that musical performers “work” on a piece even when they are away from their instruments, not actually practicing in the corporeal sense. The mind somehow keeps on playing the music surreptitiously, of its own volition, preparing for the next performance while the musician goes about other business, or is asleep. This Jungian stew, these Cold Mountain sounds and images, cooks night and day whether Murch is aware of it or not. Elements reshape and rearrange themselves of their own volition, boiling up into consciousness, sometimes uninvited but always welcomed.

  * * *

  March 10, 2003 Murch’s Journal

  We start putting pressure on Veasey scenes. Cut about four + minutes.

  * * *

  March 5, 2003, Murch’s Journal

  Screen for Gabriel, Dennis, Eddie, Alan (Music, VFX, SFX). Went well, but a few miscuts because of improper relinking. Sean says will be fixed by tomorrow.

  MARCH 19, 2003—LONDON

  Exactly one month after screening the first assembly, Murch and Minghella have cut out 53 minutes, or 17 percent. But removing unnecessary shots isn’t even half the battle. The tricky part is connecting what remains, having shots and scenes work together that were not written to coexist. With new juxtapositions come insights and revelations about characters and meaning. Economical ways to move the story forward are discovered. Remove the wrong support beam, however, and the structure tilts dangerously. Alone together now, upstairs in the Old Chapel, Minghella and Murch play their familiar tune, one they practiced to perfection on two previous motion pictures. The lines between director and editor, editor and writer, writer and director become transparent. With trust, openness, and a Socratic method of inquiry, the duet begins.

  “I write notes to Walter as well as discuss things with him,” Minghella says later, sitting on the couch in his roomy office, which is decorated with framed black-and-white production stills from Cold Mountain. “I find that both of us operate on different levels, and sometimes we like to read ideas, sometimes we like to speak ideas. I’ve fallen in with Walter’s requirements. And part of the way he likes to work is to catalog and list and order.”

&nb
sp; March 22, 2003, Murch’s Journal

  Cut out six and a half minutes from first hour. We made an important connection between the line “store hours” and the match being struck, leading to the “flag” shot—definitely not store hours. Anthony said that he saw how the beginning would work now...

  When Minghella and Murch work together, divisions disappear between director and editor, editor and writer, writer and director.

  What is it like for to work with Murch? “In the middle of a conversation, Walter will suddenly walk over to a screen and start looking at the rhythms of prime numbers,” says Minghella. “I mean, literally, he will suddenly be examining the logarithmic relationships of one prime number to another. It’s not accidental that his mind is intrigued by patterns at a point when the film is so obsessed with its pattern. And so he finds it important to have lists, and so what we tend to do is both talk around the film, talk of the film, but also to make lists. And those lists of impressions are very significant. He stores them all, catalogs them all.” If Murch wanted to, he could even bring up the English Patient lists now, says Minghella.

  “I never discuss with Walter what I think the best take is,” Minghella continues. “I never discuss with him what I think the shot sequence should be. I realize I would miss out on his own creative reaction if he was simply following my instructions. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t like to dictate to him how to solve a problem.”

  “People I work with have proved themselves and they play their instruments in a particular way”—Minghella is speaking of Murch, director of photography John Seale, wardrobe designer Ann Roth, first assistant director Steve Andrews, and others. “They are a handful. They are extremely experienced, extremely successful, arguably each of them is the best in their field. They bring with them an enormous amount of baggage. They’re not eager to prove anything. If you’re not interested in that way of playing, then don’t work with them.”

  “Of all of them, Walter’s idiosyncrasies are the most pronounced. I’m about to spend a year with Walter, and I know that year will be as defined by his personality and requirements as it will be by mine—an intense, relentless, feast-or-famine experience. Walter can either be closed and silent and remote, or the exact opposite, overwhelmingly warm and embracing and loquacious. If you’re not prepared for the inexplicable changes in temperature in the room, if you’re not prepared for the sudden excursion into issues of the nature of the rotation of the planets, of the derivation of certain words, if you’re not in the market for his particular intellectual and emotional gymnasium, then find somebody else to work with. He has much more to contribute in terms of the atmosphere of the editing process than I do. I don’t see it as my job to control that. I approach it as he says he approaches the film, which is to surrender to the flow of it.”

  “Part of the process of making a film, to me, is a process of enabling. It’s about passing on empowerment. The more you can empower everybody, the more likely you are to get the best result. Certainly with Walter, a disempowered Walter is a waste of a huge, huge mind and a huge talent. So I just try to understand his particular requirements and respect them and nourish them, because he is easily destabilized. He has an enormous amount of pride, an appropriate pride. And it simply doesn’t do to mess with that.”

  “Walter can either be closed and silent and remote, or the exact opposite, overwhelmingly warm and embracing and loquacious.”

  Chapter 8. The Hemidemisemiquaver

  The Old Chapel Studio in north London, offices of Mirage Enterprises, where Cold Mountain was edited.

  MARCH 31, 2003—LONDON, ENGLAND

  Walter Murch walks to work over Primrose Hill and notices that the morning shadows seem longer; daylight savings time is in effect. The trees are bare, but buds are visible, about to burst. The war in Iraq is ten days old and anti-war signs flutter along the iron fence of Primrose Hill Park.

  Twenty minutes later Murch reaches the end of Parkhill Road where it meets Fleet Road. Here, set back from the gently curving corner, is the Old Chapel Studio. He lets himself into the stone building and goes upstairs to the second floor to begin the 255th day of editing Cold Mountain. The landing at the top of the stairs is a slab of translucent green glass. One doesn’t walk so much as float across it into the realm of film editing. Murch waves a greeting through the window to Sean Cullen, already at work inside his narrow rectangular room. The cubicle on the left, with its rewinds and other film accessories, is empty—neither of the two film assistants, Walter nor Dei, is in yet. They had a late night at the edit bench. Further down the main hallway is a closet-sized room that barely accommodates a four-plate Steenbeck editing table and a Final Cut Pro workstation. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are filled with boxes of film dailies. The trainee Susannah Reid, works out of this space.

  Murch opens the heavy wooden door to his room at the end of the hall and goes inside. With a sharply peaked exposed-beam ceiling and white walls, this uncluttered space seems more like an architect’s studio than an editing room. The Final Cut Pro system sits on a chest-high drafting table. Not one frame of film is in sight. Only Murch’s picture boards tell the story of what goes on in here. He turns on the Mac, and crosses the rough wooden plank floor to his simple desk at the rear of the room. Murch takes his Mac PowerBook out of its black carrying case, wakens it, and makes a journal entry while his workstation comes to life.

  Susannah Reid in one of the edit rooms at the Old Chapel.

  Behind him, hanging on the wall, is a shiny brass “B.” Curious. Ask Walter about it, and he’ll tell you about aiming for a “B.” Work hard to get the best grade you can—in this world, a B is all that is humanly attainable. One can be happy with that. Getting an A? That depends on good timing and whims of the gods—it’s beyond your control. If you start to think that the gods are smiling, they will take their revenge. Keep your blade sharp. Make as good a film as you know how. It’s an Eastern-oriented philosophy, characteristic of Murch, as differentiated from the Western outlook, as expressed by the American writer and philosopher, Ralph Waldo Emerson: “We aim above the mark to hit the mark.”

  Over the last six weeks, since Murch finished the first assembly, he and Minghella have removed 53 minutes of material from the film. The current edited version of Cold Mountain, 4 hours and 14 minutes, is still a huge amount of footage—equal to the entire first assembly for The English Patient, which was itself considered a high-volume motion picture. In his journal Murch describes this revealing statistic as “sobering.”

  Back at his drafting table, Murch opens up the Final Cut Pro application. The splash screen comes on for a moment with its film clapboard logo and green eye, sister to the screen saver on Murch’s PowerBook—the “eye on the pole” photo he took in Bucharest.

  The brass B on the back wall of Murch’s edit room in London.

  Like most days now, this one will be devoted to structural issues in the film, one of three strands in Murch’s editorial process. First there is the logistical wrangling of all the footage—getting it into the system correctly, in sync, properly logged, and then getting it out the other end when the creative work is finished. “Even if there were no creative job at all,” Murch says, “it would still be a challenge to do that. How do you get this load of material from one port, across the ocean, to that port, intact and in good condition? I spend a good part of my brain thinking about that. Sean spends an even bigger part of his brain thinking about it.”

  The second strand is what Walter calls the “performance” of editing, that is, selecting takes with the right line readings, putting them in their proper places relative to each other, and intuiting how long to hold each one before cutting to the next. “You can be a perfectly good logistical editor, but if you don’t have the feel for the right choices and the right rhythms, it’s like somebody playing a musical instrument who gets the notes all right, but something somehow just doesn’t feel right.”

  Murch describes editing as wrangling, performance, a
nd analysis.

  The third element is the analytical part, the things Murch says a book editor might tell an author about basic structure: “Well, this is a great chapter, but it may be too long relative to the other chapters. Why don’t you try dividing it in half and take the first half and put it ahead of the other chapter? And this here? Maybe you don’t need it. Maybe it should be in a different place.” Structure, for Murch, is distinct from either the “tone or touch” of performance, or the “systems functions” of managing film inventory. “You can’t survive without all of them interweaving,” Murch says, “although various editors have more talent in one area than in another. The impossible goal is to be equally good at all three.”

  February 24, 2003, Murch’s Journal

  Bill Horberg and Elena and Jude screen the film [in FCP] downstairs in Anthony’s office. Jude comes at the halfway point. They like it, are excited and overwhelmed at the vastness: “where do you begin?”

  Murch starts at the beginning, with the opening battle scene. He is on the prowl for redundancies: where is there fat to cut out? He plays the scene. There. A shot of the Union charge feels like it goes on too long. He’ll remember that. There. The Confederates are slow to move their cannon into place. After watching the entire sequence play, noting all the possibilities for trimming shots, he returns to the beginning. Now he sets Final Cut Pro into trim mode so it will loop, or replay, the same shot over and over. Murch holds his index finger over the “K” key and watches the shot play on the large wide-screen monitor on his left. As he feels the moment where it ought to end, he presses the key. The shot is trimmed by six frames, and a small readout “–6” appears. The shot replays. Again he feels the moment and presses the “K” key: the readout again reads “–6” which means he hit the same frame twice in a row. “You have to feel the musicality of it,” Murch says later, speaking about this edit-on-the-fly technique, for making outgoing edits.