Film School by Steve Boman Page B

cap. Our whole crew—me, Julie, and all three kids—heads to the local park just down the street. When we get there, Lara climbs on the monkey bars while Sophia toddles around. I stand nearby, my camera and tripod ready. Maria rides Lara’s bike on the sidewalk, past the monkey bars, grinning widely. I stand next to other dads with my camera. No one has any idea what I am doing. I look like any other suburban dad videotaping his kid learning how to ride a bike. Yes, I’ve got a tripod, but no one gives me even a sideways glance. One hundred feet away a woman is videotaping a birthday party. To the unpracticed eye, my boxy Sony looks like any other out-of-date camera.
    An hour later, we’re home again. I check what I’ve shot on playback. It’s far from perfect, but it’s good enough. I know using a dream sequence is the biggest cliché in moviemaking. ( Look, it didn’t happen, it’s only a dream! ) Yes, I’m being lazy and not very original, but my goal is just to get a base hit, not a home run, and move forward.
    With this film, I mainly want to show my class—and my
instructors—my kids. They are such an important part of my life, and I want to use this film as a two-minute brag session. When I plug the camera into our television set and we watch the completed film, Maria beams. Sophia claps. Even Lara agrees her annoying little sister did a good job.
    If this is film school, I think , this is not hard . For my two-minute film, I did no more than twenty different setups. That works out to six seconds a shot—a pretty slow pace. Watch any TV show or film and count how long each shot lasts. In television, it’s rare for a shot to last more than four seconds on-screen, most are less than that. My short film is a slow-moving affair, and, if I remove my bias, it’s actually pretty dull. But I’m happy. I’m guessing film school is a game of attrition: I just need to survive to fight the next battle and not flame out early.
    The next week we show our two-minute films in class. The Zemeckis classrooms have large pull-down screens and overhead video projectors. As we sit in the dark, our videos play out on the screen, larger than life. The smallest details are enormous. It’s the first time I’ve seen my camera work displayed on such a large screen. Small bobbles of the camera make images look like they are going through a magnitude 8.7 earthquake. Flaws in lighting, in acting, in set design all jump out.
    No one has a masterpiece. Most are, like mine, silly things. I feel relieved watching them spool out on the big screen that I’m not completely outclassed. Fee Fee, a production major in college, features a woman being chased, horror-movie style, by what turns out to be a fluffy stuffed animal. This is par for the course.
    My film has the effect I hoped for on my classmates. I hear ooohs and aaaaaahs as my three daughters appear on the screen. My five female classmates seem especially appreciative. I get a nice round of applause. I feel like I’ve got a two-minute family talent show on the screen. Von Trapp Family Singers, watch out.
    The lights come up. FTC clears his throat. He holds a long dramatic pause. He is frowning. His lips are tight.
    Finally, he speaks. “Steve.” He exhales. “Steve . . . Steve . . . Steve.” He shakes his head.
    He looks at me for several seconds. I look back, confused. Did the story not make any sense? Is he going to hammer me for using the lame It’s Only a Dream concept? Did my technique stink that much?
    FTC finally speaks. “Did you have a studio teacher?” he asks.
    My brain races. I do a quick mental survey of the term studio teacher . I had read about them in some of the material we received in class. They make sure actors under eighteen don’t work beyond union-specified time limits on a set, and they’re also supposed to make sure a child actor