Making the Video, Corporate-Style
Note: I wrote this essay in 2003, I think.
When Rich, Director of Corporate Communications, offered me, a temporary administrative assistant for the Community Relations Specialist, the position of Communications Coordinator for the entire Bank, he explained my duties: “You’ll be the managing editor of Bancorp Today and maybe start a newsletter for our business customers–oh, and you’ll take over the new orientation video1–nothing to worry about–Denny’s got it ready to go.”
I had no illusions about why Rich picked me. Denny quit abruptly. Rich needed someone asap, and he knew I had a Masters in English. He must have observed my complete lack of corporate confidence, assertiveness, and style, but maybe brushed it off as immaturity. He didn’t know how lonely and unfulfilled I felt in my small cubicle or of my application to MFA programs. He didn’t know that my terrified, “Sure! I’ll do it!” set me on the path to escape.
Denny (the previous Communications Coordinator) sent me two unfinished stories, a list of employee veterans for the Veterans’ Day feature, and one page of notes about the orientation video. I talked to him for five minutes on his last day–he told me Rich would include a script-writer in the budget. On January 3, 2002, he left.
According to Denny’s notes, consultations with production companies had begun in March 2001. Rich wanted me to finish the project by March 11, 2002, in time for the March merger with another local bank. So, in addition to teaching myself how to write, edit and produce a bi-weekly newsletter, I had to pick up loose ends of conversations with the production company and the lawyer assigned to provide guidance with the contract. And then Rich, to my horror, decided I should write the script. I knew nothing about screenwriting, the Bank’s mission, or of contracts. I did not know how to coolly bargain for terms. I had no defenses against the delusion that the salesman really liked me and wanted the best for me. I blushed when he tried to sales-flirt with me and stuttered during phone conferences with the lawyer. I needed a Plan.
The Plan:
The Scenario:
According to the script, which the production company’s director helped me revise, the video, entitled “Bancorp: Why We’re Here,” opens with new Team Member “Jack” sitting in orientation with a roomful of others, listening to the Team Member Services leader explain benefits. He’s slightly bored, and when the leader says they will now watch the orientation video, he mutters, “Why am I here, anyway?” The leader pushes play, and President and CEO Robert appears on the screen. “I’ll tell you why you’re here, Jack,” he says. Jack jumps, and sees that he is suddenly alone in the room and that the President is talking directly to him. After dubiously responding to Robert’s questions about the Bank’s mission and vision, Jack steps out into a bright light, and begins a crash course in the Bank, being magically transported to different locations to meet various team members who explain the Bank’s values and how it meets the needs of customers, team members, shareholders and the community. At the end, Jack finally understands why he’s “here” and has a more positive outlook.
It wasn’t a bad script. I sent it small, secret smiles, and patted it fondly. By late February, we signed the contract, with two weeks to shoot the video. No problem, I thought. I really can do this job. I really am a writer. And then…Reality stepped in.
Reality:
Production Team:
Don - the Salesman
Hook, line and sinker, Don excelled at his job; he made confident promises (“oh yes, we’ve done this in two weeks before...!”) and remained unfailingly upbeat (although after I asked for about the 22nd budget revision, his phone and email personality slid from profusely polite and friendly to just plain polite and friendly).
James - the Director
610-427-4400. His number etched itself into my brain. We spoke about five times a day the week before shooting and about two to three times a week the month prior, working on the script and schedule. I was relieved to know that he, too, had insomnia the night before Day One. James strove for perfection, and the crew visibly relaxed every time he said, “OK, and one more for safety.”
Art - the Cameraman
Like James, Art worked non-stop. I felt sorry for his eye and his arm. Sadly (because he was good-looking and about my age), I rarely talked to Art. I learned about his diabetes from others on the crew who told me what he wanted for lunch, and I learned from observation that the cameraman has as much creative input as the director, script-writer and actors.
Mike - the Sound Man
Mike looked Russian, with thick, square lips and dark, ravaged eyes. His job was to hook up the actors to microphones without making them feel personally violated and then put on headphones and twist a bunch of little knobs to adjust for volume and background noise. Our bonding moment came when we found ourselves the object of Voice & Data wrath. Apparently, the crew had disconnected about a trillion dollars worth of equipment in the Challenge Room, and V&D was on the warpath. Two representatives tracked us down and gave us the “Good Rep, Bad Rep” routine; one grew bright red with embarrassment while the other blustered, hollered, and spewed like a toddler. I assured them we were very, very sorry and that it wouldn’t happen again. Bad Rep humphed and hawed and tried to explain away his tantrum, and Good Rep looked like he’d clean my shoes with his tongue if I asked. After they left, Mike shrugged: “It’s a territorial thing.”
Mark - the Grip
Mark and I bonded when we shot the scene at the Police Athletic League. Mark sub-contracted and averaged about 14 days of work per month, which he said still gave him plenty to pay the bills. I briefly considered becoming a grip. He used adjustable lights and was very resourceful with tape, clothespins, and bits of tissue paper. Sometimes he even had to wave a piece of cardboard slowly across the camera’s eye to achieve the right effect. It made the whole thing seem like a two-bit operation, with people pulling things out of pockets to make do. But that’s just the way of the art.
Jenny - the Teleprompter
Jenny had black, scarecrow hair sticking out at uneven lengths, mostly black clothes, black combat boots, and purple lipstick; Lisa, the Corporate Communications receptionist, said, “That girl is weird!” But I wanted Jenny to like me. Artsy Jenny’s approval would confirm my own artistic side and ultimately, my MFA program potential. Since we rarely used the teleprompter, Jenny had odds-and-ends responsibilities. We got to know each other by trying to figure out how to feed everyone each day. When I offered to pick up the lunches, I had to sign her name when I paid with their corporate credit card. The fake signature looked like a small, injured animal, but Jenny kindly ignored it when I gave her the receipts.
Lee - the Makeup Lady
Lee and I discovered that we are both vegetarian. Since we mostly sat around during the shoots, we discussed our vegetarian-related gastrointestinal difficulties, like bloating. Lee hailed from Philly and did a lot of work for PBS-telethons. She didn’t put much makeup on people–just powder to eliminate shine. She tamed cowlicks with a huge glue stick.
Chris - the Actor
Chris, who played “Jack,” came from NYC and did a lot of work for the QVC home shopping channel. Long hours, lots of waiting, and wearing the same clothes three days in a row didn’t bother him in the least. Observing him, I learned that acting involves more than saying lines. He had to remember exact angles at which to stand, where to look, when to shift his stance, how long to wait between lines, and more.
2 student interns
I can’t remember their names. One of them had a vegetarian girlfriend. The other one really liked music. I heard him say to the grip, “I really like music.”
Lessons from the Set:
Day One
1. Don’t assume your script has Presidential Approval just because you sent it to his attention at least once a week for the past month and a half, and he never suggested any changes.
That first day taught hard lessons in corporate politics. I discovered that I had spent the last few weeks worrying about all the wrong things: editing the script to an uncompromising tightness, making sure the team member “actors” could keep their appointments, racking my brain for details I might have missed. But when Day One arrived and Robert, President and CEO, stalked past all of us with a frighteningly dour expression and disappeared into the elevator, James and I looked at each other in dismay. My stomach turned.
We set up the equipment outside of Robert’s office. Tension grew as Robert continued to ignore us. Finally, his administrative assistant, Ruth, told us that he had read the script the night before and didn’t like it. When he tried to rush by for a meeting, James stepped in front of him and introduced himself. Robert looked flustered and said he wanted to make some changes. Then he left.
I hated him, then. A full-blown, ugly, hot hatred fueled by my fear that I should have known, should have listened to my earlier suspicions that he’d sent those hurried approvals without reading the script. It had made me perversely happy to hope that Robert’s irresponsibility would trap him, that even if he wanted to make changes later, he couldn’t, since it would mess up the production and the budget. After all, it wasn’t his project, and many other company leaders had committed to the process. So, when approximately 30 other people and I were instead thwarted by Robert, my wariness flowered into hatred. A general hatred—of Banks, CEOs, and corporate politics—and (this is hard to admit) a specific, irrational, racist hatred—of his accent, the dark pouches under his eyes, the whiteness of his nails against his skin. My reaction frightened me, and I scrambled away from it…but not without wrapping up a small, dark square of that feeling and tucking it away as further motivation for escape.
2. When the President comes in on the first day of the shoot and wants to re-do the entire script, don’t worry. Listen to his ideas, patiently show him how your script does in fact include all of those wonderful ideas, and in the end, let him ad-lib his scene. Go back later and edit out all of the ad-libbing to get back within the time limit. He won’t remember a thing.
Day Two
1. Little kids aren’t as fascinated by big, stuffed animated dogs as might be expected.
We filmed at the Police Athletic League’s Center for the Arts so we could have Head Start children in the background and make the Bank look maternal. “Checks the Dog,” the Bank mascot, was brought to life by a woman from Legal who made Checks look less like a Dog than like someone trying to see through and walk in an awkward dog costume. The Head Start leader threw down a semicircle of dirty square carpet remnants, one for each child, and brought out some crayons and paper. He looked like a high-schooler, dressed in baggy black jeans with chains and a huge orange sports shirt. The kids filed in with some overweight adult women and stared at the equipment, the people, and the dog for about 15 seconds and then sat of their carpet mats and lost interest. Were they phenomenally well-behaved? Did the seemingly benign young leader hold an unparalleled reign of fear? Or were these four year olds already so worldly that some cameras and a dog costume were old hat? I don’t know, but the filming went without a hitch, although one actor complained that when he backed up to one of the carpets, the little girl colored on his shoe.
2. Clothes matter.
By Day Two, I felt more like part of the crew than the Bank. I wanted to pretend I belonged with them, but I had to thwart this desire every day by dressing in “business casual” while they sported jeans, sneakers, and funky t-shirts. What do clothes have to do with it? Everything. In my search for identification, clothes began to stand for the corporate versus the creative world. In business casual, I felt like the wooden Pinocchio. In jeans and sneakers, I could have moved like a normal person. I might have felt more relaxed. I might have fit in.
Day Three
1. Don’t assume that the actors will read their lines ahead of time, much less practice them. Be prepared for an excess of 20 takes for each sentence. Learn the video crew’s subtle gestures of frustration.
Have I already mentioned James’s patience? James had warehouses of patience, but when his nerves wore thin, his smiles grew feverish, his breathing labored. On day three, his patience took on a grim palpability, and I feared that the poor employee/actor delaying the project would crumble in its presence. Now, unlike the other “actors,” this team member had obviously taken his job seriously and memorized his part. He quickly learned where and when to enter and stand. He looked sharp in his three-piece suit. The problem? A stubborn head tilt. When he recited his lines, his head dropped to one side. James mentioned this ever-so-nonchalantly after a couple of takes; the team member laughed a little, we laughed a little with him, and we all assumed the worst was over. But take after take after take, the head tilted. It didn’t just lean; his ear dropped almost to his shoulder. It looked wrong. Under the stress, the team member began to forget his lines. Jenny set up the teleprompter for the first time. The entire fifth floor sharpened, suspended in tension. The red carpet became redder, the actor’s clothes and glasses more colorful, dazzling and wet with sweat. The head, unbelievably, kept tilting. The patience, horrifically, kept expanding. Two hours past lunch, we finally stopped, defeated. James’s perfectionism broken, he looked hollowed and dazed. The actor made a quick exit, his suit limp, his hands shaking. It took awhile for me to wonder if a head tilt was worth someone’s self-esteem. In the moment, it seemed crucial.
2. Two duds don’t make a bang.
Of all people, you’d think the Marketing and Team Member Services directors would be somewhat animated. Their jobs are to a) make people excited about buying products, and b) make people excited about coming to work. But the Team Member Services director looked like the perpetual loser of freeze tag and spoke all of her lines as if on the verge of tears. The Marketing director spoke in such a low monotone you’d think he was auditioning for a pilot light. Strangely, neither seemed shy or nervous. James kept looking at me in disbelief. But nothing could be done. By virtue of their positions and status, they had to be in the video.
Day Four
1. Keyboards are loud.
Poor Zaneta. Zaneta’s cubicle sat in the midst of the action on days four and five. I say “poor Zaneta” to sublimate my frustration in patronization. I should have felt sorry to disrupt her work, but instead I grew angry when her nasally phone voice pierced the taut silence that descended when James said, “and action.” I had to sneak over at least three times and ask if it would be, um, at all possible to, um, maybe, not be on the phone for just a couple of minutes? But even then, her keyboard, fax machine, printer, and file cabinet drawers continued to bug out Mike. As each take played out, I watched Mike. My ears became Mike’s ears. We listened deeply. He turned the little knobs, deep in concentration. I heard—really heard—the building: the air vent wheeze, keyboard clicks, distant conversations; the lone cough, a door opening and closing, footsteps, and an underlying, immutable Hum. I don’t know where the Hum came from. Zaneta finally left the cubicle, and we all relaxed. For 10 lovely minutes, “and action,” was followed by the actors’ relatively undiluted voices and movements. Then, one by one, we began to hear the harsh, electronic notes of an unmistakably Irish, unmistakably jolly, jig. Like children following the Pied Piper, we followed the demonic leprechaun sound and discovered Zaneta’s final retribution: a password-protected St. Patrick’s Day screensaver. Finally, Tom from Security came to help. Tom, our friend and hero, pulled the plug.
2. Why directors hold auditions.
I had sent out an email asking for volunteers to fill in the video’s closing scene. Most of them would mill about silently, but I needed one person to speak two lines. Only one woman, Tracy, offered to take the part. For some reason, I had pictured Tracy as an African-American woman, very upbeat, energetic and outgoing. The real Tracy was undoubtedly Caucasian, had short thin hair and way too much make-up–she looked like Juliette Lewis with a bitter beer face. She had a sour, cynical, and cruel expression when she was supposed to look mildly surprised and doubtful-yet-interested. I stepped in, at James’s whispered request, and stammered that she was doing a great job, a wonderful job, but that maybe her character could, oh, smile a little more, if that’s okay? She happily agreed. Pleased with myself, I stepped back to watch. I couldn’t believe it. Her smile looked worse than her former expression. She’s one of those people who actually turn down the corners of their mouths to smile, the downward turn growing more pronounced the harder they smile. If Tracy’s smile had ended the video as planned, new employees would have been struck with foreboding.
Luckily, we had to re-shoot the scene because a) Robert, now keeping tabs on everything, and Rich decided they wanted a different ending and b) the door sign our graphic designers made said “employee orientation” rather than “team member orientation.” We had almost tripled our budget by this time, but I thanked the building’s omnipresent Hum when I found out that Tracy would not be available for the new shoot. The last-minute replacement wasn’t perfect—Katie spoke very loudly and reworded her last line in a way that changed the meaning: “Hey, I actually look forward to coming to work–what more can you ask?” became “Hey, I actually look forward to coming to work, and I guess you can’t ask for more than that.” It sounded really sad, as if she’d finally accepted the depressing fact that work brought the only possibility for joy in life.
3. I couldn’t wait for it to be over and now I wish it wasn’t.
We wrapped production that evening, on March 20th, almost two weeks past the deadline and at least $7000 over budget. After over a month of daily panic and frenzied phone calls, emails, scheduling, and planning, I felt empty. James and I got along well; I’d enjoyed my conversations with Lee, Mike, Mark, and Jenny. When they packed up and left, they took with them their down-to-earth conversation, their creativity and humor. They took with them the promise of a different, more imaginative world, their jeans and t-shirts. I followed them down with the last of the gear. I stood in my drab khakis and uncomfortable shoes and shook their hands. They left, and I felt the loneliness of the past year settling back in, sprawling out its limbs and leaning back to stare at the ceiling.
Four months later, I left the Bank to return to school, vowing never to return to the corporate world. Looking back, I realize that the video had actually become, by the end, “cheesy,” and that the production crew had to cater to corporate politics as much as the Bank. Still, they gave me a glimpse of a different world, a creative world into which I might actually fit.
James mailed us the final tapes a week later. It turned out that Robert loved the video. He called my supervisor and me up to his office to watch it, and he smiled, laughed, and pronounced it good. Perhaps his pleasure came from the mesmerizing seduction of seeing himself on screen, or perhaps he was so relieved that it didn’t suck that he over-praised us. Still, I felt a surge of friendliness toward him then and forgave him everything.
A Glossary:
Bi-weekly (adj.) - this does not mean, as I naively assumed at first, twice a week. In the Bank, it refers to something that occurs once every two weeks. When I tried to make light of this by featuring a “customer letter of the bi-week” in the company newsletter (which comes out once every two weeks), I was reprimanded.
B-roll (n.) - the pictures that you see in a video but don’t hear; in this case, Rich wanted helicopter shots of the Bank’s various locations, but budget concerns forced us to nix the copter and settle for ground level views.
Challenge Room (phrase) - a large room of long desks, chairs, and, apparently, trillions of dollars worth of media equipment up front. The most challenging aspect to the Challenge Room was fitting all of the cameras and sound equipment in for a scene without incurring even more Voice & Data wrath.
Grip (n.) - the person who sets up lighting for a scene; my favorite term of that week
One More For Safety (phrase) – this means that the director will shoot one, and only one, more take. Not to be confused with “Let’s do one more” or “How about one more,” which mean, “let’s do one more and possibly a whole lot more after that.”
Orientation Video (phrase) - a cheesy, 5-10 minute video new team members must watch during their training period. It introduces team members to the Bank’s mission, goals, accomplishments, and major departments.
Team Member Services (n., var of Human Resources) -at the Bank, employees are not human; they are team members. So HR becomes TMS, and no one knows what it means or where to go with problems until they learn the lingo.
Voice & Data (phrase?) - a Bank department that seemed to shift locations like rooms in Harry Potter’s Hogwarts; led by two Reps who, I suspect, made up the entire team. It certainly became clear which one represented Voice and which represented Data.
When Rich, Director of Corporate Communications, offered me, a temporary administrative assistant for the Community Relations Specialist, the position of Communications Coordinator for the entire Bank, he explained my duties: “You’ll be the managing editor of Bancorp Today and maybe start a newsletter for our business customers–oh, and you’ll take over the new orientation video1–nothing to worry about–Denny’s got it ready to go.”
I had no illusions about why Rich picked me. Denny quit abruptly. Rich needed someone asap, and he knew I had a Masters in English. He must have observed my complete lack of corporate confidence, assertiveness, and style, but maybe brushed it off as immaturity. He didn’t know how lonely and unfulfilled I felt in my small cubicle or of my application to MFA programs. He didn’t know that my terrified, “Sure! I’ll do it!” set me on the path to escape.
Denny (the previous Communications Coordinator) sent me two unfinished stories, a list of employee veterans for the Veterans’ Day feature, and one page of notes about the orientation video. I talked to him for five minutes on his last day–he told me Rich would include a script-writer in the budget. On January 3, 2002, he left.
According to Denny’s notes, consultations with production companies had begun in March 2001. Rich wanted me to finish the project by March 11, 2002, in time for the March merger with another local bank. So, in addition to teaching myself how to write, edit and produce a bi-weekly newsletter, I had to pick up loose ends of conversations with the production company and the lawyer assigned to provide guidance with the contract. And then Rich, to my horror, decided I should write the script. I knew nothing about screenwriting, the Bank’s mission, or of contracts. I did not know how to coolly bargain for terms. I had no defenses against the delusion that the salesman really liked me and wanted the best for me. I blushed when he tried to sales-flirt with me and stuttered during phone conferences with the lawyer. I needed a Plan.
The Plan:
- Write a fabulous, all-inclusive script that everyone will love.
- Using 10 busy senior managers as “actors” in 5 scenes, shoot the entire video it 2 days, including b-roll from PA, NJ, MA and RI.
- Enlist about 20 team members to play the “extras,” and make sure they are available on an unspecified day for an unspecified amount of time, and that represent a diverse range of gender, race, ethnicity and age.
- Get everything done in time for the merger.
- Make everyone happy.
The Scenario:
According to the script, which the production company’s director helped me revise, the video, entitled “Bancorp: Why We’re Here,” opens with new Team Member “Jack” sitting in orientation with a roomful of others, listening to the Team Member Services leader explain benefits. He’s slightly bored, and when the leader says they will now watch the orientation video, he mutters, “Why am I here, anyway?” The leader pushes play, and President and CEO Robert appears on the screen. “I’ll tell you why you’re here, Jack,” he says. Jack jumps, and sees that he is suddenly alone in the room and that the President is talking directly to him. After dubiously responding to Robert’s questions about the Bank’s mission and vision, Jack steps out into a bright light, and begins a crash course in the Bank, being magically transported to different locations to meet various team members who explain the Bank’s values and how it meets the needs of customers, team members, shareholders and the community. At the end, Jack finally understands why he’s “here” and has a more positive outlook.
It wasn’t a bad script. I sent it small, secret smiles, and patted it fondly. By late February, we signed the contract, with two weeks to shoot the video. No problem, I thought. I really can do this job. I really am a writer. And then…Reality stepped in.
Reality:
- Cut as much as possible from the fabulous script to stay within the time limit.
- Use 10 busy managers as “actors” in 6 scenes, but not the same ones you first asked to be in it.
- Shoot the entire video in six days, including b-roll. Try not to think about the un-capped budget in the contract.
- Enlist any stray people you can find to be “extras,” and keep them standing/sitting around for hours, call them back for re-do’s, cut them from the video anyway. Feel like a really bad person.
- Extend the target date by approximately four weeks.
- Annoy as many people as possible.
Production Team:
Don - the Salesman
Hook, line and sinker, Don excelled at his job; he made confident promises (“oh yes, we’ve done this in two weeks before...!”) and remained unfailingly upbeat (although after I asked for about the 22nd budget revision, his phone and email personality slid from profusely polite and friendly to just plain polite and friendly).
James - the Director
610-427-4400. His number etched itself into my brain. We spoke about five times a day the week before shooting and about two to three times a week the month prior, working on the script and schedule. I was relieved to know that he, too, had insomnia the night before Day One. James strove for perfection, and the crew visibly relaxed every time he said, “OK, and one more for safety.”
Art - the Cameraman
Like James, Art worked non-stop. I felt sorry for his eye and his arm. Sadly (because he was good-looking and about my age), I rarely talked to Art. I learned about his diabetes from others on the crew who told me what he wanted for lunch, and I learned from observation that the cameraman has as much creative input as the director, script-writer and actors.
Mike - the Sound Man
Mike looked Russian, with thick, square lips and dark, ravaged eyes. His job was to hook up the actors to microphones without making them feel personally violated and then put on headphones and twist a bunch of little knobs to adjust for volume and background noise. Our bonding moment came when we found ourselves the object of Voice & Data wrath. Apparently, the crew had disconnected about a trillion dollars worth of equipment in the Challenge Room, and V&D was on the warpath. Two representatives tracked us down and gave us the “Good Rep, Bad Rep” routine; one grew bright red with embarrassment while the other blustered, hollered, and spewed like a toddler. I assured them we were very, very sorry and that it wouldn’t happen again. Bad Rep humphed and hawed and tried to explain away his tantrum, and Good Rep looked like he’d clean my shoes with his tongue if I asked. After they left, Mike shrugged: “It’s a territorial thing.”
Mark - the Grip
Mark and I bonded when we shot the scene at the Police Athletic League. Mark sub-contracted and averaged about 14 days of work per month, which he said still gave him plenty to pay the bills. I briefly considered becoming a grip. He used adjustable lights and was very resourceful with tape, clothespins, and bits of tissue paper. Sometimes he even had to wave a piece of cardboard slowly across the camera’s eye to achieve the right effect. It made the whole thing seem like a two-bit operation, with people pulling things out of pockets to make do. But that’s just the way of the art.
Jenny - the Teleprompter
Jenny had black, scarecrow hair sticking out at uneven lengths, mostly black clothes, black combat boots, and purple lipstick; Lisa, the Corporate Communications receptionist, said, “That girl is weird!” But I wanted Jenny to like me. Artsy Jenny’s approval would confirm my own artistic side and ultimately, my MFA program potential. Since we rarely used the teleprompter, Jenny had odds-and-ends responsibilities. We got to know each other by trying to figure out how to feed everyone each day. When I offered to pick up the lunches, I had to sign her name when I paid with their corporate credit card. The fake signature looked like a small, injured animal, but Jenny kindly ignored it when I gave her the receipts.
Lee - the Makeup Lady
Lee and I discovered that we are both vegetarian. Since we mostly sat around during the shoots, we discussed our vegetarian-related gastrointestinal difficulties, like bloating. Lee hailed from Philly and did a lot of work for PBS-telethons. She didn’t put much makeup on people–just powder to eliminate shine. She tamed cowlicks with a huge glue stick.
Chris - the Actor
Chris, who played “Jack,” came from NYC and did a lot of work for the QVC home shopping channel. Long hours, lots of waiting, and wearing the same clothes three days in a row didn’t bother him in the least. Observing him, I learned that acting involves more than saying lines. He had to remember exact angles at which to stand, where to look, when to shift his stance, how long to wait between lines, and more.
2 student interns
I can’t remember their names. One of them had a vegetarian girlfriend. The other one really liked music. I heard him say to the grip, “I really like music.”
Lessons from the Set:
Day One
1. Don’t assume your script has Presidential Approval just because you sent it to his attention at least once a week for the past month and a half, and he never suggested any changes.
That first day taught hard lessons in corporate politics. I discovered that I had spent the last few weeks worrying about all the wrong things: editing the script to an uncompromising tightness, making sure the team member “actors” could keep their appointments, racking my brain for details I might have missed. But when Day One arrived and Robert, President and CEO, stalked past all of us with a frighteningly dour expression and disappeared into the elevator, James and I looked at each other in dismay. My stomach turned.
We set up the equipment outside of Robert’s office. Tension grew as Robert continued to ignore us. Finally, his administrative assistant, Ruth, told us that he had read the script the night before and didn’t like it. When he tried to rush by for a meeting, James stepped in front of him and introduced himself. Robert looked flustered and said he wanted to make some changes. Then he left.
I hated him, then. A full-blown, ugly, hot hatred fueled by my fear that I should have known, should have listened to my earlier suspicions that he’d sent those hurried approvals without reading the script. It had made me perversely happy to hope that Robert’s irresponsibility would trap him, that even if he wanted to make changes later, he couldn’t, since it would mess up the production and the budget. After all, it wasn’t his project, and many other company leaders had committed to the process. So, when approximately 30 other people and I were instead thwarted by Robert, my wariness flowered into hatred. A general hatred—of Banks, CEOs, and corporate politics—and (this is hard to admit) a specific, irrational, racist hatred—of his accent, the dark pouches under his eyes, the whiteness of his nails against his skin. My reaction frightened me, and I scrambled away from it…but not without wrapping up a small, dark square of that feeling and tucking it away as further motivation for escape.
2. When the President comes in on the first day of the shoot and wants to re-do the entire script, don’t worry. Listen to his ideas, patiently show him how your script does in fact include all of those wonderful ideas, and in the end, let him ad-lib his scene. Go back later and edit out all of the ad-libbing to get back within the time limit. He won’t remember a thing.
Day Two
1. Little kids aren’t as fascinated by big, stuffed animated dogs as might be expected.
We filmed at the Police Athletic League’s Center for the Arts so we could have Head Start children in the background and make the Bank look maternal. “Checks the Dog,” the Bank mascot, was brought to life by a woman from Legal who made Checks look less like a Dog than like someone trying to see through and walk in an awkward dog costume. The Head Start leader threw down a semicircle of dirty square carpet remnants, one for each child, and brought out some crayons and paper. He looked like a high-schooler, dressed in baggy black jeans with chains and a huge orange sports shirt. The kids filed in with some overweight adult women and stared at the equipment, the people, and the dog for about 15 seconds and then sat of their carpet mats and lost interest. Were they phenomenally well-behaved? Did the seemingly benign young leader hold an unparalleled reign of fear? Or were these four year olds already so worldly that some cameras and a dog costume were old hat? I don’t know, but the filming went without a hitch, although one actor complained that when he backed up to one of the carpets, the little girl colored on his shoe.
2. Clothes matter.
By Day Two, I felt more like part of the crew than the Bank. I wanted to pretend I belonged with them, but I had to thwart this desire every day by dressing in “business casual” while they sported jeans, sneakers, and funky t-shirts. What do clothes have to do with it? Everything. In my search for identification, clothes began to stand for the corporate versus the creative world. In business casual, I felt like the wooden Pinocchio. In jeans and sneakers, I could have moved like a normal person. I might have felt more relaxed. I might have fit in.
Day Three
1. Don’t assume that the actors will read their lines ahead of time, much less practice them. Be prepared for an excess of 20 takes for each sentence. Learn the video crew’s subtle gestures of frustration.
Have I already mentioned James’s patience? James had warehouses of patience, but when his nerves wore thin, his smiles grew feverish, his breathing labored. On day three, his patience took on a grim palpability, and I feared that the poor employee/actor delaying the project would crumble in its presence. Now, unlike the other “actors,” this team member had obviously taken his job seriously and memorized his part. He quickly learned where and when to enter and stand. He looked sharp in his three-piece suit. The problem? A stubborn head tilt. When he recited his lines, his head dropped to one side. James mentioned this ever-so-nonchalantly after a couple of takes; the team member laughed a little, we laughed a little with him, and we all assumed the worst was over. But take after take after take, the head tilted. It didn’t just lean; his ear dropped almost to his shoulder. It looked wrong. Under the stress, the team member began to forget his lines. Jenny set up the teleprompter for the first time. The entire fifth floor sharpened, suspended in tension. The red carpet became redder, the actor’s clothes and glasses more colorful, dazzling and wet with sweat. The head, unbelievably, kept tilting. The patience, horrifically, kept expanding. Two hours past lunch, we finally stopped, defeated. James’s perfectionism broken, he looked hollowed and dazed. The actor made a quick exit, his suit limp, his hands shaking. It took awhile for me to wonder if a head tilt was worth someone’s self-esteem. In the moment, it seemed crucial.
2. Two duds don’t make a bang.
Of all people, you’d think the Marketing and Team Member Services directors would be somewhat animated. Their jobs are to a) make people excited about buying products, and b) make people excited about coming to work. But the Team Member Services director looked like the perpetual loser of freeze tag and spoke all of her lines as if on the verge of tears. The Marketing director spoke in such a low monotone you’d think he was auditioning for a pilot light. Strangely, neither seemed shy or nervous. James kept looking at me in disbelief. But nothing could be done. By virtue of their positions and status, they had to be in the video.
Day Four
1. Keyboards are loud.
Poor Zaneta. Zaneta’s cubicle sat in the midst of the action on days four and five. I say “poor Zaneta” to sublimate my frustration in patronization. I should have felt sorry to disrupt her work, but instead I grew angry when her nasally phone voice pierced the taut silence that descended when James said, “and action.” I had to sneak over at least three times and ask if it would be, um, at all possible to, um, maybe, not be on the phone for just a couple of minutes? But even then, her keyboard, fax machine, printer, and file cabinet drawers continued to bug out Mike. As each take played out, I watched Mike. My ears became Mike’s ears. We listened deeply. He turned the little knobs, deep in concentration. I heard—really heard—the building: the air vent wheeze, keyboard clicks, distant conversations; the lone cough, a door opening and closing, footsteps, and an underlying, immutable Hum. I don’t know where the Hum came from. Zaneta finally left the cubicle, and we all relaxed. For 10 lovely minutes, “and action,” was followed by the actors’ relatively undiluted voices and movements. Then, one by one, we began to hear the harsh, electronic notes of an unmistakably Irish, unmistakably jolly, jig. Like children following the Pied Piper, we followed the demonic leprechaun sound and discovered Zaneta’s final retribution: a password-protected St. Patrick’s Day screensaver. Finally, Tom from Security came to help. Tom, our friend and hero, pulled the plug.
2. Why directors hold auditions.
I had sent out an email asking for volunteers to fill in the video’s closing scene. Most of them would mill about silently, but I needed one person to speak two lines. Only one woman, Tracy, offered to take the part. For some reason, I had pictured Tracy as an African-American woman, very upbeat, energetic and outgoing. The real Tracy was undoubtedly Caucasian, had short thin hair and way too much make-up–she looked like Juliette Lewis with a bitter beer face. She had a sour, cynical, and cruel expression when she was supposed to look mildly surprised and doubtful-yet-interested. I stepped in, at James’s whispered request, and stammered that she was doing a great job, a wonderful job, but that maybe her character could, oh, smile a little more, if that’s okay? She happily agreed. Pleased with myself, I stepped back to watch. I couldn’t believe it. Her smile looked worse than her former expression. She’s one of those people who actually turn down the corners of their mouths to smile, the downward turn growing more pronounced the harder they smile. If Tracy’s smile had ended the video as planned, new employees would have been struck with foreboding.
Luckily, we had to re-shoot the scene because a) Robert, now keeping tabs on everything, and Rich decided they wanted a different ending and b) the door sign our graphic designers made said “employee orientation” rather than “team member orientation.” We had almost tripled our budget by this time, but I thanked the building’s omnipresent Hum when I found out that Tracy would not be available for the new shoot. The last-minute replacement wasn’t perfect—Katie spoke very loudly and reworded her last line in a way that changed the meaning: “Hey, I actually look forward to coming to work–what more can you ask?” became “Hey, I actually look forward to coming to work, and I guess you can’t ask for more than that.” It sounded really sad, as if she’d finally accepted the depressing fact that work brought the only possibility for joy in life.
3. I couldn’t wait for it to be over and now I wish it wasn’t.
We wrapped production that evening, on March 20th, almost two weeks past the deadline and at least $7000 over budget. After over a month of daily panic and frenzied phone calls, emails, scheduling, and planning, I felt empty. James and I got along well; I’d enjoyed my conversations with Lee, Mike, Mark, and Jenny. When they packed up and left, they took with them their down-to-earth conversation, their creativity and humor. They took with them the promise of a different, more imaginative world, their jeans and t-shirts. I followed them down with the last of the gear. I stood in my drab khakis and uncomfortable shoes and shook their hands. They left, and I felt the loneliness of the past year settling back in, sprawling out its limbs and leaning back to stare at the ceiling.
Four months later, I left the Bank to return to school, vowing never to return to the corporate world. Looking back, I realize that the video had actually become, by the end, “cheesy,” and that the production crew had to cater to corporate politics as much as the Bank. Still, they gave me a glimpse of a different world, a creative world into which I might actually fit.
James mailed us the final tapes a week later. It turned out that Robert loved the video. He called my supervisor and me up to his office to watch it, and he smiled, laughed, and pronounced it good. Perhaps his pleasure came from the mesmerizing seduction of seeing himself on screen, or perhaps he was so relieved that it didn’t suck that he over-praised us. Still, I felt a surge of friendliness toward him then and forgave him everything.
A Glossary:
Bi-weekly (adj.) - this does not mean, as I naively assumed at first, twice a week. In the Bank, it refers to something that occurs once every two weeks. When I tried to make light of this by featuring a “customer letter of the bi-week” in the company newsletter (which comes out once every two weeks), I was reprimanded.
B-roll (n.) - the pictures that you see in a video but don’t hear; in this case, Rich wanted helicopter shots of the Bank’s various locations, but budget concerns forced us to nix the copter and settle for ground level views.
Challenge Room (phrase) - a large room of long desks, chairs, and, apparently, trillions of dollars worth of media equipment up front. The most challenging aspect to the Challenge Room was fitting all of the cameras and sound equipment in for a scene without incurring even more Voice & Data wrath.
Grip (n.) - the person who sets up lighting for a scene; my favorite term of that week
One More For Safety (phrase) – this means that the director will shoot one, and only one, more take. Not to be confused with “Let’s do one more” or “How about one more,” which mean, “let’s do one more and possibly a whole lot more after that.”
Orientation Video (phrase) - a cheesy, 5-10 minute video new team members must watch during their training period. It introduces team members to the Bank’s mission, goals, accomplishments, and major departments.
Team Member Services (n., var of Human Resources) -at the Bank, employees are not human; they are team members. So HR becomes TMS, and no one knows what it means or where to go with problems until they learn the lingo.
Voice & Data (phrase?) - a Bank department that seemed to shift locations like rooms in Harry Potter’s Hogwarts; led by two Reps who, I suspect, made up the entire team. It certainly became clear which one represented Voice and which represented Data.
