Aspects of Editing

Feb. 1, 2019. A cool Friday L.A. evening. The Beverly Hilton is packed to the rafters with the editing community, breaking out their black ties and cocktail dresses to partake in the annual Eddie Awards. It’s standard L.A. awards show stuff: photographers snapping the famous, hosts cracking jokes, those films and shows you like being listed on a big screen.

D’Arcy Carden is on stage, reading out the winner of Best Edited Drama Series for Commercial Television: Gary Dollner, ACE, for Killing Eve. But this award is a little different. What’s notable here is that Killing Eve is the first drama series Dollner has ever cut. “Myself and my agent made a concerted effort to move into drama about 8-10 years ago,” explains Dollner. “But I always heard the same thing: ‘You’ve got a proven comedy track record, but we’re not sure you can cut drama.’”

A veteran of comedy, Dollner was nominated for an Eddie in 2016 for his work on Veep. But back in his native U.K., he has often been involved with comedy projects that carry real pathos, such as the multi-BAFTA® winning I’m Alan Partridge, and Ricky Gervais’ The Office movie David Brent: Life on the Road. Most recently he cut Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag, the heartwrenchingly hilarious tale of a lonely woman trying to cope with tragedy. His work in bringing Fleabag’s characters’ trials to screen has earned him an Emmy® nomination.

“The feedback on social media was overwhelming,” recalls Dollner. “The show has real emotion, and people really connected with that. To label it as ‘just’ a comedy doesn’t do it justice.”

Working with Waller-Bridge and the Fleabag team is the reason Dollner finally managed to make the jump. “When they made Killing Eve, they brought me along, because we’d built a connection and a shorthand in the edit already. There was a trust there.”

So after the jump to ‘a drama’ did Dollner approach the edit in a different way? “No. Not at all. The challenge on Killing Eve was making an exciting drama and teasing out the humor in the script, whilst walking the line between the two.”

Some media outlets have labeled Fleabag a ‘dramedy,’ a relatively new term that was only coined six or seven years ago in an effort to describe shows that didn’t fit into the preconceived ideas of what either genre should be. Shows too funny to be just a drama, and too moving to be just a comedy.

But sitcoms have had a long-standing capacity to make us feel. What about the finale of M*A*S*H*? The episode is built around a therapy session for Alan Alda’s character Hawkeye, where he is forced to recall a repressed memory of a mother smothering her baby to death, after he admonishes her for not keeping it quiet. Or the ending of Friends, where we are left with the empty apartment as they leave for the final time? Or on Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Will Smith’s moving outburst after being abandoned by his father: “How come he don’t want me, man?” Or Niles’ open heart surgery? Or Fry’s dog in Futurama loyally waiting for him to return?

And of course there are all the times drama made us laugh. The Sopranos episode where Chris and Paulie get lost in the woods. Or the pizza on the roof in Breaking Bad. Or anytime in Game of Thrones when the Hound says … that word he says. Or anytime Colombo dropped his ‘Just one more thing.’

In the modern TV landscape, with studios pushing the boundaries and creatives experimenting with how stories can be told, the lines between genres are blurring even further. Take Netflix’s Russian Doll. A rom-sci-fi-drama-horror-thriller-mystery-com. Or more simply labeled by the media under the newly coined ‘Groundhog Day’ genre. To balance the tone in such a piece takes genuine craft, so it comes as no surprise to learn that one of the two editors, Todd Downing, has three BAFTA nominations. What may be surprising is that they are all for Best Current Affairs.

“I had moved to London and got a job with a huge documentary company, and grew with them until I was doing stuff on North Korea, and ISIS, and all these really depressing serious things. But I still wanted to do funny,” Downing recollects.

“So I headed back to New York, and I got a call from someone I had worked with before to come and cut on Difficult People. He pitched me, and talked up my BAFTA nominations, and the network were like, ‘Why do you wanna hire this guy?’ But the showrunner stuck by me and wouldn’t budge.”

Did Downing feel a frustration at the network’s initial refusal to go with the showrunner’s wishes? “I’ve had that before, where people look someone up and see they cut ‘this,’ and people think that’s the only thing you can cut. And a lot of me believes that editing is editing. The rest is just style.

“I really love that I did all that British documentary stuff, because the storytelling on them is so hardcore, with things making sense and clarity. And people who do scripted think that people who do documentaries can’t do scripted. And, you know … [laughs] … scripted is easier.”

Being labeled, or pigeonholed, is a frustration that many editors have felt. Cut one film or show well, and you become the person who ‘does that thing.’ But this is a gross misunderstanding of our craft. That’s simply not how an editor thinks, or how an editor creates. We think in terms of story. We think in terms of viewer experience. We think in terms of entertainment. This is the way that editors have always been built. There is
a long history of great editors who master multiple genres.

Thelma Schoonmaker, ACE, cut the documentaries Woodstock and Street Scenes, then won the Oscar® for Raging Bull. Paul Hirsch, ACE, jumped from horror with Carrie, to action blockbusters with Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back, to comedy with Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Planes, Trains & Automobiles. Arthur Schmidt, ACE, was nominated for the Oscar for the biopic Coal Miner’s Daughter, then won the Oscar for the
comedy Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

More recently Tom Cross, ACE, spent years editing commercials, documentaries and reality TV before winning the Oscar for Whiplash. ‘Ah’ the naysayers will cry. ‘These are all film editors. What about TV?’ Well, let me paint you a picture… February 1, 2019. A cool Friday L.A. evening. The Beverly Hilton is packed to the rafters with the editing community, breaking out their black ties and cocktail dresses to partake in the annual Eddie Awards. Jennifer Lewis is on stage, reading out the winner of Best Edited Comedy Series for Non-Commercial Television: Kate Sanford, ACE, for The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.

What’s notable about this award is many will know her name from her work on dramas The Wire and Boardwalk Empire. “Early on I worked on dramatic films, but growing up I was drawn to comedy and musicals,” reveals Sanford. “My first big show was Sex and the City, which I got lucky with because at the time no one was making TV in New York. Getting that credit was instrumental in opening other doors for me.”

So surely with a season of the most talked about show in America under her belt, hiring an editor of Sanford’s caliber would be a no-brainer for a small indie movie? “I had an interview on the movie Hedwig, which I didn’t get, because I just didn’t have enough experience cutting music.

And then I missed out on other musical work, and it was very frustrating because to me, that was everything.” Often for editors to break out of these labels and explore storytelling in different ways it takes a stroke of good fortune, and often on a show that is at the top of the game in the genre they are established. “Boardwalk Empire was the one that opened things up, because there were a lot of staged musical numbers on that, and it was from there I was able to transition into The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, Fosse/ Verdon and the musical comedy genre.” says Sanford. “I would still love to work on an actual musical.” Isn’t it time the industry stopped referring to editors as ‘a great comedy editor’ or ‘a great drama editor’ and instead simply refer to them as ‘great editors’?

Surely the mark of a great editor is telling the story in the most entertaining way possible, and knowing what style to use and when? “We cut The Wire using documentary style rules,” explains Sanford. “On Mrs. Maisel we use laser precision editing to get to the comedy. But what I do, and I’m sure so many of us do, is we have this skill of memorizing the dailies, finding things quickly, and telling the best story possible. And that skill set translates from drama to comedy to all genres.”

Perhaps with the new ground being broken by TV, networks and studios will stop putting the craftspeople in such predefined boxes. And while it can hurt as an editor to miss out on a show or film that you know deep down you are right for, doesn’t it hurt the studio more to miss out on the right editor?

There are many excellent television directors who understand the pace and limitations of series television and guide the actors to subtle performances. They know how to shoot coverage and maybe design a few cool-looking camera moves. But on occasion we get directors who are mismatched for a show. They can’t block, get hung up on unimportant story points, and miss key scene beats.

On most long-running TV series the actors know their characters, the photographic style is set, most departments from casting to set design answer to the showrunner not the director. Here is a thought experiment: Imagine a show without a director, where the actors block themselves, the camera operators figure out the shots, the AD runs the set. This occurs when an unseasoned crew member is moved up to director. Usually the show turns out okay. Some jokes may be missed, some moments are flat but usually about 80 percent of the script
makes it to the screen.

The horror that I confront as an editor is the rare occasion when a terrible director gets the gig and I have to contend with 40-50 percent of the script realized on the screen. These rubes make the show worse than if there was no director. They may be maestros with a skill such as shooting live sport events or excellent at pitching network execs but fail miserably at working a nuanced comedy.

When writers, directors of photography, actors, editors, set designers and others on a crew don’t perform well, they don’t survive. But directors are different. A director with poor skills can build a reel of material that can be very impressive after rewrites, reshoots, opticals and intense editing go into fixing the show. For the purposes of this article I am going to fictionalize and create a composite director named Myron Smith and a composite series I’ll call MacDriver which is not related to my experiences on MacGyver (1985-92). Hopefully, using anonymity I may continue living my life without a bodyguard and food taster.

Executive producers brought Myron Smith to direct MacDriver, because they had great experiences with him 20 years before on TV westerns. In that time, audience expectations had changed a lot. Old TV westerns were shot in seven days. Action scenes were composed of a wide master of cowboys shooting at each other and a few choice medium shots for dialogue. Smith’s episode was so badly directed it required 108 second-unit insert shots (many were technically principal photography) shot over three days to make the scenes coherent. In one scene, the director covered an intense four-page car chase setting the camera on one hill to capture the cars on an opposite hill thinking this was enough action to engage the audience. Along with a lack of coverage, the close-ups were shot at the same angle as the master, making matches difficult.

So it begins for the editor. What are we going to do to make this episode look and feel like other episodes of MacDriver? First off there is the ‘brilliant edit.’ We run the scene and the dailies over and over again looking for inspiration. Then a conversation with my assistant; a late night revelation; encouraging words from the showrunner; and the answer is there. Aha! Use the bad take for picture but repo it and steal dialogue from another episode. It was so clearly the answer!

Maybe I can use the tried and true blow-up. If a wide shot is in sharp focus, a 200 percent blow-up can create coverage when there was none. I have heard editors refer to slow optical push-ins as Dramanators. They add tension to lifeless scenes. Speeding up or slowing down the frame rate will build moments. If the director didn’t get a reaction maybe a bit of the actor can be found before a slate and slowed down to look like an intense look. There is a very poignant Wonder Years episode ending made from Mobius strip loops of manufactured reactions.

When scenes are blocked badly and jokes or beats are not working I will trim out pages of dialogue. I enlist the writers as reinforcements. On Arrested Development with the help of the writers we often came up with a graphic joke, insert of a newscaster, or a flash to another scene to bridge missing story.

Often poor directors will miss the sense of urgency in a scene. Well-placed ADR and insert shots can help create urgency. Underscore can build emotion when there was nothing. Sometimes it’s just a matter of when to start and stop a cue to underline a story point. I often joke after hearing in the final mix how the composer should get the directing credit.

Back in the day on MacDriver (totally fictional), one of the editor’s tasks was shooting inserts. Sometimes they are details like a bomb ticking to create tension, or tight shots of Mac building his gimmicks for clarity. The inserts might be a wide shot which doubles to create geography that the director missed. Very often the careful use of inserts and sound can fill out drama where there was just a limp master shot with the actors lined up like a remake of A Chorus Line. An insert can create a scene transition when the director left bupkis.

VFX editors and assistants who are masters at temp effects are heroes. In order to be in the bad directors club you have to ignore framing. Why is there a piece of that distracting character floating at the edge of frame? Presto! Gone. Why don’t the overthe-shoulder shots match? Voila! Clean Cut. Why don’t the actors react at the same time in that group shot? Bam! Frankenshot. And by Presto! Voila! and Bam! I mean many growling hours in After Effects pounding out traveling mattes.

We employ these technical measures to fix mediocrity; the tricks learned since I picked up my dad’s 8mm camera and started shooting war stories with neighborhood kids in the backyard. But these schemes are not the whole story. There is another ingredient to successful TV repair.

Back when I was an assistant trying my damnedest to move up to editor there was a guild rule that assistant editors had to assist for eight years. I had cut about 800 commercials and many industrial films before coming to Los Angeles. However, because of how I changed guild jurisdictions I could not keep my status as a picture editor and had to work as an assistant editor. It was frustrating forced to assist even with so much cutting under my belt. I remember asking the president of the guild at the time, Irv Rosenblum, why is there an eight-year rule? He told me that an assistant had to gain a certain amount of maturity to navigate the politics of the editing room. The rule may have been arbitrary but there is wisdom to the thought.

Marco Zappia (1937-2013) may have been one of television’s most successful editors. He started physically cutting twoinch videotape on Laugh In and became the most sought-after multi-cam editor. He lived and breathed editing. He didn’t take vacations, he told me once he had only been out of the state once on a sports remote. On the weekends he took home dailies to cut as side projects. I had the pleasure of working with him on a couple shows. What I learned from him had nothing to do with split screens or selecting a performance.

Marco was the nicest person. He treated everyone with respect. He was soft spoken. When he worked with producers he did not resist or make faces, he gleefully executed their notes. However, he had a secret super power. If he had a better idea of how to fix a scene, using humility he carried out the fix and somehow he allowed the producer to feel it was their idea. It was a humble transference of ego. The producer would sit behind him and say, “That joke isn’t landing.” Marco would quickly trim a few frames, steal a reaction and praise the producer for his comedy chops. This was not condescending. Marco sincerely communicated gratitude with subtle expressions and knowing nods. The producer left feeling success and empowered. In this world of ‘lean in’ and ‘sharp elbows’ Marco’s zen approach had him cutting several sitcoms a week, taking a percentage of the video facility profits, and buying apartment buildings throughout Los Angeles.

Myron Smith has pissed off the performers; missed moments; missed technical fundamentals like the 180-degree rule; and called me every morning in an attempt to have me fawn over the dailies. He insists on sitting next to me while going through his cut and his touches and goofy punches are a bit over-friendly.

It’s as if Myron has hidden a flaw in every scene for me to find. His scenes remind me of the kids magazine, Highlights, What’s Wrong with This? Look closely to find 24 silly things. After sitting with Myron for a day hoping he could give me a clue of how to unlock these scenes I realize he is as clueless in the editing room as he is on the set. We swap out a performance; find the camera move he loves even after I point to the c-stand clearly passing by; we end with a reaction though the scene was over long ago. We add top-40 music he brought in though the studio warned us about licensing costs. I summon the inner Marco Zappia in me and happily perform his lateral notes praising his comedy chops. His DGA-designated days are over, he tells me he can’t wait to work with me again, and I sigh with relief as his Ferrari speeds off the lot.

A few days into cutting a poorly-directed show are voyages into darkness. The first thought upon waking is the disaster awaiting on the file server. I drag myself to the studio and procrastinate by chatting with the guys down the hall. I take my time preparing caffeine strong enough to keep me focused. Even scary emails from the IRS are a preferable distraction. When I ask my assistant about the dailies he just drops his face into his hands and shudders. I approach yesterday’s shots and am a kid again looking at Highlights magazine. What’s wrong with the picture? The next 10 hours I am immersed in damage control, looking for order where there is nothing but chaos. I call on the editing gods to help find the hidden moments and accidental treasures. Strangely, the editing gods answer my pleas as if I am worthy, uncovering story, building arcs. Keystrokes and mouse movements are elevated to moments of grace. In the end I have the gratification of having a show that matches the episodes in the series. It may have added 30 hours to my week but I’m done and ready for the next one. This is the job and that is why I’m paid the medium bucks.