True Sh*t 3: Shooting Poets

Back in the early nineties, I used to do a lot of work over at Portland Cable Access. It's a television studio where you can produce your own shows, and it's paid for by the cable companies.

One of the staff members was a damn good director and brought me on board his latest project, a showcase of Portland's poets. I'm one of the three doing camera work. The director is in the control room watching what we're doing on the monitors. The sound person is at the console and has everything dialed in. Another crew member is ready to start the video tape recorders. We're ready to go.

It's been a long time and I don't remember how many poets there were, but two stood out clearly. One was a thin older man with unkempt hair who really got into the reading of his poems. It was a disjointed ranting kind of performance where he charged forward, retreated, and waved his fist as the spit flew and the words burst forth. The director, whose talent was equaled by his temper, wanted the first shot to be a pan from left to right, stopping when the poet was in the right side of the frame. I got the task. Easy to do if the subject isn't moving. So we start, the poet goes into action, and I pan over. I don't see him for a long time when suddenly he leaps into the frame.

The director shouts, "Dammit! I said a slow pan!"

Take two. Same thing.

"Goddammit!"

Third take. Third screw up.

"God DAMMIT! I said slow! Don't you know what slow is?" By this time he was in the studio yelling right at me. I explained the problem, and we went with something else. The shoot continued without any more mistakes. Then came the last poet.

She was a quiet young girl. Shoulder length hair. Thick black rimmed glasses. Her skirt came down just to her knees. A librarian stereotype. The whole time she lurked around the edges of the studio looking down, shoulders slightly hunched, saying nothing while keeping her arms around her papers, holding them to her chest like a small shield. She quietly got on the little stage we set up earlier and we started the shoot.

It's odd that I can't recall her poem with clarity when I consider its content and the transformation of the person reading it. The poem was about someone having sex with her, and she was as much an apparatus as a participant. Her voice was loud and forceful, the words terse and blunt like a hammer strike, as she recalled being bent over, clothes forcefully removed, rough entry, and she said, in essence, "I don't like all that you do, but I deserve it so do it and do it and DO IT!"

The first reading finished. The director told us to find a different angle for the next reading, and I went in to get what we call a three-quarter shot. The director looks at the monitors, sees what we did and shouts, "Why are all of you close up? Get back! I only need one of you close!" I tilt my head away from the monitor on the camera and see that all the other cameramen are right on her. We give her some space, finish the shoot, and that's a wrap. I help put the equipment away and notice the cameramen asking her for a copy of that first poem.