We all stared in total disbelief. I had no idea a camera was made of so many different parts. How could a fall of only one and a half metres onto thick carpet cause so much damage? The lens had snapped in two. The viewfinder was bent, the magazine had severed all ties with the camera body, the light-proof door of the magazine triumphantly set itself free, and emerging from the rubble was 400 feet of film beautifully unwinding itself across the carpet, not stopping until it hit the door. It’d be impossible to duplicate that perfect unwinding.
Standing frozen, the producer looked around and said, ‘What do we do now?’
‘Well, I know what we won’t be doing,’ I said, ‘and that’s an interview.’
We must have looked like a bunch of amateurs as I crawled round the room picking up small pieces of my precious Arriflex camera. What I really needed was a vacuum cleaner. My diary entry of that day, 24 July 1986: ‘It was a perfectly shithouse ending to a perfectly shithouse story at the end of a perfectly shithouse day in a perfectly shithouse trip.’ Sometimes the perfect job can be too perfect.
I have never left a camera on a tripod again, not even to go half a metre away. But the floor is another thing.
Twenty years after Oklahoma, the floor where I left my brand new $80,000 Sony 700 Digital Betacam was the one at carousel five in Melbourne airport. I’d placed the camera carefully on the floor, surrounded by all my other hand luggage, stepped half a metre to the conveyer belt to collect one of my twelve bags, turned back and ... it was gone. No camera. And only a millisecond had passed. I knew I had to see someone walking or running to the exit with a professional digital Betacam over his shoulder, so I raced for the door.
Not a glimpse of the bastard Betacam bandit. I searched the whole airport inside and out. Shit, he was quick. And I was sick.
Above carousel five was a security camera. You beauty. I went straight to airport security and told them the story.
‘What carousel was it?’
‘Five.’
‘Sorry, that camera is turned off.’
I tried to stay calm as I asked why.
‘Oh, we do that every now and then.’
Livid, I went to the airport police station. Doing his best to look concerned but holding back a smirk, the cop told me it was the fifth professional camera to go this month and it’s probably winging its way to a studio in Asia as we speak. I made the dreaded phone call to the bosses and was told, hey, these things happen, don’t worry about it. Huge relief. I had a reputation for looking after gear. But then I was told it better not happen again because if I lost another very expensive camera, my job would be gone with it.
Sometimes shit happens and it’s oh so funny. For everyone else. I copped it in Los Angeles due to my packing habits. Packing was always a drag. I would try not to unpack at all when it was just a one-nighter, not wanting to disturb the perfect layers. I’d deftly lift out the essentials and on a good day if I was lucky I would replace all with ne’er a ripple when it was time to go. But if I had the luxury of spending five or six nights in the one room, I’d spread out. Spread out is an understatement. The room was a mess, with gear and clothes covering every inch of the floor, a real sense of real freedom. Until it was time to re-pack. Then I cursed my slovenliness. I only ever had one bag and always tried to squeeze too much into it. Micky travelled with two, Richard Carleton with four. After all, he had to have somewhere for his stereo, tennis gear, Vegemite, mustard and pepper grinder.
We had stayed for six nights at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel on Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills, where a Polo T-shirt costs $US350 and a pair of men’s shoes, $US1200. Twelve hundred bucks for shoes! I pay that for a car. As for shoes, I have two pairs, one for walking and one in case my walking shoes go missing. I think they cost me 30 bucks, but the shoes are so old I can’t remember.
The hotel, situated right at the end of Rodeo Drive, is U-shaped, built in the style of Italian renaissance architecture and made of Tuscan stone and Carrara marble, the same marble Michelangelo used to create his David. Not having to leave the hotel until eight in the morning, I decided my last night in the City of Angels shouldn’t be wasted on packing. That’s what mornings are for. If you’re a morning person. And I’m not.
So I had a huge night out on the town, slept through the alarm but luckily was woken by the arrival of my room service breakfast, which I had cleverly ordered at 2 a.m. when I’d staggered back to the hotel.
Now I was running very late and hadn’t started any packing. I rang for a porter, knowing from vast experience that porters always take aeons. I then started packing. Five minutes later there was a knock on the door, and I was totally rattled when I saw a porter standing there. Why? Why today for the first time in my life has a porter decided to be efficient? In a mad rush I feverishly squeezed everything I could find into my bag, slammed the lid, zipped it up and handed it over to the finger-tapping porter along with twelve cases of equipment. Phew, what a scramble. I quickly demolished my spinach and fetta omelette and double espresso, picked up the camera and hand luggage, and headed for the door, then realised I’d yet to put on my shoes and socks. I leant over the bed to where I’d placed them an hour ago and they weren’t there. I looked around frantically. I knew exactly where I’d put them but didn’t want to believe it. I now had to go down to the foyer of the Beverly Wilshire to check out. This was one classy pub. All I’d seen all week was money, money, money. I know that doesn’t necessarily equate with class, but the Beverly Wilshire was happy to think otherwise. This hotel gladly put up with poodles in the foyer. But bare feet? I probably should have gone down and wandered across the marble floor with all the aplomb of an avant-garde artist. But in a fit of panic I grabbed the white fluffy slippers all good hotels supply, put them on and headed sheepishly down to the foyer. I took the stairs to avoid the stares, and decided to bypass checkout and head straight outside, hoping to grab my bag before it took off to the airport in the pre-arranged van.
Between the stairs and the front door were acres of foyer and hundreds of well-heeled customers. None of them knew anything about avant-garde artists and rudely showed that lack of knowledge by staring at my fluffy slippers. Trying to present my avant-garde look as au naturel but looking like Tuffy the Little White Bear, I shuffled outside to Micky and asked him where my bag was. He told me he’d selflessly done all the work on his own, packed up the van and sent it on its way.
‘It’s gone,’ he said. ‘Everything.’
My bag and shoes had departed along with my dignity. Then Micky noticed Tuffy’s paws and said, ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’ Laughing uncontrollably and pointing, he then invited all the porters, doormen and assorted guests to ‘Take a look at those.’
Which everyone did. Of course.
•
As a cameraman, and in life generally, I never thought much about what I stuck on my feet. But I learnt that lesson, too, thanks to a bunch of Scottish deer hunters.
In true 60 Minutes fashion we were doing a story on the barbarity of deer hunting and hoping to prove what cruel and heartless killers these hunters were. Mike Munro, Micky and I arrived at the foot of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the UK, in the highlands of Scotland, on a beautiful summer’s day, met our hunters and their gillie and headed up the mountain. They seemed like good blokes but were already complaining that there were too many people, but we told them to leave the TV to us. This is how we worked.
Three hours later with ne’er a wee deer to be seen, we returned to the carpark to be told that the deer can see, smell and sense anything unusual on the mountain. If we really wanted to see a deer being shot, the hunters would have to come back tomorrow with just the cameraman. Micky and Mike argued that they were needed, but were told it’s one or none. Regardless, there was no mention of footwear.
Next beautiful sunny morning I returned wearing a light T-shirt and the same smooth-soled zip-up leather shoes as I’d worn the previous day (and every day). I waved farewell to my colleagues as they sat in the
sun, sipping coffee and reading.
We immediately took a different route to yesterday and headed into much thicker heather. The heather perfectly disguised the potholes that had a magnetic attraction to me—I must have tripped into every hole. ‘Keep up with us. I hope you’re fit,’ the leader said. I was fit at the time and also 40, round about the same age as he was. But I was carrying two magazines loaded with film, an extra roll of film, a zoom lens, a tripod and a camera with a heavy, very expensive lens hanging off it. He was carrying a rifle. His gillie carried everything else.
The four of us stopped, and way in the distance I saw a huge stag amongst a mob of deer. ‘That’s the one we’ll go for, but we have to get a lot closer,’ said the chief hunter. Trying hard to be quiet, we scrambled down rocks, with me desperately struggling to protect the lens that wanted to hit everything. We inched our way in the direction of the stag that still looked a hundred miles away. It was way too far for my 300-mm lens, but I did have a doubler to whack onto the lens to create a 600-mm effect. As I fumbled to get out the doubler, I heard, ‘Shit, the wind has changed,’ and looked up to see our target disappearing at full speed.
‘The bastard got our scent, he’ll now go all the way round to the other side of the fucking mountain.’
Thank God, I thought. I’d had enough. Maybe we could try again tomorrow. No such luck.
‘Let’s go, it should only take three hours to get round there.’
Three hours! Are you fucking kidding? We’d already been going for two hours and my feet were killing me.
An hour later we all sat down and the gillie revealed what he’d been carrying in his backpack. Lunch.
About time, I’m famished. The gillie got out three beautifully wrapped sandwiches, handed one to each of the hunters then started eating the third. My feet, legs and shoulders were aching while I watched the three of them hoe in. One of them looked up, and through a mouthful of sandwich, said, ‘Did you bring lunch?’
‘Ah, no,’ I said.
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. The other two were totally unmoved.
No one had briefed me on footwear or the proper apparel for deer-killing. And no one had mentioned this could take five hours. I thought we’d find a stag, shoot him and be back in time for morning tea. Pissed off at their attitude and my naivety, I said, ‘I work for the richest man in Australia, I’ll give you one hundred quid for a sandwich.’
To which I got, ‘Bad luck, laddy, if you go stag hunting without food, that’s your problem.’
I thought I’d see if the gillie, the one who wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth, was a little more caring. I looked down at his lunch box and saw a Mars Bar.
‘I’ll give you fifty quid for your Mars Bar,’ I said.
He looked at me, then the Mars Bar. He’d already demolished a fine sandwich. ‘Okay,’ he said.
I then had to explain to him that I didn’t have the money on me but he had my guarantee he would be paid as soon as we hit sea level. I’m not sure if his look was one of disbelief at the IOU or whether he couldn’t believe someone was dumb enough to pay 50 quid for a chocolate bar. Either way, his quizzical look was a little eerie and I began to wonder if his agreement to give me his Mars Bar was his idea of a really funny joke and they’d all have another good laugh at my expense. I was ready to explode, but thought better of it. We were at least four hours from the nearest town, which could have been in any direction. And three of the four of us knew the way back.
Without a word the gillie reached into his lunch box and handed over his Mars Bar. I savoured every bit of it and was even lucky enough to wash it down with a cup of tea. And for no extra cost!
The day was endless. We walked and walked and walked. Up 2000 vertical feet and down 2000 vertical feet. After a while the gillie even offered to carry the tripod. A fine gesture, but I think he just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to die and leave him short 50 quid. Then the hunters even helped me with some of the gear. All this effort for a shot of some poor stag being murdered. I was beginning to think he wouldn’t be the only one to die that day. I was so buggered I could hardly move, but I couldn’t let my hosts be aware of it. Probably just what they were waiting for.
So on we went, and eight hours after we started, we saw our stag. Well, they did. There were so many deer that I couldn’t tell which one they’d spotted. We quietly scrambled over loose rocks, hoping not to dislodge any and frighten our target. I finally stopped and asked them to wait until I found a firm spot to place the tripod. They couldn’t give a shit and were getting ready to aim. I still didn’t know which stag they were aiming at.
I could now see four stags in amongst the mob. I quickly found what I hoped was a secure spot for the tripod, slammed the camera into its slot then asked one more time which was the stag they were after.
‘Left hand side of the tree on the far right.’
Shit, there’s two of them and they’re both magnificent.
‘Is it the one in the group of three or is it the bigger mob?’ I said.
‘The bigger group,’ he said as he lifted the rifle to his eye.
I put my eye to the camera, hoping he was having as much difficulty finding the target through his telephoto sights as I was. I took a guess at the exposure for the late afternoon sun, adjusted accordingly for the long lens, found a stag in the middle of my shot, hoped to hell it was the right one and started rolling. Bang! My ears were ringing, and through the lens, dead centre, I saw the stag go down. A great shot, his and mine. Though I knew if I hadn’t been ready he wouldn’t have waited. As they congratulated each other, someone said, ‘I hope you got that.’
I got it all right. Yet I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the hapless stag. I just hoped he was dead.
I’ve never understood hunting, or the yearning to have a huge set of antlers hanging on the wall as proof to your mates what a man you are. It’s not like it was a battle and the best man won.
It was then an hour’s walk down the steep rocky cliffs to get to the dead stag and wait for a bloke with a pony to come and drag it for another hour to a waiting truck, and my deeply relaxed 60 Minutes colleagues.
Back at base I was so buggered I could hardly move. I paid the gillie for my sumptuous lunch, resisting the temptation to ask for a receipt, then raced back to my hotel room in Fort William to bathe my aching body.
My room was on the third floor in an old hotel with no lift. Just as I took the first step my legs cramped, and I could not, under any circumstances, walk up those stairs. My legs would not and could not move. I dragged myself up by my arms. This is true. Never in my entire life had I felt so exhausted. I made a cup of tea, poured in eight sugars and fell into the bath. Sitting in the bath, happy that I’d scored such a great shot and looking forward to a beer, I started to cry. I couldn’t believe it. And I couldn’t stop. This must be how exhaustion felt.
The next day it snowed all day. Had I been in the Highlands in my T-shirt and thin leather shoes, I’d have been as stiff as the stag.
I was sore for a week, and extremely shat off that we’d been so under-researched and ill-prepared. I swore I’d never let myself get into a similar situation.
•
Fatigue can do many things, and one of them is to make you unaware of your surroundings. Not good for a cameraman. I’d just arrived in Denmark for a story on pornography. Someone had come up with a great story title, ‘Danish Blue’. Not wanting to waste such a gem, we went in search of a story. At the time pornography was taboo almost everywhere in the world, but the Danes had just lifted their ban on porn, so it was now sold, and eagerly bought, in most convenience stores. With no fear of prosecution it wasn’t hard to get people to appear on camera whether they were selling it or participating in it.
After a few days of research we tracked down a film studio and porn stars who were only too willing to appear in our story. When we met the female star, we were all instantly smitten. She was extremely beautiful, charming, intelligent and so v
ery nice, a university student who figured it couldn’t be too difficult to be in porn movies. Plus she could do with the extra cash. It was easy money, she said, but she tried not to think of the devastating consequences. She had contracted every STD in existence. Luckily for her, these were pre-HIV days, but as a result of all her diseases she was now infertile. She said her only fear was that one day her father might see one of her movies and she wouldn’t know what to say to him. We promised her our story would never be shown in Denmark.
After her interview we went to the studio to shoot the making of one of her films. We were introduced to the other female star while she had her makeup done. Makeup? I admit I hadn’t thought of that. There she was in front of a mirror with a thousand light bulbs, taking great care to get her hair and face just right. I didn’t have the heart to tell her nobody’d be looking at her face. But I guess deep down she already knew that.
What really blew me away was that these girls hadn’t yet met their male co-stars, who were just coming out of the shower with towels wrapped modestly around their waists. The director introduced everyone, the two female stars, also modestly covered up, shook their co-stars hands and said how nice it was to meet them. They then all discussed the weather. The two guys didn’t quite know what to do or say, and sat there checking their nails, agreeing with everything the girls said. Wrapped in towels they all looked like they were about to change back into their school uniforms after gym, but in ten minutes, in front of a couple of film crews, they’d be doing unbelievable things to each other and pretending they were enjoying it.
All This in 60 Minutes Page 18
