Main Road on Cumberland Island
(The Georgia Conservancy asked me to write some brief thoughts about my time on Cumberland Island.)
I first visited Cumberland Island in the late 1970’s, and ever since that marvelous day hike, I’ve wanted to make a film about the island. It wasn’t until the late 1990’s that I began shooting the film. During the production, I was fortunate to spend a week or so every month on the island for a period of almost two years.
Shooting on the beach.
Cumberland Queen sets the scene. The 45-minute ferry ride over to the island is like going through a psychological cleansing. Modern day concerns and anxieties seem to fade away with the mainland. Cumberland offers visitors its own special sense of place and time.
Spending weeks on the island allowed me to witness some wonderful wilderness moments – a giant alligator napping on the road, a foal being born in the forest, a rattlesnake up close and personal, and many others. However what I treasure most about Cumberland is the wonderful sense of isolation. This reclaimed wilderness is a place apart from modern life. Two things that Cumberland offers every visitor are silence and the darkness.
Silence. In winter months when insects are few, the woods seem totally silent save for a few palm fronds rubbing in the wind. Unlike my home in Atlanta, where the distant roar of the city is ever present, a dawn walk through the Cumberland forest allows you to literally hear the beating of your heart. There is a stillness that is astonishing. Then you begin to sense the subtle sounds of life around you – the birds in the trees, the waves on the shore, and the many animals that scamper around the forest.
One day when I was filming time-lapse in the marsh, I heard an unusual sound. I crouched down to see a small army of fiddler crabs running around and waving their large claws in the air. Their legs lightly tapped the dark earth – a faint sound that would be drowned out anywhere else. It was an island symphony.
Darkness. Cumberland’s splendid isolation makes the night sky a stargazer’s delight. Unlike the city, there is little ambient light to interfere with the view of our Milky Way. On a moonless night, stars seem to sparkle with enhanced intensity in a grand panorama. Coupled with the rhythm of the cicadas, this makes for a magical summer evening.
One Cumberland evening in August, while my family and friends sat around after dinner to take in the stars, a meteor streaked across the sky. It seemed to last about 3 seconds, an eternity. It was Hollywood perfect. I could even make out the ball itself burning orange through the atmosphere. What a special moment at a special place. It also happened to be my birthday.
The next day on the ferry back to the mainland, and civilization, I did what I do every time I leave Cumberland. I gazed back at the receding island and longed to return.
If you are interested in seeing the program check out the Trailer.
Camera shooting time-lapse at the Sea Camp dock.
Winter clouds over Cumberland beach.
The following are some observations from a shoot for the upcoming Little Mammoth Media® production, The BIG Freeze.
It was 9 degrees and still dark when I pulled up on the US Coast Guard dock in St. Ignace, MI. Our icebreaker, USCGC Biscayne Bay was quiet, as the crew arrived and parked their cars. Soon a giant fuel truck would come to pump hundreds of gallons of diesel fuel into ship to feed its two diesel engines. These engines don’t drive the ship, but they power a generator that creates electricity, which powers a large electric motor. It’s the electric motor that drives the ship.
The ship’s youthful captain, Lieutenant Commander Tom Pryzbyla and Executive Officer Lieutenant Ty Bateman welcomed me and showed me around the ship. Like all working ships, space was at a premium, and every corner was utilized. There were lots of small hatches and walkways connecting the various parts of the ship.
As the sun was coming up over the solid ice in the harbor, the captain held a navigation briefing on the bridge. He led a discussion of the mission for the day, and the crew discussed various navigational and weather issues. Soon we pulled away from the dock and entered the shipping channel. The entire portion of the lake was completely frozen. The channel was evident only by the long trail of broken ice that had re-frozen overnight.
As the Biscayne Bay moved through the channel, it broke and parted the ice with a loud banging sound, combined with a crunching sound of ice being squeezed and broken. The captain explained to me that the ship actually rides up on top of the ice and its weight crushes it. As the ice is broken the bow wake of the ship pushes it away, leaving a wide path of clear water and broken pieces of ice behind it.
An icebreaker is a special kind of ship. The Biscayne Bay is 140 feet long and carries a crew of 19. From a distance it looks like a regular ship, perhaps a seagoing tug. But it’s what’s beneath the surface that makes a difference.
The captain explained, “An ice breaker is built stronger than a regular ship, so it can handle the impact with the ice. So the steel is thicker, in addition to that, it has more power than most ships so that it can get through the ice.” He continued, “The ice that we break is about up to three feet thick. Sometimes it gets piled higher, the wind will move ice plates around, and it will begin to stack ice on top of itself. Those piles can be as high as ten feet.”
To show how thick that ice was, the captain had the ship ram into the large plates of ice. As we hit the ice plates, the ship began to slow down until it came to a stop. The ice was too thick to break. Luckily, the ship is equipped with a special compressed air system, which shoots bubbles around its hull. This keeps ice from attaching to the ship and allows it to escape from being trapped in the ice.
We were soon back underway. As we passed under the beautiful Mackinac Bridge, I noticed we were the only ship out on the lake. It was truly a sight to behold – a giant green metal arc over a white ice-covered lake. This year over 88%, of the surface area of the Great Lakes were covered by ice, one of the frostiest years on record. This kept Coast Guard ice breakers busy.
Millions of tons of cargo are shipped across the Great Lakes every day. Giant lake freighters carry bulk cargo like coal, iron ore, grain and cement to keep whole industries operating. If freighters get stuck in the ice, commerce comes to a halt. That’s where ice breakers come in. The US and Canadian Coast Guards keep icebreakers on call to rescue ships caught in the ice. They break the ships free and then create a channel for the freighters to reach port. It’s a very important job, and it’s done in extremely cold weather.
The captain told me that many winter days are well below zero, and with the wind chill it feels even colder. This day happened to be sunny and bright, but still bitter cold, especially with the wind off the lake.
We filmed in all parts of the ship – from the rudder in the stern, to the engine room, stateroom and the bridge. We even filmed the cook in the kitchen as he made lunch. The best vantage point for seeing the ship at work was from the front upper deck of the ship called the forecastle or fo’c’s’le. From there we saw the ice being broken and pushed away from the bow. We used a small GoPro camera to capture the ice being broken right at the water line. The day was so cold that when water splashed up on our cameras, it immediately froze, so we had to warm the cameras inside to melt the ice in order to wipe them dry.
It was an exciting day. As the crew dropped me back at the dock, they had to immediately rush off to aid two freighters caught in the ice near Salt Ste Marie. We drove to the base of the Mackinac Bridge and filmed the Biscayne Bay as she moved through the channel of ice.
This filming was for the Little Mammoth Media® production, The BIG Freeze, which looks at all things frozen – from snow to ice to ice cream. This children’s video will be released in late 2015. For more information, go to www.littlemammoth.com
Taking a light reading during time-lapse shooting in Iowa.
This is a short personal history of shooting timelapse and how the advance of technology impacted my work process over the years.
Time-lapse is magic.
I was 15 years old when I first experienced timelapse footage. My family attended Expo 67 in Montreal – a world’s fair that showcased the latest in modern technology. The Canadian pavilion featured films from the National Film Board. I was particularly awed by the work of Norman MacLaren. He used a process called ‘pixilation,’ where he shot all the action in single frames and created movement of actors and objects in the film, as if they were Claymation figures. It had a jerky, otherworldly feel. I had to try it.
Once I got home from Montreal, I bought a cable release for my Kodak M6 Super-8 camera, so I could shoot single frames – timelapse. Technologically speaking, these were relatively ancient times. I would shoot a cartridge of Super-8 film, mail it to Kodak for processing, and a week later a 3-minute reel would arrive in the mail ready to project. The time delay in seeing the results of work made for a plodding way to learn.
My first efforts at timelapse were unwatchable. There were two immediate lessons – lock down the camera and do the math. I began to use a tripod, and I also began to plan my sequences. I learned to plan the length of a sequence and from there I could figure out how many frames I needed and at what interval I needed to shoot. I also developed an internal rhythm so I could click the shutter release at regular intervals. My timelapse improved, but the bane of my timelapse sequences was the crude auto exposure system in that primitive Kodak camera. It would react to the slightest change in light levels, which made for uneven exposure in the final sequence.
When I got to high school, I saved up and bought a GAF Super 8 camera. (This was the age of the conglomerates. GAF was a company that made Super 8 cameras as well as asphalt shingles.) The main advantage to this camera was a much better lens and the ability to set manual exposure. This helped tremendously with sunsets, as I could let the light fade out the shot to black.
As biology major in college I only had rare opportunities to access the University’s 16mm camera equipment, so I planned my shoots carefully. However, none of the cameras were able to shoot single frames. The Auricons and Bell and Howells had enough trouble staying at a constant 24 fps.
As I moved into my professional career, I began to acquire cameras. My first major purchase was a CP-16R, a great camera, which alas did not shoot single frames. That camera was my constant companion for all sorts of projects, from documentaries to industrials to local commercials.
One day in the early 1980’s, as I browsed the used equipment section of a local camera store, I saw what looked like a brand new Bolex H16, complete with two lenses, the original box and the manual. It was listed for $ 300. When I inquired, the clerk told me a story that went something like this:
A local doctor bought the camera for his European vacation, but he found it too complicated. He placed it with the store on consignment. The camera had been sitting there for almost two years. The doctor had now died and his widow just wanted to get rid of it. The store would take half of the listed price. If I wanted it. I could have camera and lenses for $ 150.
I bought it. Now I had a 16mm camera that, with an addition of a cable release, could shoot single frames, in 16mm!
During that time my work was a mix of television documentaries and broadcast commercials. I used timelapse primarily in the documentaries as a way to add emphasis or for use as a transitional element. Time-lapse shooting became an optional add-on to our normal shooting day. My crew and I would usually shoot a whole day and then find a great location for late day shadows or sunsets. We’d set up the Bolex and begin the rhythmic ‘clicking’ – one-two-three-click, one-two-three-ciick, etc. When my wrist would begin to tire, I’d switch to the other hand, and then I’d trade off to one of my colleagues, making sure we didn’t miss a beat. This was a fun way to end a long shoot day and even enjoy a beer amid great scenery. But the manual cable release was limiting. One person always had to click the cable release at a consistent rhythm, or we would lose the shot.
Then I found a solution. While perusing the small classified ads in the back of Filmmakers Newsletter, I saw an ad for a guy who made an electric timelapse motor for the Bolex! It was a very DIY-looking device that basically used a turntable motor to drive a series of gears and levers that pushed an armature that tripped the shutter release on the Bolex. It resembled the insides of an old-time music box. It was ungainly and heavy, but it worked.
There was only one downside. It required 110 AC current. This limited our timelapse shooting to indoor shots, or those from strategically located balconies. But soon we purchased a small portable generator that we took with us on the road. We built a plywood shipping case so it was part of our gear when we traveled the world shooting THE WORLD OF AUDBON environmental series for TBS.
We’d get to a location; find our vantage point and set the shot and crank up the generator. This allowed us to shoot timelapse footage, while at the same time, a freeing us to shoot other parts of the project.
The downside of this, aside from the weight and the noise of the generator, was the fact that the Bolex was a spring wound camera, so any timelapse shot was limited by the energy in the spring – about 30 to 40 feet of film, about one minute. Then the camera had to be rewound, In order to do that, you had to disconnect the timelapse motor; wind up the camera, then reconnect the motor and armature. This inevitably moved the camera, so it was impossible to shoot an extended shot from the same exact position.
Despite these challenges, we took that Bolex and gas generator to some interesting places. On one occasion, we landed a helicopter on a tall rock spire in Monument Valley. We set up the camera and the generator, and left it to capture timelapse, as we shot aerials. Other locations included Mono Lake in the Mohave Desert, the Great Smokey Mountains, and Germany’s Black Forest, to name just a few.
At this time, I was also shooting a lot of broadcast commercials in 35mm, and I had purchased an Arri 35 III. It was a great camera that could run from 6 fps to 120 fps, but it couldn’t shoot time-lapse. So it was with great joy that I spotted a small ad in the back of American Cinematographer and learned about the Norris intervalometer that worked on the Arri 35 III. Now we could shoot timelapse in 35mm.
The one snag with the Norris was that you had to make sure you initially set it with the shutter open and checked the gate to be sure that as it shot each frame the shutter would close completely. We learned this the hard way. The first few attempts resulted in flash frames or partially exposed frames. Aside from that, it proved to be a glorious piece of technology. You could set frame rate and shutter opening with a combination of dipswitches, and it ran off the standard 12v camera battery – a12-pound block. Despite the weight of the camera and the battery, this was a step up from the Bolex.
I took the Arri all over the country shooting commercials and other projects. If we were headed to a special location, near a national park or other beautiful spot, I’d try to arrange the production schedule to allow some extra hours to shoot timelapse.
On the documentary side, my trusty CP-16 was growing long in the tooth. I replaced it with a great documentary camera, the Super-16mm Aaton XTRplus. And I later upgraded to the Aaton XTRProd with built-in time code. This allowed the camera and audio recorder to synch without having to use a slate. I also purchased an accessory unit for timelapse. This — – screwed onto the camera handle and had dip switches and an LCD read-out.
This was time-lapse nirvana! The Aaton was lightweight and portable and it created a high quality Super-16mm image. Now I could shoot timelapse almost anywhere. Of course, if I wanted to shoot a scene where the light would seriously change, I still had to stand by the camera with my spot meter and slowly adjust the aperture.
I took this camera package all over the world. I shot timelapse at the Very Large Array in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico; I shot timelapse of ships on the Bosporus from a minaret at Istanbul’s Blue Mosque; and I shot timelapse of the crowds filling the Stadium in Atlanta for the Opening Ceremony of the 1996 Summer Olympic Games.
Fast forward to today. The film cameras are retired, and I shoot with a Sony PMW-300 and a PMW-F3. All are capable of great timelapse, with built-in interval recording menus that allow complete flexibility. They even have auto exposure on certain lenses, but I still like using my vintage Zeiss super speeds. On these shots, I still stand by the camera and adjust the aperture as the sunsets in the West, much like I did with the Bolex.
While the technology has changed, the central element of time-lapse remains. It’s always a surprise. While I no longer have to wait on the yellow Kodak envelope to arrive in the mail, shooting timelapse still holds a thrill every time I play back a sequence I just shot. There is the surprise, because you can never be absolutely sure of how things will turn out. Clouds moved faster or slower than expected, shadows do amazing things, and everything moves throughout the frame in ways you never expected.
And then there is the sheer joy of manipulating time
Regardless of the technology I’ve used to shoot it, time-lapse for me is something close to magic.
June 13 – A recent article in DEADLINE HOLLYWOOD reported on a panel discussion on movie set safety at the recent Produced By Conference in Los Angeles. The gist of the article was that somehow crews in states that offer film tax incentives are less qualified, and as a result, the movie sets in those states are more dangerous. Some members of the panel were using the tragic death of crew member Sarah Jones on the MIDNIGHT RIDER set in Georgia, to bolster their view that filming in a tax incentive state encourages a production to cut corners. Speakers quoted in the article seemed to place a good deal of the blame on ‘inexperienced crews.’ The article quoted panel member and production manager, Ellen Schwartz as saying, “The biggest problem for indie producers filming in tax incentive states, is that they often end up working with D-minus crews… I find it really hard to get a good crew in a tax incentive state.” If you take her logic to it’s extreme, she can more easily find good crew in Arizona, Delaware, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, and South Dakota – the only states without film tax incentives. Aside from the illogic of trying to connect state tax incentives to set safety, my problem with the article is its inference of the following: 1. The only real industry pros work in LA. 2. The MIDNIGHT RIDER tragedy in Georgia was the result of shooting with an inexperienced crew in a tax incentive state. 3. The MIDNIGHT RIDER crewmembers somehow share blame for not ‘speaking up.’ I have experience shooting projects in all 50 states and a couple of dozen countries, and I have found that filmmaking expertise is not location dependent. Some of the most experienced and talented crew people I know live in Georgia. I regret that members of the panel have apparently not had the pleasure to work with them. In every part of the country there are experienced crews and inexperienced ones. It is up to the producer and their production team to find and hire the best people, and it is up to the producer to secure an adequate budget to do the job properly and safely. Shooting location – incentives or no – has zero impact on production expertise. A producer either knows what they are doing or they don’t. It is repugnant to infer blame – directly or indirectly – on below-the-line crewmembers for a human tragedy. Ultimately the buck stops with the producer. I have a special distaste for people with power who unload their problems onto those who lack clout – like an arrogant customer berating waiter or a harried traveler yelling at a ticket agent. Or for that matter, producers and production managers on prestigious panels who infer blame on technical crews in Georgia for dangerous conditions, that were the result of decisions made by LA-based producers. A panel on set safety is vitally important for our industry. But using the death of a Georgia crewmember to make a blatant appeal to stop ‘runaway production,’ or to clamor for increased California tax incentives, is both dishonest and unfair.